Without bothering to ask my permission or confer with me or even seek my input really, my friends have started having babies. It’s a large adjustment, and I’ve simply had to learn to accept the intrusion of these screaming, barfing creatures into my social calls.
Tonight I paid a visit to my childhood friend Eric, who, being a few years older, is ahead of the game. His son Sam is seven, and therefore has an actual personality and full control of his limbs and bladder and vocal cords. Sam is refreshingly pleasant to hang out with.
But Sam didn’t want to go to bed when it was time, so Eric promised him that I would share a bedtime story from my recent exciting bicycle trip around the world. I very nearly panicked. First of all, I don’t do stories on demand all that well. I like to be coaxed and twiddled and segued. Second of all, most of my stories involve my ingestion of animal entrails, or buzzards’ ingestion of human entrails, or bicycle crashes, or police interrogations, or beer. In other words, not so good for a seven-year-old.
I decided to tell Sam about Monkey Island, which isn’t really much of a story, but does allow me to talk about monkeys, the key ingredient in all great literature. The story quickly devolved into a Q&A format that did little to mellow Sam out for bed, but did seem to keep him entertained.
Sam: Are there are apes on Monkey Island?
Adam: No apes.
S: Are there gorillas on Monkey Island?
A: No gorillas. Just monkeys. It’s Monkey Island, not Ape and Gorilla and Monkey Island.
S: Are there monkeyfish on Monkey Island?
Adam: Yes. Also, flying monkeys.
S: Flying monkeys? Do they have wings?
A: Of course not. They have propellors. So anyway, these monkeys would beg for food…
S: How can monkeys beg if they can’t talk? [Sam, it should be mentioned, is laughing hysterically throughout. I.e., he is not asking asking these questions credulously, but only to delay bedtime as long as possible. Sam is a clever boy.]
A: Who said they can’t talk?
S: Monkeys can talk?
A: Yes, but only in monkey language, which is French. So anyway…
We continued like this for a good fifteen minutes — with several minutes spent digressing on the important topic of monkey robots — but finally I did manage to get to the thrilling conclusion in which the monkey tries to eat my face. Sam immediately demanded another story, and I mentally reeled through brothels, marriage proposals, hospital visits, dog restaurants, before promising him another story tomorrow. I’ve got to think of something right quick.
