MY
MONKEY GARDEN - By Ron Hill
In the summer of my eighth year, I became a "junkie",
an abuser of very a powerful substance. I was all strung out with no
help in sight. The notion that a child so young and naive could be
an addict may be a bit hard to swallow; yet, I was hooked, in a very
real and inescapable way. My addiction was not of a physical nature,
but more a psychological fixation. I became a monomaniac. In my mind
raged one incessant thought that towered above all others, taking
control of my life, and ruling my very being. Let me explain . . .
The neighborhood in which I grew up was predominantly
populated with girls, at least within my age group. Their idea of a
great time was cutting out paper dolls, having tea parties, dressing
up, and playing house, where I always ended up being the father of
their moronic dolls. The very idea that my children looked like
stuffed idiots with painted on smiles or big rubber kissy lips
disgusted me. That disgust often led to child abuse. Needless to
say, mother was not very pleased with such treatment of her children,
and father soon found himself kicked out of the house. "Oh
well," I'd tell myself, "who needs all that sissy stuff
anyhow?"
Knowing there were two other boys my age, I decided to make a sincere effort at gaining their friendship. In time, various lumps, bruises and bloody noses would evidence we were better sparring partners than friends. So eventually, I was back being "one of the girls", and having a gay old time. Although I got along fairly well with the girls and enjoyed their friendship, within an hour or two I became totally disinterested with the ways they chose to entertain themselves.
Knowing there were two other boys my age, I decided to make a sincere effort at gaining their friendship. In time, various lumps, bruises and bloody noses would evidence we were better sparring partners than friends. So eventually, I was back being "one of the girls", and having a gay old time. Although I got along fairly well with the girls and enjoyed their friendship, within an hour or two I became totally disinterested with the ways they chose to entertain themselves.
In the end I was left to myself and my wild
imagination, which in time became my most frequent playmate and
my savior from boredom. I was often absorbed in role play and fantasy,
taken up into some far off world, the mighty and noble King Arthur in
heavy discussion with his faithful Knights of the Round Table,
composed of an eclectic grouping of action figures, Davy Crockett
exploring the wild frontier of a nearby farmer’s fields and ditches, Superman, bedecked in his trademark underwear and cape, flying from
couch to couch while saving the world, running around the yard, and catching his death of
cold.
In time, I found my favorite place to be was within the deep, dense jungles of Africa. Here, I stood six feet tall (or taller depending on my mood) with wide brawny shoulders. The sweat from the humid jungle heat dripped from my bronze dirt covered skin. All the animals were subject to me in this, my domain; For I was "Tarzan, Lord of The Jungle!" Or so it seemed until Mom caught me swinging from the willow tree, wearing one of her best dishtowels as a loincloth and clutching her silver butter knife for a dagger.
In time, I found my favorite place to be was within the deep, dense jungles of Africa. Here, I stood six feet tall (or taller depending on my mood) with wide brawny shoulders. The sweat from the humid jungle heat dripped from my bronze dirt covered skin. All the animals were subject to me in this, my domain; For I was "Tarzan, Lord of The Jungle!" Or so it seemed until Mom caught me swinging from the willow tree, wearing one of her best dishtowels as a loincloth and clutching her silver butter knife for a dagger.
I became a habitual watcher of "The Adventures of
Tarzan." Every Saturday at 2:00 p.m.. Like the changing of the
guards, you could find me immovable in front of the set, with my eyes
glued to the screen, vicariously living out my fantasies like a
housewife addicted to her soaps. It was here that my addiction took
root in the fertile garden of my mind, and began to flower and spread like morning glory.
