I have long suspected there is a monkey in my soul. And not just because Donald Fagen said I was wrong to interrupt his song.
My monkey makes rare appearances but he's deeply deviant. He will mess with you in the ophthalmologist's waiting room if you commit a faux pas. Let it be known that he is not a teenager. Don't be fooled by the sneakers, the college sweatshirt and the sulky demeanor. Yesterday, he frightened a seventeen year old kid for sport. The threat of glaucoma past the age of forty was suddenly immediate and dangerous.
He thought nothing of giving the asshole demented by road rage in the car behind the finger. This incited a rabid fury that my friend had to contend with. 'No! She did NOT give you the finger!' he yelled, putting his physical safety at risk to protect mine. The monkey made a swift exit over the boundary wall of the parking lot, leaving me horrified.
He sends pithy, provocative texts, without my permission. My fingers glide over the screen as though guided by a loving hand. Hurt and offended replies arrive promptly and remain unseen in my inbox. The phone rings and I strew casual and hateful remarks, acutely aware of and yet acutely indifferent to their impact.
My monkey makes me grit my teeth and look at you demonically. He makes me loathe you and shove you around. I can do it with my most radiant smile. I can do it with tears streaming down my cheeks. Secretly, I love him, his intense commitment, his willful strength, his extreme dominance and his gleeful disregard for you and for me.
The few who have been present for his performances have tried to exorcise him. And failed, naturally. I imagine they expect remorse but all I can provide is a quiet apology because while I dread his return, I also look at his trail of destruction in awe.