Every Friday at noon I have a standing appointment to see my therapist, but this past Friday was way more difficult than most. This past Friday was the anniversary of the day my mama killed my monkey.
Although no one would ever guess now; when I was a child, I was actually clinically diagnosed as being developmentally retarded. I even had to wear a special helmet until I was ten. Because of my severe learning disability, when I was seven years old my doctors assigned me my very own specially trained monkey. Yep, some people have guide dogs; I had what they called a “guide monkey”. The philosophy was that, since monkeys are naturally so much more smarter than retarded kids; they figured that by mimicking the monkey on a daily basis, they could help us with our basic cognitive skills. It was an extremely revolutionary program at the time. For the life of me, I don’t know why it didn’t catch on. My little monkey’s name was Bobo, and he was the best damn monkey any mentally disabled kid could ever ask for. In no time at all, Bobo and I became fast best friends. My grandmother even made us both little matching outfits for every day of the week. We did everything together too. We played together; ate together; bathed together; and at night we even prayed together. Bobo had the best little sense of humor too. I remember he used to do this little thing where he would pee in the bed, and then blame it on me in the morning; and we would just fall on our backs laughing at that for hours. With the exception of that big knock down drag out fight we once got into, over which Power Ranger could kick Superman’s ass; it was literally the happiest time of my life. That is, until the day my mother went and ended it all.
Truthfully, my mother and Bobo never really got a long all that well. If you ask me, she was always just really jealous of what we had. As a result she would always try to keep Bobo locked in his cage, complaining he was “unruly”. I will admit that Bobo could be a bit rambunctious at times, but he really didn’t mean anything by it. That was just his way. Unfortunately Bobo really didn’t help matters at all. He knew that Mama didn’t like him, and being the big jokester he was; he would sometimes like to do funny little things just to push her buttons. But just innocent little monkey stuff like; using her toothbrush in the morning, hiding dead mice inside her purse, or turning the water up as hot as it could go when she was in the shower. His favorite thing to do was to wait good until Mama was on her way out the door for work, and then he’d suddenly run up and snatch her keys, and then shove them up his ass and run out the room. Looking back, Mama lost a few good jobs behind that one. But it was all just typical stuff you’d expect with a monkey. What used to really get mama worked up, was when she would be in the kitchen cooking greens. Bobo would hop up on the stove, and then stick his finger in the pot and taste them. And everyone knows you can’t mess with a Black woman’s greens; but certainly that’s still no reason to kill a person.
For the record, I think there are some pets that Black people were just not meant to own. Black folks like pets we can yell at and curse out when we get mad. Take a dog for example. If you yell at a dog, he’s going to stop whatever he’s doing instantly, and run out the room with his tail between his legs. Try that with a cat and he’s going to just look at you like your crazy, then keep on doing whatever he’s doing. Monkeys are the same way. You can yell all you want at a monkey. Not only is he going to keep doing what he’s doing; he may even yell back, and that doesn’t work to well for Black people. Whenever Mama would get mad and yell at Bobo, he would just flip her the bird and then go upstairs and pee in her shoes.
The night of the big incident, Mama was already in a particularly bad mood. As a result I had warned Bobo to just leave Mama alone. But for some reason he was in an extremely silly mood that evening. I remember I was upstairs sleeping in my room, and Mama was down in the kitchen having cocktails with her special friend Aunt Bruce, and that’s when it all happened. Bobo used to have a tendency to like to show off sometimes in front of company. So apparently, he thought it would be really funny to go strutting through the kitchen with Mama’s good house shoes on. And that was when she completely lost it. All of a sudden, I heard Mama scream at the top of her lunges, “Lawd…if you don’t get yo’ little monkey feet out my good house shoes!!!!!”, and then the sound of fighting: pots clanging, pictures falling off the wall, etc. Panicked, I ran down to the kitchen to see what all the commotion was. By then Mama had Bobo off the ground choking him with both hands. I had never seen my mother like that. With tears in my eyes I cried “No…Mama no!!!” Mama’s special friend tried to stop her, but Mama had the strength of a mad woman that night. Bobo tried his best to hang on; but he was no match for Mama. I just remember seeing his little hairy legs flailing about, and his little monkey feet kicking out from under those house shoes. Then all of a sudden they just stopped kicking, and the shoes slowly dropped to the floor. I screamed for Bobo to “Stay away from the light!”, but obviously he didn’t hear me. And that was when I must’ve blacked out.
When I woke up the next day I was in the emergency room. I guess in all the excitement, I accidentally swallowed my tongue. Apparently that’s pretty common with retarded kids. And that was the last I ever saw of Bobo, or Aunt Bruce. Believe it or not, still to this very day I break down crying whenever I see a picture of a little monkey or a pair of pink Isotoner slippers.