One Saturday on a hot July afternoon, I watched as
Tarzan was warned of an attacking lion by his faithful companion
Cheetah. I began to imagine how great it would be to have a little
pal like Cheetah to chum around with. I realized I was without such a
sidekick, and from that point on, began thinking I needed one. A
monkey to chum around with! Oh, the very thought of it was
intoxicating. This had to be my most brilliant idea ever! I was
sure he wouldn't enjoy playing house or having stupid tea parties. I
imagined all of the great adventures we'd have, and became totally
entangled in these ideas after scores of these imaginings had woven and
wriggled their way through my mind. I even developed an incurable
craving for bananas to which my mother will attest. In the months to
follow, I ate, drank, and slept monkeys. I even went so far as to
ask God to send one to me, praying every night with all the faith of
Job that He would. I imagined how one morning I'd be playing outside
when an escaped monkey from a circus or a pet store would come waddling
up the sidewalk and into my yard, sent from God Himself.
Well....surprisingly enough, it never happened, and the realization of
ever standing atop this mountainous monkey dream became somewhat
insurmountable to me. Yet, I was content to play along its
foothills, occasionally gaping upward in wondering awe.
One day, through the miracle of modern media, the answer
to all my hopes, dreams, and prayers materialized! I'd been given my
rigging and climbing shoes and now that mountain was mine. My mother
had a doctor appointment and naturally that meant I was going along.
She wouldn't dare leave me home to reap havoc on her housework. I
was sitting in Dr. Poulsen's waiting room, my feet dangling from the
chair and a copy of Boy's Life magazine draped across my lap. There
it was on the inset of the back page! My eyes widened, my mouth fell
agape, the hair at the back my neck rose with the excitement. Here
it was at last I thought, God had finally answered my prayers! The
advertisement was very small, yet it filled the whole page before my
eyes. It read, "Darling Pet Monkey."
It went on to describe this creature and pictured was a small monkey
that appeared to be about seven inches high perched atop some lucky
person's hand. I had hoped for a monkey the size of Cheetah, but I
had waited long enough and wasn't about to deny the revelation of
God. Scanning the room to make sure there were no witnesses at the
crime scene, I quickly tore the ad from the page. Furtively, I folded it up and quickly stuffed the holy parchment inconspicuously deep into the pocket of my pants. I felt some guilt
on defacing Dr. Poulsen's magazine, but my misdeed was accomplishing
a higher purpose. I was now on a mission from God, and was sure the
good doctor would understand.
That night I introduced the miracle to my parents,
showing them the crumpled little ad. At first they tried to dissuade
me with comments like, "You won't take care of it properly", "It'll
tear up the house and climb the curtains", It'll bite you and you'll die from
rabies!" I couldn't believe my ears, Oh such blasphemy. Woe unto
you! Oh ye unclean! Ye cursed Gentiles, Heathens, and Unbelievers!
How dare ye mock the plans of God and his promised deliverance of this most righteous monkey!
Well, my monkey mission wasn't going to be as easy as I
had thought. Yet, I felt confident knowing who was on my side.
After weeks of constant nagging and persistence, my parents realized
how adamant I was about this monkey, and were finally converted. My
mother, being more understanding of my childlike nature, filled out a
check for $18.95, which seemed to me a large amount of money. I
remember guarding it under my pillow through the night from would be
thieves and robbers, and all else who would try to thwart my mission. The
next morning I wrote the address from the bottom of the ad, onto an
envelope. Clutching the pencil tightly, and with my tongue out the side of my
mouth for extra stability, I took great care to ensure my handwriting
was very legible. I placed my mother's fortune inside, affixing the stamp
she'd given me on the corner, with a couple of extra licks to be sure, and then
some tape to make extra sure it was good and stuck. I ran to the mailbox
and placed it inside. Raising the red signal flag to full mast with a
grand salute. I was now on sentry duty, to be relieved only when the
properly commissioned government authority came, and secured my dispatch safely within his bag. I paced back and forth in front of the
mailbox, double checking its contents every half hour or so to make
sure my letter was safe. In time came the trusted postal worker, relieving the tired mailbox of my harassment, and my tired behind
from the curb.
According to the ad, I had to wait six whole weeks!
