My Remarkable Little Monkey

Me Like Sarah

O kay, so he had said a word. But it was just a fluke, wasn’t it? Everyone knew that monkeys couldn’t talk, and since he didn’t say another word for months, I put the incident out of my head. But listen, even if he wasn’t a talking monkey, he was still very smart. There was no question about that. And I felt sorry for him, sitting on the sofa and watching TV day after day, with nothing constructive to do. I had to do something to keep his mind and hands busy, to prevent him from becoming a pathetic little couch potato, trapped under the roof of my home. So I went to Walmart and then Target and bought him hundreds of dollars of different toys and kids’ games, the sort of stuff preschool children get to fiddle around with: Legos, building blocks, some simple puzzles, a toy xylophone, a little drum, and a lot of other similar kid’s aisle stuff. I also bought some coloring books and a couple boxes of crayons, along with a plastic table and chair at which he could sit and draw. I then went to a children’s furniture store and purchased a small bed and miniature rocking chair, both just the right size for his little monkey body. When I brought all the purchases home, he watched wide-eyed as I carried everything into the house. I put the items in the spare bedroom, making the room his. This is all for you, I said. I want you to feel at home here.

He seemed to understand what I meant, and he immediately jumped into the room to play with all his new belongings. He knew exactly what to do with everything, except for the coloring books. So I kneeled down with him at the little table and showed him how to use crayons, how to color the pictures within the lines, without scribbling all over the pages. He quickly learned how to do that too. This was such a great idea, giving him this roomful of things to play with, his own chair and table, and his own bed to sleep in. I could tell he was pleased. So was I just being anthropomorphic? I don’t think so. He truly seemed happy.

There were four rooms in the house that Shakespeare now used daily. First there was the kitchen, where he got his food from the fridge and his glass of water from the faucet. Second was the hall bathroom, where he used the toilet and groomed himself in front of the mirror. Third was the family room, where he relaxed and watched TV, and fourth was his bedroom, where he played with all his toys or just curled up and slept. He was a busy and happy little monkey, always doing this or that. I think he felt at home inside my house, especially in his bedroom. I’d sit in his room for hours and watch him play with the stuff I’d bought for him, marveling at how creative he was and how fast he was learning. I discovered he especially liked music, for often when he watched TV, he turned on shows where bands were playing or people were singing. And in his room, he loved banging out notes on his toy xylophone, not just at random like you’d expect a monkey to do, but carefully and thoughtfully, as though searching for an intelligent melody. So I bought him a CD player and an assortment of music CDs. I brought home some rock, country, jazz, and classical CDs and taught him how to insert them into the player. Then I showed him the play button, after which he’d put on the music and try to keep up with it by tapping on his toy drum. At first it sounded dreadful, all this drumming, but gradually he got the hang of it, keeping pretty decent time with the music he played.

During these months I was able to go on with my life, business as usual. I continued to play tennis every day at the club, and I was still helping out with Vince Atkins’s college scholarship fund. And I worked in the yard, usually on weekends. I was no longer working on the inside of the house, for things were just the way I wanted them, and there was no remodeling or renovating left for me to do. And I was able to leave Shakespeare alone in the house, without having to worry about him taking the place apart. He was always busy doing something he liked, and he stayed out of trouble. Everything I’d read on the Internet about monkeys was wrong, at least when it came to Shakespeare. I could tell he didn’t like it when I left the house, but I’d left and returned enough times for him to know I’d always be back eventually. He was smart that way; he caught on to things quickly.

It was during these days that I first met Sarah Tyler. She worked at a Starbucks on the Pacific Coast Highway, and she took my order one morning for a medium latte and an old-fashioned glazed doughnut. I tell you, I liked the girl from the minute I saw her. She had thick, long brown hair tied back in a ponytail and deep, intelligent brown eyes. You can tell a lot about a woman by looking into her eyes, and Sarah’s eyes told me she was different from all those other girls I’d been meeting at parties or at the tennis club or by way of mutual friends. Her eyes told me she was bright, kind, and gracious. After I gave her my order, she caught me staring at her, and I blushed and tried to look away. But I couldn’t keep my eyes off her, and I looked at her again. I handed her a twenty, and she gave me my change. Then I got up the nerve to ask her name, and she told me it was Sarah.

Sarah, I said, trying to smile nicely. I like that name. Sarah, would you be willing to go out with me?

Go out with you? she asked. You mean, as on a date?

Something like that, I said. Now I couldn’t believe I’d asked her, and I was embarrassed for perhaps having been too forward. All she had done was take my order, and there I was, asking her to go out with me.

