They Had Goat Heads

CHIMPANZEE





I forgot to lock the door again. Eventually a chimpanzee swaggered into the house. I called the police.

The 911 operator said, “You have to shoot it. Shoot it now.” I told the operator I didn’t own a gun. She said, “Then improvise. Stab the monkey with a knife. Bludgeon the primate with a frying pan. Lure the simian into the oven and treat it like a casserole. Do what you must. But do it. Otherwise that hairy interloper may commit a crime. Good luck.”

“Wait,” I said. I remembered I owned a gun after all. I hung up the phone and went and got it. Loaded it.

I found the chimp sitting at the head of the dining table, polishing mustard yellow teeth with a fingertip. It chirped when it saw me.

I aimed the gun, closed my eyes, and fired . . .

I called the police. “I’ve just killed a hairy interloper,” I said. I was hysterical.

“Calm down, sir,” said the 911 operator. “Take a deep breath and explain what happened.”

I steadied my breathing, focusing on the operator’s voice. She sounded attractive. “Ok. I’m all right. This is what happened.” I told her.

“I’m coming over right away,” said the operator, and hung up.

I cocked my head. Sirens outside. A knock at the door. I still hadn’t locked it.

The door opened and a woman entered and she called my name and marched through the house until she found me, bleak, wild, lingering over the gruesome corpse of the chimpanzee.

“Lower your weapon and step away from the unripe mammal,” she barked, fingering a baton. I dropped the gun and backed into a china cabinet. She looked good in her uniform. And she was just my type. Skinny. Young. Like everybody’s mother used to be. I wanted to impress her.

“I,” I said, pausing for a moment, “have certain powers.”

She got on her knees and inspected the chimp, feeling its limbs and neck for a pulse, looking behind its ears for abnormal vascularity. “It’s only sleeping, it’s only sleeping,” she whispered, as if trying to convince herself that reality could be defied, defeated, overturned.

“I blew that thing’s brains out,” I reminded her.

Cradling the chimp in her arms, she picked it up and rocked it back and forth. “Oh no,” she cried.

I said, “I don’t usually do this. But would you like to have dinner with me? I’ll pay for it.”

She accidentally dropped the chimp. It hit the hardwood floor of the dining room like a sack of firewood. She screamed for a long time, then picked the chimp up and hurried away.

Shortly thereafter they stormed into the house and arrested me.

They boxed my ears on the way to the police vehicle. “Abuse is the namesake of certainty,” I said.

They pistolwhipped me on the way to the penitentiary. “We mustn’t take these things too seriously,” I said.

They kicked me into a cell and locked the door. My cellmate was a hairy interloper. “You have to shoot it,” it said. “Shoot it now.”

But I left my gun at home . . .

A prison guard passed by the cell and began to hammer the bars with a wooden broomstick, accusing us of making a commotion. He screamed and cursed and assailed the bars until the broomstick splintered and broke in half. We stared at him absently.

Two hours later, they gave me my phone call. I dialed 911. The operator remembered my voice. I told her I was about to escape. She said, “Exercise caution as you exit the penitentiary. Jail is a treacherous venue. I advise mankind against prison. Penal institutions belie the contours of sanity. The same logic may be applied to incarceration boxes. Whatever you do, do it asap. Good luck.”

I heard a gunshot and the line went dead . . .