Those six weeks were more torturous than I could even imagine hell to
be, yet my dreams had been rekindled. The garden of my thoughts had
been spread with the pungently sweet smelling fertilizer of hope. My monkey
dreams were growing, overrunning my mind like weeds. At times the
choking overgrowth of anxiety was too much for me to bear. The idea
of getting that monkey had overtaken me now. I was a prisoner,
willfully trapped within the overgrowth of my delightful monkey
garden. I was high and hooked.
At the height of its growing season, came the cure to my
addiction, an herbicide you might say, in the devastating form of two measly little sentences.
That day, I ran out to meet the mailman, as I'd religiously done in the many days past, only to turn back to the house dejected after scanning the day's mail. This time it was different, for within this handful of letters was the poison parcel, poised and ready like a jungle cobra, to strike its venom deep into the heart of my wild little monkey, alive in garden of dreams. Realizing the letter was from the place I'd sent the check, and thinking it would tell me where to pick up my little pal, I dropped the rest of the mail to the ground as I hurried to tear it open. Inside was the returned check and a toxic slip of paper reading "Sorry, we have canceled all shipments at this time. Enclosed is your check in the amount of $18.95."
After all these years I still remember every toxic word verbatim. My hopes suddenly wilted, withered and browned, then began to crumble and fall all around my feet. There I stood amidst my garden of blowing leaves and dust, viewing with horror and disbelief the desolation. Tears streamed my face. This once fertile soil had now been plowed over into a barren wasteland of disappointment and despair. Somehow, I didn't feel sorry was an adequate apology for decimating the life hopes and dreams of an eight year old boy, and killing his best friend.
That day, I ran out to meet the mailman, as I'd religiously done in the many days past, only to turn back to the house dejected after scanning the day's mail. This time it was different, for within this handful of letters was the poison parcel, poised and ready like a jungle cobra, to strike its venom deep into the heart of my wild little monkey, alive in garden of dreams. Realizing the letter was from the place I'd sent the check, and thinking it would tell me where to pick up my little pal, I dropped the rest of the mail to the ground as I hurried to tear it open. Inside was the returned check and a toxic slip of paper reading "Sorry, we have canceled all shipments at this time. Enclosed is your check in the amount of $18.95."
After all these years I still remember every toxic word verbatim. My hopes suddenly wilted, withered and browned, then began to crumble and fall all around my feet. There I stood amidst my garden of blowing leaves and dust, viewing with horror and disbelief the desolation. Tears streamed my face. This once fertile soil had now been plowed over into a barren wasteland of disappointment and despair. Somehow, I didn't feel sorry was an adequate apology for decimating the life hopes and dreams of an eight year old boy, and killing his best friend.
The following weeks I sank into deep depression and
grief as I was forced to come to terms with the death of that beloved little monkey of my imagination. In time, I was about my usual activities, digging foxholes in
the sandbox for protection from the Viet Cong, and scaring the fierce
jungle cat up a tree with an onslaught of rubber bands. I even
played with the girls again from time to time, and taught them how to
make mud pies garnished with dead bugs.
As I look back at this time in my life, it's hard not to laugh at the whole affair, even though its culmination was a horribly devastating experience. I chuckle now at how I had allowed one silly little idea to overtake all my thoughts to the point of ruling my life. Even more amusing is the idea itself; I had actually thought I needed a monkey. How silly and absurd!
Yet, even now as I visit the zoo, I always end up
spending the most time around the monkeys and apes. Watching them I
become so entranced that I don't even mind the smell. In floods all
the fun memories of my childhood monkey dreams. A smile sprouts from
within until it blossoms across my face and I'm overtaken by it. Intoxicated I
find myself once again, standing in the middle of my tangled little monkey
garden. I wonder if I'm fully cured of my childhood addiction, and
realize that somewhere beneath all the acquired civility of
adulthood, amidst the dark green jungle foliage, lurks Tarzan Lord of
the Jungle, with his faithful friend Cheetah!