I don’t even know you.

No, you don’t.

What’s your name?

Marty, I said. If we went out to dinner or something, you’d get a chance to talk to me. Then you could say you know me.

I don’t know.

I’m not a bad guy.

No, you seem nice.

Let’s do it this way, I said, picking up a napkin. Since she hadn’t flat refused me, I was getting up more nerve. I’ll write down my name and phone number, and you can think it over. Do you have a pen?

Here, she said. She handed me a ballpoint pen she found beside the cash register.

I carefully wrote my name and number on the napkin. In the meantime, the man behind me was clearing his throat, making himself obvious. Apparently, he didn’t appreciate my clumsy date arranging being done on his time. Maybe he was in a hurry. I turned to look at him. Please, I’ll be just another second, I said. Then turning back to Sarah, I said, Here, take this napkin. I hope you’ll give me a call. Please say you’ll at least think about it. This is my cell phone number, so you can reach me easily. Please say you’ll call me.

Okay, she said.

So you’ll call?

I’ll think about it. You need to move on. You’re holding up the line.

So that’s how we met. I got out of the way, and the man behind me finally got to place his order. Sarah didn’t call me that night, but a couple nights later, she decided to give me a ring. It just goes to show that if you want something in life, you’ve got to speak up. True, I’d made kind of a dope of myself at the Starbucks that morning, writing my name and number on that napkin and holding up the line, but she did call. And we decided to go out to dinner that night. I let her pick the restaurant, and she chose a pleasant place—nothing fancy, just some good food and decent portions for a very reasonable price. I could tell she wasn’t used to paying top dollar at restaurants. She wasn’t after me for my money, and that was refreshing.

So tell me about yourself, I said once we were seated at a table.

You first.

You want me to go first?

Yes, tell me something about Marty Anderson. I don’t usually go out on dates with guys I don’t know, or at least know something about. So unless you want me to get up right now and leave, you’re going to need to tell me just who you think you are. She was kidding, of course. I didn’t think she had any plan to really get up and leave. She seemed comfortable with me, comfortable enough to kid around.

Well, I’m twenty-four years old.

I’m eighteen. You’re older than me.

Is that a problem?

No, not at all.

I graduated from Berkeley a couple years ago. I was a business major.

I’m going to UC Irvine. I’m an English lit major. I work at Starbucks to pay for my food and rent. My parents are paying for my tuition.

My parents paid mine too.

And what are you doing now? Are you running some sort of business with your business degree? She smiled. I got the impression that she didn’t think too much of my business studies. I’ve found that business majors at universities aren’t thought of very highly by most others. I don’t know why this is. It’s just something I’ve noticed.

I work for a nonprofit.

Oh? she said. This seemed to interest her, the idea of my doing something meaningful. Which nonprofit do you work for?

It’s a scholarship fund. It was started by a friend of my dad’s years ago. We collect donations from wealthy people and provide college scholarships to disadvantaged kids all over Southern California. I was hired to handle all their money and business affairs.

Well, you’re not going to get rich doing that sort of work.

No, I’m not. But I don’t need to get rich.

Wow, you’re unusual.

Unusual?

Yes, like one of a kind. It seems like every guy I’ve met here in Orange County just wants to get rich as soon as possible. I mean, everyone around here wants to be rich, don’t they? A girl doesn’t often meet a guy your age who’s happy just working for a nonprofit, who isn’t obsessed with driving a Mercedes and buying a big house in Newport Beach.

I laughed. She had no idea that the reason I wasn’t obsessed with earning lots of money was that I already had well more than I needed. But I let it go at that. I liked the idea of her liking me. And I liked her thinking that I was a man of modest means. I certainly didn’t want her thinking I was wealthy. Money had a way of ruining my relationships with women, and I didn’t want it to have that same effect on this one. Well, it wasn’t exactly a relationship yet, but it did have a chance of becoming one.

Are you from around here? I asked.

I’m from Nebraska. How about you?

I was born and raised here.

Do your parents live nearby?

My parents are both dead.

Oh, I’m sorry.

They were killed in a car accident while I was going to Berkeley. Actually, I was visiting here for spring break when it happened.

Do you have any other family?

An aunt and uncle in Vermont. And some cousins, but I seldom see any of them.

So you’re sort of on your own.

Yes, I am. This wasn’t exactly true. I did have Shakespeare. He was kind of like a family member, but I didn’t figure Sarah was referring to animals when she described me as being alone. I decided not to tell Sarah anything about Shakespeare, not on our first date. She might think I was kind of weird, living with a monkey.

