What’s Your Monkey Story?

Recently I got a chance to visit my folks in Dallas. One of our favorite activities is sitting around the kitchen table, stuffing our faces and swapping lies. My brother, who inherited the oral storytelling gene from my dad, somehow got off on a tangent and said, "Hey, let me tell you my monkey story". We are close in age as well as filial affection. We share similar temperaments, senses of humor, human frailties, musical tastes, and a love of Tex Mex. I have known him since the day he was born, but I had never heard his 'monkey story'.

It seems he was out at some snooty Dallas eatery in the 80s, where all the men's collars were popped and the ladies' hair was big. One couple brought their pet spider monkey with them for lunch out on the patio. Apparently the monkey found a wad of gum stuck underneath their table, amused himself with it for a while, then rinsed his tiny monkey paws in everyone's iced tea. They were so busy looking cool, they didn't notice, and enjoyed their tea just like everyone else.

This story got a few laughs around our table. And as often happens, one story leads to another. Turns out my brother had another monkey story, about the time he visited the local zoo on a field trip for a high school photography class and was selected to hold an orangutan while everyone else took photos.

Huh. Another monkey story I had never heard. And what I wouldn't give to have a copy of one of those photos!

But wait - there's more. There was that time he and his husband Peter were on vacay in Africa (well, ONE of the times 😉), and a monkey jumped down onto their table and snatched Peter's toast right off his plate, quicker than you can say 'capuchin'. That one, I had heard.

Which reminded my mom of the time one of their neighbors had a pet monkey that jumped onto my grandmother's back and scared the everlovin' bejeezus out of her. Granny Winona never much liked monkeys after that.

By this time, I was feeling very inadequate that I didn't have a monkey story of my own. So I shared one I had heard on NPR about how some folks in India are sick and tired of the rampaging monkeys raiding their village. Sure, it was second-hand, but it was all I had.

All this monkey business got me thinking about why some people have monkey stories, and some don't. Monkey stories represent getting out there and living life. I don't mean you have to actually get yourself a pet monkey or afford pricey vacations. Just interact. Go places. Do things. Observe and remember. Document and share. Sitting at home in front of a glass screen is not going to get you any monkey stories. It's the first-person monkey story that people want, not some regurgitated thing you heard on the radio or read online.

I still don't have any first-person monkey stories. But I bagged a good bat story, a peacock story, and an airplane-vs-flock of birds story recently. Next time I have dinner with my brother, let's see if he can top that.

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