Monkey See, Monkey Do

In honor of The Year of The Monkey, I am sharing this chapter from my 2009 novel Shades of Luz. Considering how the world economy is moving into another recession, I think this passage about dart-slinging monkeys picking stocks is particularly poignant, but what do I know. On the other hand, neither does your so-called financial advisor.


Ahem, Dartboard Theory, Is It?

We were greeted by a fellow in a grubby lab coat. His name was Gus and he chaperoned the dart-slinging monkey room. Two humans, but only one monkey, were allowed in the room at any given time. This was strictly followed so as to prevent too much mammalian mimicry. The object was to keep things as random as possible. The monkeys were kept in holding cells, but they had a beautifully painted mural of St. Tropez or Lagos.

Gus coached through the Plexiglas. On the outside of the door two numbered ladders hung by copper thumbtacks, one ranked the monkeys and the other ranked the trainers. The term trainer was really a misnomer, but who was I, at that point, to make a stink.

Newspaper clippings lined the walls. Rudy, last year’s crackerjack, watched over his monkey, Nietzsche. Rudy’s name topped the ladder outside. He had good rapport with Nietzsche, the lone Rhesus of the lot. Nietzsche made three quick dart tosses each a foot apart from each ticker symbol. Rudy waited behind the masking tape on the floor, the line of demarcation where a monkey needed to stand in order to make his toss. Nietzsche gave his trainer a high-five.

Nobody knew what boomers would boom at least for a week although short-swing breakouts happened by market close. Boomer, referred to a stock that was going to bust through its resistance level and soar into a new stratosphere. No guarantees, but this was the accepted premise. There was no tickertape of any kind in the room. According to Gus, the monkeys might grow smitten with the flashing glow of certain ticker symbols and thus skew the random element driving dart board theory. It occurred to me that even if the monkeys were drawn to a glowing symbol that didn’t mean they weren’t going to tag that respective stock. Stereoscopic vision or not, the monkeys didn’t see such blurry newsprint from their vantage point.

A note on random. It was widely accepted that any stock could bolt into its own orbit, plunge into disrepute, or mosey ad nauseam sideways without a care in the world. The point being, that no cocksure dweeb could cook enough data to prove that his theories rocked the pure and accidental.

“Charlie, you and the new guy are up,” Gus said.

We waited by the door until Rudy came out with Nietzsche. Gus pulled Nietzsche by his fury digits and led him to his holding cell.

“Should we wait,” I said.

“Nah, let’s warm up,” Charlie said.

“What do you mean?”

“We’re getting fresh monkeys,” Charlie said, “Maybe even a couple
that have never tossed a dart before. We’ll need to break them in.”

No sooner did Charlie finish cracking his knuckles did Gus return with two new monkeys. One was a snow monkey the other was a
macaque. Charlie tossed a couple of darts, neither of which stuck to the wall. His monkey almost seemed to be laughing. Actually, it was pretty funny. Charlie’s tosses sucked. The first one didn’t even reach the wall. The second was a creampuff, an underhanded toss tail-first against the wall.

“Okay, enough,” Gus said.

He knocked on the Plexiglas then made a slicing motion across his
throat with his right hand.

“Give it a whirl, Benny Boy,” Gus said.

With that, I clutched my darts. I was afraid I’d prick myself and didn’t look at my hand. Darts was never my bag. I tossed all three with quick snaps. Each one hit the wall with a ping, the second one dead center of a ticker symbol. It didn’t matter which part touched. It counted. A bull’s eye, on the first try, must have been dumb luck, but it still felt
good.

I couldn’t quite make out what Gus was saying behind the soundproof glass, but I saw his mouth curl into an O. When I pulled the second dart from the wall I noticed I’d hit the letter O, right in the hole. For some reason this made me flinch.

My monkey followed me to the wall and tugged my pant leg. I didn’t hand over the darts till Gus tapped the glass. My monkey almost jerked them out of my hand. At least, it seemed that way. He made three quick chucks. Each landed within a close range, as if he were trying to hit the same mark. Two of them actually did.

When I escorted my furry friend out, Gus put his hand up blocking me from crossing the hall’s threshold.

“You know, you’d be disqualified because you didn’t set him behind the line.”

“What?”

“They always need to stay behind the line,” Gus said, “No exceptions.”

I then looked down at the masking tape on the floor and shrugged my shoulders.

That night I dreamt of great apes, monkeys, and prosimians. I was a hominid trapped in a mud bath and the apes tossed stones, nuts, anything and everything at me; couple of them busy sharpening spear points. A whole pile lay there waiting for my nose as its bull’s-eye. They picked them up and flung them at my head and when they cracked, egg dripped all over my face.

Woke up in a cold sweat. Took a hot shower with a brand new loofah sponge and scraped off dead and itchy skin.

Sneak Peek at My New Soccer Mystery Thriller Called Disposable Heroes

[photo by Robb Hanks]

I am offering a sneak preview of my brand new novel Disposable Heroes. This standalone short story was first published in issue 5 of Botticelli Magazine back in May. Disposable Heroes is something of Sports/Mystery/Thriller/Love Story. The main character Gil Reyes has mistakenly thought to be the Soccer Super Star, Rolo Peña who has gone missing. When Gil is offered a handsome bribe to pose as the kidnapped star, he doesn’t shy away. He needs the money, and is intrigued by the challenge. For the first time, he feels like he’s making something out of his crummy life. He thrives on the cheers and sometimes even believes he’s Mamajauana’s big hero. Curiosity drives him to find out what happened to the real Rolo so Gil begins to pursue the missing player’s trail, all the while honoring his commitment to the crooked officials. When he meets Rolo’s girlfriend, Millie, at a charming beach town, Gil knows he’s doomed. He falls in love with her, and his conscience goes into a tailspin. Then he meets the real Rolo Peña and fireworks spew.