Sarah and I went on several dates after that first dinner, and I never mentioned Shakespeare once. I enjoyed our dates, and she seemed to as well. I took her to the beach, and we lay in the sun and swam a little in the cold ocean water. I took her to Disneyland because she said that she’d never been there and that she’d always wanted to see it. I also took her to Hollywood Boulevard, for the same reason we had gone to Disneyland—just to see it for the sake of seeing it—but she said she thought Hollywood was awful and had no desire to return there ever. Months passed. Sometimes we’d just take walks together, sometimes we’d see more sights, and sometimes we’d just hang out at her apartment. She lived in Costa Mesa, just a fifteen-minute drive from my place in Corona del Mar. Her apartment building was kind of run-down and seedy, but she kept the inside nice. She had a big sofa we would sit on to watch old movies together. Sometimes I would stay at her place until the early morning hours watching movies. I had to be careful not to be gone with her for too long, though, because I had Shakespeare waiting for me back at my house. We never went to my house at all, and Sarah still knew nothing about Shakespeare. In fact, no one, with the sole exception of Vern in Riverside, knew I owned a monkey.

So now there were two things that Sarah didn’t know about me, that I was keeping secret. The first was my wealth—that I didn’t need to hold a paying job, that I could basically do whatever I wanted. And the second was that I lived with a capuchin monkey. Now certainly the wealth wouldn’t be something she’d hold against me if she ever found out about it, for what woman in her right mind would turn away a man with lots of money? Realizing that I’d kept it from her might make her mad at me for a moment, but I was sure she’d forgive me after I explained the trouble I’d had with other women. But the second secret was much trickier. It’s not that there was anything wrong about living with a monkey, but capuchins live to be almost forty years old when in captivity, meaning my relationship with Shakespeare could go on until I was in my sixties. It was a long-term commitment I’d established, and depending on how Sarah felt about living with a monkey, it could prove to be a deal breaker. I needed to be honest with her, not just about Shakespeare, but about everything. I needed to get the cards on the table. So I told her I had two secrets and said I’d fill her in on both. I decided to invite her to my house, something I had avoided so far, and yes, I would introduce her to Shakespeare.

So this is it? Sarah asked, standing at the sidewalk in front of my house. It was a beautiful day. The sun was filtering through the cypress trees and casting shadows on the front lawn. My house looked like the perfect home. It doesn’t look so bad to me.

No, I said. It’s not so bad.

So why have you always been so hesitant to bring me over here?

Just come inside. I opened the front door and went in first, in case Shakespeare came running to greet me. I didn’t want his enthusiasm to scare Sarah away. We both stepped into the house.

It looks as nice inside as it does on the outside, Sarah said, looking around at the front room, taking everything in.

Here’s the thing, I said. I live with someone. I don’t live by myself.

You live with someone?

I have a roommate.

What’s her name? Sarah asked, assuming my roommate was a girl. Otherwise, why would I have been so reticent to have her over? It’s funny how, when you’re acting in any way suspicious, women always think there’s another female in the picture.

It’s not a she.

So your roommate is a man?

No, not exactly.

I don’t get it.

He must be in his room, I said. Shakespeare wasn’t on the sofa, and he wasn’t in the kitchen. The hall bathroom door was wide open, and he wasn’t in there either. Follow me.

This is so mysterious.

You might think it’s kind of weird.

Sarah followed me, and we came to Shakespeare’s room, where his door was shut. So I opened the door, and there was Shakespeare, on the floor playing with his Legos. He looked up at me with his bright eyes as if to say hello.

I live with a monkey, I said. This is Shakespeare.

Oh my, Sarah said.

Shakespeare put down his Legos and looked at her.

Don’t make any sudden moves. You’re the first person I’ve brought into the house since bringing him home. He might be afraid of you. He might even bite. Capuchins are known to bite when they get spooked.

He bites?

I don’t think he will. Let’s give him a moment to take this in and see how he reacts. Then to Shakespeare I said, I want you to meet a friend of mine. This is Sarah. I like her very much, and I’d like you to like her too.

Shakespeare stood up from the floor and approached us slowly. He stopped in front of Sarah and grasped one of her fingers. He was looking up at her, and she was looking down at him. Sarah, he said.

He said my name!

He does that sometimes.

He says your name?

He mimics words. I don’t think he actually knows what they mean. You know what they say—monkey see, monkey do. He’s like a myna bird, repeating what he hears.