This post was for you Bobo. I know you’re somewhere up in heaven right now helping little retarded kids learn.
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Sometimes I swear if it weren’t bad luck, I wouldn’t have any at all. For instance, today I was all set to close on a pretty decent size copier deal; and by descent I mean two midsized machines and a fax. Definitely not enough profit for me to go traipsing off to Dubai to kick it with P. Diddy; but certainly enough to at least keep my manager off my behind for the next three weeks. Everything was set; I had already spent the last several weeks haggling over prices with Mr. Williams, the President of a little rundown music company in Harlem. The only thing left to do was simply go get the contract signed. How easy is that…right?
I arrived at the record company just before noon. The receptionist stopped eating her potato salad and wing dings long enough to escort me to the office, but not without first letting me know how annoyed she was. When I entered, Mr. Williams was on a call. Definitely not the friendliest man in the world, without looking he motioned for me to sit. I took the seat directly across from his desk and waited patiently. Mr. Williams looks more like an old pimp than a music executive. He had on a fluorescent green suit with what looked to be sixteen buttons going down the front; an old Gary Coleman afro with a part up the side wide enough to land a little 727 on; and a thick mustache that looked as if he had spent all morning blow-drying it out. I swear if it wasn’t for the picture of Jesus behind his head, I would’ve sworn he prayed to Steve Harvey at night. I slipped the contract directly in front of him, hoping since he was obviously busy, he would perhaps just sign it while on his call, that way we wouldn’t have to speak at all. But as luck would have it that was not the case.
Mr. Williams continued with his call as if I wasn’t even there; talk about rude. Bored, I began glancing around the room to kill time. Hanging on the walls were pictures of all of the recording artists he’s worked with over the years. Such legendary mega stars like; Carl Carlton, Orange Juice Jones, Sheryl Pepsi Riley, and Peaches’s solo album after the big split up with Herb. Looking around I thought, “Damn, this brother ain’t had a hit since music switched over to cassette tapes. No wonder he is so cheap.” On his desk were several family pictures. One of him and his wife Musetta (think…Eddie Murphy’s Rasputia character but without the cute smile); and I swear what had to be the ugliest damn kids I’d ever seen presented in a frame. For a second I couldn’t tell if it was his family portrait, or if he snapped a shot in front of the gorilla exhibit at the Bronx zoo. Believe it or not, but the cutest one in the entire shot was actually Musetta’s little Boston Terrier. And even he had a look on his face like, “Good lawd these are some ugly mutha fkas.”
Mr. Williams finally finished up his call and began inspecting the contract for mistakes. Looking back in hindsight, if only I would’ve just shut my damn mouth, I would’ve been out the door with my contract signed. But seeing how for some crazy reason, I have this perpetual need to always make stupid small talk, I couldn’t leave the room without saying something. Glancing at a picture I remarked, “Wow Mr. Williams, that’s so cool. I had no idea you knew James Brown.” Without looking up he replied, “What are you talking about? I don’t know James Brown.” I then picked up the picture from his desk and restated, “Yes you do. See, you have this picture right here of you with your arm around him.” Puzzled, Mr. Williams finally looked up to see what I was talking about. After literally a ten second pause, he looked directly at me with a stone face and replied, “That’s not James Brown. That’s my mama.” Now I’m not exactly a musicologist, but dammit I know James Brown when I see him. Not only was it his exact same face; it was his same hair; same sweaty forehead; and even the same little tight white suit from the “Living in America” video. Surely this all can’t be a coincidence. So naturally I asked, “Are you sure that’s not James Brown? Because if not she’s definitely a dead ringer for him.”
With temples bulging, Mr. Williams completely snapped yelling, “N*gga didn’t I just say it wasn’t James Brown! I know my own damn mama when I see her!” In a matter of seconds, my sure thing suddenly just took an entire 360. I thought, “Dammit Brett, he was just about to sign. How in the word did you mess this one up? Now I’m gonna have to go back to my boss and explain yet again how I messed up another deal.” This did not look good. Trying to salvage the situation I explained, “I’m so sorry Mr. Williams! It was an honest mistake. Personally, I don’t see what the big deal is. Hell, I love James.”
At this point Mr. Williams was so mad I could actually see steam coming from the part in his afro. He jumped up from his desk and shouted, “N*gga, get the f*ck out of my office! Get out!” Startled and afraid, I hopped up and quickly began gathering my things. Still somewhat optimistic I asked, “Mr. Williams, about the contract. Did you want to maybe…just fax it to me later?” Enraged, he yelled “No, actually just stay yo’ ass right there! We can take care of it right now!” So mad by now he literally had tears running down his face; he began frantically searching through his desk. It didn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out that he wasn’t searching for a pen. Not being one for surprises, I leaped over the chair and ran out the door. Walking back to my office empty handed, something told me that it wasn’t Mr. Williams first time hearing that.