The Inner Stitches


Welcome to Mamajuana City. Bask in the belching fumes, tiny smog monsters, as cars shoehorn through lanes and the constant, horn-blare suggest the sound of vuvuzela marking the rush hour. By Avenida Lijares, crusty-nailed men whisk off orange vests and cruddy helmets. Stray dogs prowl the rubble-ridden streets.

At the foothills, they make the finest furniture: solid pine dressers, bookcases, and wicker chairs. The hills behind are dotted with mountain people trying to stitch a better life. They weave scarves and blankets then return to their squalor in the hills. They’re happy.

In the open market, a young mother slumps on a stool, breastfeeding her baby while shoppers buy mangoes and frijolitos. Scattered on the floor is a rainbow of fruit and nuts. Chunky women weigh bags of grain and rice. Flies buzz in harmony. This brings us to the sun-baked boy, stitching soccer balls. He sits Buddha-still on the dirt with bloodshot eyes, zeroing in on his rubber meal ticket, whisking tight loops with his needle through the ball between his knees. He’s got surgical precision. His lithe fingers belong to a gifted pianist, but his raw knuckles are crooked, two nails spliced.

Shattered huts, trash, and the stench of decay stretch languorously. While the boy takes a moment to rub his eyes, some punk snatches the ball, tucks it underarm and blazes off. He heads toward the hills. The boy jumps up, stutters two steps and slips on a mango rind— #%@*#. He wipes his soiled hand on his shirt, leaving behind smudge. Then he grabs a few more strips of rubber and stitches anew.

Across the street, spindly boys kick a tattered ball back and forth. They bully each other, their hardened eyes and bruised cheeks have the deft touch of fine patina. Blur of dirt, and dreams so near, make them squint and scramble. They push, shove, kick and cajole. They carry on until a purple wound splits the ashen sky. Rain pelts the earth with unbridled malice.

Two intrepid boys stay put while the rest rush for cover. A frazzled mother, clutching a tin frying pan, shouts indignantly from her unguarded window. She seizes a dishrag and wipes wet bangs from her hair. Her boy refuses to come home.

“Chucho,” the small boy screams.

Chucho turns.

“Chucho,” the small one shouts again. The ragamuffins, who haven’t had the chance to escape, loiter by the street and watch the showdown about to unfold.

“I got you Manito,” Chucho says, bouncing on his chicken legs, future warrior.

“Spread out,” Manito says to his invisible teammates.

Chucho crackles his knuckles and Manito pumps his legs, waist level. Chucho leaps, bringing his knees, kangaroo-high to his chest. They spit, snort, and kick dirt.

“You shoot first,” Manito says.

“No, you go,” Chucho rebukes.

And they size each other up, two dripping boys fringed with pride. Manito guards the goal, lets Chucho take the first crack. Chucho kicks the ball a yard over the goal line, scrawled in marker blue on the wall. Then he nails the second one into the right corner. Manito dives, cannot get a finger on it and the boys, huddled underneath the tree, cheer. Chucho pumps his fist and Manito staggers, punch-drunk. Manito wipes his chin and rubs his heartache.

Manito blocks the next kick, but misses the fourth, right between the legs and the kids howl, shattering the goalkeeper’s dignity. His blinking eyes, crackling into myriad pieces. He slaps his own cheek. Chucho teases, dribbling the ball between his mud-crusty inseams. The crouching Manito stumbles on the slick street. Chucho races to the ball, takes a wicked roundhouse kick. Manito stops the ball with the filthy tip of his toe, stares in wonder. They laugh it off, slapping hands. They blow raspberries at each other. Then Manito switches positions with his pal. Chucho takes over as goalie. He bends down as if ready to embark in strenuous prayer then leaps up. He wipes his soiled cheeks and chin, pulls snot from his nose and flicks at his jittery pal. Manito flinches each time Chucho snaps a flake of snot even though it merely melts into his fingernails. Manito dances around until he’s good and ready. He has more meat on his calves and hamstrings than his chicken-legged chum. There’s a vicious cut below his right knee, the sloshing rainwater makes it look like fruit punch.

He peers over at the tree where his cowering compadres huddle, protected from the pour. Manito grits his teeth, flaunting his bottom canines, shark tips. He fires the first shot for a goal then follows it up with another. To celebrate, he does a whirly dance, nearly breaks his neck. When he finds his balance, he wipes his dripping wet hands on his waterlogged shirt and shakes the rain from his floppy hair. Manito scores a fourth in a row and Chucho slumps off, rubbing blotchy eyes, but Manito yells,
“Send it back.” He fires again. Five goals. Chucho slinks off, head hanging, and Manito blasts into the unguarded goal. The kids stare in disbelief and horror. Manito goes into a frenzied spree and makes an obscene, loopy dance each time he pummels the wall. The wet thud of the ball, caroming off the wall makes a tortured plea. The stitches sheer and air slowly fizzles out.

Manito keeps firing. With each shot that smites off the wall instead of smashing through the bricks, Manito seems heart-broken. He kicks with fury, hard enough to cleanse his soul of whatever sin his pint-sized body may’ve committed. His sharp eyes narrow in reckless ardor and his mouth shrinks into a slimy rictus, not a speck of joy. He winds himself tighter and tighter until he snaps his last stitch, tumbling over as a deflated ball.

The sky sighs with relief, but seems to keep drizzling for the hell of it.