I see.

Sarah, Shakespeare said again, and he tugged at her finger. Sarah, Sarah.

He knows that’s my name, Sarah said. He keeps saying it like it means something to him. Monkeys aren’t supposed to be able to talk, Marty. Not at all.

No? I said. I’ll admit I wasn’t as surprised as Sarah, having lived all these months with Shakespeare. I knew my monkey was particularly clever. He wasn’t just your average capuchin. I mean, what monkey plays with toys the way Shakespeare did, solving simple puzzles, making things out of his Legos? You should see the different things he made. And what monkey colors in coloring books, keeping inside the lines? He was an amazing little animal, to be sure. I didn’t know that much about monkeys, and maybe some other monkeys did these kinds of things as well. What did I really know about monkeys other than what I’d read on the Internet? I knew a lot about Shakespeare, but little about monkeys in general. I guess it had never occurred to me just how unusual his behavior might be. You should see him open the refrigerator, I said. Or see him get a glass of water.

Did you train him?

No, he just picks this stuff up on his own. He’s even toilet trained.

He uses a bathroom?

Yep, I said.

Finally, Shakespeare let go of Sarah’s finger and went back to work on his Lego project. He appeared to be building a crude monkey version of a castle.

I think he wants to be left alone, I said.

Okay.

He likes his playtime. Sometimes, he just likes to be by himself. If he wants to interact with us, he’ll come out of his room. We stepped out and closed the door, leaving Shakespeare by himself.

Why didn’t you tell me about your monkey? We’ve been dating all these months, and you’ve never said anything. Did you think I’d have a problem with it? I love monkeys, and I think Shakespeare is wonderful.

You do?

So why so secretive?

I had to be sure I could trust you.

Trust me?

I had to be sure you wouldn’t tell anyone.

But why?

Because I think I’m supposed to have some sort of special license to keep a monkey in my house, and I never bothered to get one. If the authorities were to find out he’s here with me, they could take him away from me. It would break my heart. So you have to give me your word you won’t tell anyone.

You have my word, Marty.

I believe you, I said.

Now what’s your second secret?

My second secret?

You told me you had two. The first is clearly Shakespeare, that you live with a monkey. But what could the second secret possibly be?

I thought a moment before answering. That can wait for another day.

Tell me now.

No, later, I said. Don’t worry, it’s nothing bad. And it’s not weird, like the fact that I have a monkey in my life. It’s a good secret, actually. I think you’ll like it.

Then tell me.

I’ve got a better idea.

What’s that?

Let’s have a pizza delivered.

A pizza?

Sure, we can watch TV and eat a pizza. Shakespeare will join us. He loves pizza.

Just then Sarah’s cell phone rang, and she removed it from her purse. She looked at it and told me, It’s my mother.

Well, answer it, I said.

Hi, Mom, Sarah said into the phone. From then on she just listened. I could hear her mom talking. I mean, I could hear her voice coming out of the phone, but I couldn’t understand anything she was saying. Sarah had a serious expression on her face the entire time she was on the call. Finally, she said, I’ll be there on the first flight. Then she ended the call.

What is it? I asked.

Daddy’s had a stroke. He’s in the hospital.

Is he going to be okay?

My mom doesn’t know. She just said I need to get out there as soon as possible. She sounded very flustered. I didn’t understand much of what she was saying.

Do you need a ride to the airport? Do you want me to take you?

Would you?

Of course I will, I said. Call and get your tickets. I’ll take you when you’re ready.

What about Shakespeare?

He does fine by himself.

Are you sure?

Just call and get your tickets.

Sarah got back on the phone and arranged her flight. I went to Shakespeare’s room and told him that I was leaving again but that I’d be back soon. Don’t ask me why I always did this, explaining things to him like he understood English, but I did it anyway. I liked to think he got what I was saying, and even if he didn’t understand me, at least he felt like I was trying to communicate. At least he didn’t get the idea that I was ignoring him whenever I left the house. I said good-bye to Shakespeare and then took Sarah to her apartment so she could pack some clothes and toiletries into her suitcase. From there we went straight to the airport, and I saw Sarah off.

Give me a call when you get there, I said. Let me know how things are going.

I will.

Do you want me to go to Starbucks tomorrow morning and tell them what happened?

No, I’ll call them from Nebraska.

You sure you have everything you need?

