You ponder your rubber belly as the kids arrive, screaming. It’s hot inside the suit, and it still smells like Davy : a sort of a burning bottle of medicine smell, you always thought. You were next in line for this position after Davy, and now that you have it you are at once confused and proud. The eyeholes aren’t quite big enough.
You jump up. “Hey kids!” you yell, “Who likes Go-Go Gorilla’s ?”
In unison they fill the tiny restaurant with twenty-four shrill “I do!!”s. You wonder how it’s gotten to this point: you feel like an amnesiac wondering who you are and what series of events led up to this moment, and surprisingly are contented by telling yourself that life has its little twists. It seems like you were going to art school in Boston last time you checked, and now you’re here and you’re wrapped in furry rubber. You remember your last job, the one you were promoted from: human drive-through-speaker. You liked the people, but the rain and snow were a bit taxing. The standing had caused you to suffer shin splints. What in the world you’re doing in a gorilla suit sweating like a pig is actually beside the point, and also a completely unanswerable question. The tragedy of Davy’s untimely death ended in your promotion, but you don’t care too much, he stank. But then again, if only Davy were here to. . . be here. . . in the suit--specifically. Every time you gaze at the frialator you can’t help but see his face, sort of like Jack’s from the blockbuster movie “Titanic,” sinking down into the bubbling grease to the bottom of the ocean.
The kids are done with their kids-happy-time-fun-meal and it’s your cue to bring in the band. “It’s time for the happy birthday song!” You say, thoroughly irritated by having to humor children. Maybe this isn’t the job for you either. The brass band files into the “party area” squeezing the children into the room. The packets of ketchup that the children were throwing around are squirting into the air as the tuba section receives new red pinstripes on their white wooly uniforms. Angela comes in with the birthday cake, and the kids, ever screaming, run at her and throw her to the ground. They beat her with their little fists and break her glasses, and then start gnawing on her flesh. She’s screaming and there’s something eerie about the blood on the birthday boy’s face. His mother stands adoringly watching on. Why can’t parents control their kids? You are annoyed as the children dig into the band and in a barrage of red and white stripes and little tassels, and of course, brass—“damned irritating bloodbaths” you snarl, and jump into a tube to wake up.
The dream instantly pours down your spine as you open your eyes. You get to the coffee maker on your sleepy weak feet and pour the water, and grind the beans, and wait watching as it percolates. In the car on the way to the bank you pass Go-Go Gorilla’s and think ‘what a disgusting idea,” picturing a variety of dishes, all black and furry. What were the owners thinking?
You jump up. “Hey kids!” you yell, “Who likes Go-Go Gorilla’s ?”
In unison they fill the tiny restaurant with twenty-four shrill “I do!!”s. You wonder how it’s gotten to this point: you feel like an amnesiac wondering who you are and what series of events led up to this moment, and surprisingly are contented by telling yourself that life has its little twists. It seems like you were going to art school in Boston last time you checked, and now you’re here and you’re wrapped in furry rubber. You remember your last job, the one you were promoted from: human drive-through-speaker. You liked the people, but the rain and snow were a bit taxing. The standing had caused you to suffer shin splints. What in the world you’re doing in a gorilla suit sweating like a pig is actually beside the point, and also a completely unanswerable question. The tragedy of Davy’s untimely death ended in your promotion, but you don’t care too much, he stank. But then again, if only Davy were here to. . . be here. . . in the suit--specifically. Every time you gaze at the frialator you can’t help but see his face, sort of like Jack’s from the blockbuster movie “Titanic,” sinking down into the bubbling grease to the bottom of the ocean.
The kids are done with their kids-happy-time-fun-meal and it’s your cue to bring in the band. “It’s time for the happy birthday song!” You say, thoroughly irritated by having to humor children. Maybe this isn’t the job for you either. The brass band files into the “party area” squeezing the children into the room. The packets of ketchup that the children were throwing around are squirting into the air as the tuba section receives new red pinstripes on their white wooly uniforms. Angela comes in with the birthday cake, and the kids, ever screaming, run at her and throw her to the ground. They beat her with their little fists and break her glasses, and then start gnawing on her flesh. She’s screaming and there’s something eerie about the blood on the birthday boy’s face. His mother stands adoringly watching on. Why can’t parents control their kids? You are annoyed as the children dig into the band and in a barrage of red and white stripes and little tassels, and of course, brass—“damned irritating bloodbaths” you snarl, and jump into a tube to wake up.
The dream instantly pours down your spine as you open your eyes. You get to the coffee maker on your sleepy weak feet and pour the water, and grind the beans, and wait watching as it percolates. In the car on the way to the bank you pass Go-Go Gorilla’s and think ‘what a disgusting idea,” picturing a variety of dishes, all black and furry. What were the owners thinking?
1 comment:
beat the children back with a shovel, monkey suit or no. better to learn early that someone swinging a shovel is not to be fooled with, nor their fellow employees neither, even in a rubber monkey suit.
not enough dairy leads to ape dreams. dont let them convince you other wise.
so far so good.
Post a Comment