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Every block in New York has its legendary characters that everyone in the neighborhood knows. Meet mine: an old homeless crack hooker whom everyone refers to as “Holler Back”. She got her name because morning, noon, or night for the past eight years, she stands on the same corner with a sun dress on and a 40oz bottle in her hand, shouting “Holler Back Mutha Fckas!” to everyone who walks by.
Holler Back, is pretty much known throughout all of Brooklyn for her trademark salutation. Whereas, it’s probably customary for most to smile and wave hello to people in the neighborhood as they walk or drive by: Holler Back instead lifts up her skirt and shows everyone her twat; flies and all. Talk about “Distracted Driving”. I think poor Oprah may be focusing on the wrong cause. I’d sure love to see that bumper sticker. Holler Back is an extremely colorful character to say the least. Whenever you walk by her corner there’s literally no telling what she might be doing. She could be hanging off the light post doing chin ups; she could be uprocking to her boom box in the middle of the day with no shirt on; or completely passed out, face down on the sidewalk taking a nap. Last week at 8:30a.m, I saw her straddled across a traffic barricade as if on a horse, with one hand in the air shouting “Wild Wild West Mutha Fckas!!!” at the top of her lunges.
Although Holler Back is notorious for shouting obscenities and cat calls to people walking by; for some odd reason she’s actually obsessed with me. This means whenever she sees me, she amps it up even more. I’ll never figure that one out. I can barely get a regular girl to call me back; but apparently to old homeless crack whores, I’m the next best thing to Denzel. The very second she sees me approaching; she literally stops whatever she’s doing and begins licking her lips. This is of course followed by her yelling, “N*gga come give me some of that! You little short mutha fcka!” from all the way across the street. It’s weird, because I can actually feel her undressing me with her one good eye. She lost use of the other one in a fight with a pit bull a couple years back. In his defense, she had been picking with that pit bull for months.
This Friday for some strange reason, Holler Back seemed to be in particularly rare form. On my usual route home from work, I suddenly felt someone grab my ass from behind. Startled, I whipped around only to discover Holler Back standing there with a look in her eye that was even strange for her. I immediately yelled, “Holler Back…what the hell has gotten into you?” to which she replied, “N*gga…I’m sick of you taunting me! I’m about to get me some of this!” Now, I’m not sure if she accidentally got a hold of some bad crack; or if all of those years of fantasizing over me had finally just taken its toll, but something told me right then that I was in trouble. It was as if she was Clarisse “Precious” Jones, and I was that bucket of chicken. She proceeded to grab for my “Johnson” several times as I quickly pushed her hands away. “What in the world has gotten into this crazy bitch?”, I thought. Thank God I caught that Oprah episode on How to Protect Yourself Against Date Rape. Just like the expert on the show instructed: I made direct eye contact, and in a deep firm voice shouted “Stop…Holler Back! No means no!” But apparently, Holler Back doesn’t watch that much Oprah. Because the more I resisted, it was like the more she got turned on. This was not looking good.
The next thing I knew, Holler Back and I were literally rolling around the sidewalk wrestling at 5:30 in the day. I thought, “How in the world does this sh*t keep happening to me?” I called out several times for help to people walking by; but instead everyone just laughed and pulled out their phones to record the fight. By this time she was so close that I could literally smell her breath; which smelled just like a combination of Spam, Maxwell House, and old vagina. I struggled like crazy to keep her from unzipping my pants. I don’t know what mutated strand of crack she was on, but it was like she had the strength of two gorillas. Perhaps it was all of those damn chin ups. Panicked I thought, “OMG, maybe Holler Back is gonna’ finally get her some of this today after all.” I had already made up my mind that if she somehow got a hold of my penis with her grimy little hands, there was no way in hell I was going to keep it. I’d just as soon cut it off and live out the rest of my days as a lesbian. I wanted to die right there from the smell of her breath alone; but the thought of everyone walking by and watching her do “God only knows what” to my lifeless corpse was just too much to bear. With that said, I began fighting for my life.
I finally managed to get her off of me long enough to hop back to my feet and run, but to my surprise she still took off after me. Now here I am in my suit and tie, running down Dean Street with an old homeless crack whore chasing behind me. Yes…welcome to my world folks. As soon as I got home I called the NYPD to file a sexual assault charge. However, hadden already heard tale of the incident; instead they all just laughed and asked if they could take pictures of me for their Facebook pages. Talk about unprofessional. Guess who won’t be getting a check for the Policeman’s Ball this year?
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