I’m good, Marty. I’ll talk to you soon. And with that, Sarah gave me a quick kiss and then rushed into the airport, her purse strap falling off her shoulder and her wheeled suitcase dragging along behind her. I felt like I was going to cry, not because I was worried about her dad, but because I was going to miss having Sarah around. I’d grown so used to her, doing things with her, going places together. It was then that I first realized I might be falling in love with her, the pretty girl who worked the cash register at Starbucks, the girl who had no idea how wealthy I was, the girl who’d just discovered I lived with a monkey. She had said she liked Shakespeare, hadn’t she? She said she thought it was wonderful that I had a pet monkey. Most people wouldn’t be that open-minded. Did she love me? She’d never actually said the words, but it wouldn’t surprise me to hear them come out of her mouth. No, it wouldn’t surprise me at all.

I drove home and parked my car in the garage. When I walked into the house, Shakespeare was there on the sofa, leaning backward on a throw pillow, his little hands behind his head, watching a reality show about lumberjacks on one of the cable channels.

It looks like it’s just you and me again, I said, sitting down next to him. Is there anything on besides this stupid lumberjack show? I’m not really in the mood to watch ill-tempered lumberjacks. Why do you even watch this nonsense?

Shakespeare handed me the remote, apparently sensing that I wanted to change the channel. I grabbed it from him and flipped through the stations, one after the other. There was nothing worth watching, not a single interesting show, and I turned back to the lumberjacks.

Shakespeare then reached over and grabbed my finger, the way he did when he wanted my attention. Me like Sarah, he said.

So do I, I said, not looking up from the TV. Then I turned quickly to look at him. He seemed to be smiling. Did you just say what I think you said?

Me like Sarah, he said again.

One Plus One

I t had now been a little over a year since I brought Shakespeare home from Vern’s house, separating him from his natural parents and replacing them with me. It was the afternoon of my twenty-fourth birthday, and I found myself sitting on the front-room sofa reading a book about astronomy. Shakespeare was busy in his room, banging out his monkey tunes on his colorful toy xylophone. Sarah was in my kitchen, making a mess, preparing cake and ice cream for my birthday party. I say party, but it was really just the three of us. I felt so content on this day, in such a good place. I lowered my book to my lap, counting my blessings—or in this case, just taking stock of my single and most important blessing of all, Sarah. She was good for me, nothing like the other girls I’d been going out with, and the two of us were getting along so well. Neither of us had said the actual words I love you to the other, but I think both of us knew how we felt, and it was just a matter of time before one of us spoke up. I could see this happening soon.

Before I describe this little birthday gathering, let me update you on what happened after Sarah took her trip to Nebraska. Her father recovered from his stroke, and though he was still having a little difficulty with his speech, he was making good progress. The doctors said that it could have turned out a lot worse, that he was lucky Sarah’s mom found him when she did, getting him prompt medical attention. They figured the speech problem would probably go away in a few months, and in no time he’d be good as new. It’s funny how an event like this sort of speeds up life, creating a sense of urgency for everyone involved. Sarah, for example, now wanted me to meet her parents right away—I suppose before one of them actually died. But there was no way we could go visit them in Nebraska because Sarah was too busy with her college courses, and the manager at Starbucks said if she took off another day, he’d find someone to replace her, not just while she was gone but permanently. So she tried to talk her parents into coming to California, and they finally agreed. They’d never been here before, and they wanted to see the sights and meet Sarah’s friends. They especially wanted to meet me, they said, this mysterious man who had captured their daughter’s heart. Sarah laughed and said her dad wanted to be sure I was good enough for his little girl. The way things were looking, they would visit in several months.

I still hadn’t told Sarah about all my inherited money. She seemed to have forgotten that I was keeping a second secret, for she never brought it up or asked me about it. Not once did she mention the secret after returning from her trip. Had she just forgotten about it? Or maybe she remembered but had just decided to leave the subject alone, figuring I’d tell her when the time was right. Either way, this was fine with me because I liked things just the way they were. I had absolutely no complaints about us and wanted to keep it that way. And I felt no need to hurry anything along, for we had plenty of time. My money wasn’t going anywhere, and if something were to happen in the meantime to wipe out my fortune, we’d still be happy. Having never been told about it, Sarah wouldn’t even know the difference.

Sarah had been working hard on my birthday cake this morning. She’d been at my house since around ten, having stopped for ice cream and cake ingredients at the grocery store on the way over. Who knew she could be so domestic? I mean, actually baking a cake from scratch? She said she’d gotten the recipe from her mother, who had e-mailed it to her last night when Sarah told her about my birthday. When everything was ready, Shakespeare and I