Monkey Maids: or, the Roommate/Primate Experiment; Pt. 1

Pt. 1:

“You want a what tamarin?” The noise in the kitchen was deafening. I was screaming into the phone receiver.

“One with a mustache!” yelled the guy on the other end. “I saw one at the zoo!” We'd been trying to communicate what kind of tamarin monkey he wanted for his costume party for five minutes now, but every time I tried to calm the din around me, the primates just screeched and howled louder. In this high state of frenzy I couldn’t leave the room for fear they'd maul me or each other, so I just kept yelling to be heard over the melee.

“I told you, I don't have any fucking mustache monkeys! I don't have any! What do you want from me? I can give you a golden lion tamarin! That's it!”

Across the room, the male spider monkey swooped down into the sink from the refrigerator, sending smaller monkeys leaping out of the way and gibbering madly. The capuchin threw itself at my head – I had to duck to avoid getting a foot in the eye. It smacked into the wall and hit the ground screeching, then ran to a far corner.

“Look,” I yelled into the receiver, “either tell me you want the golden lion or get off the fucking phone; it's a madhouse in here!”

“Fine, I'll take it,” I heard him mutter as the rhesus hopped by, arms aloft, the unfortunate marmoset clinging to its head.

“Good, pick him up at eight and I’ll give you the instructions!” I slammed the phone down and finished scrawling the guy’s address. “Imbecile.”

I stood up slowly, surveying the room. The kitchen table was the source of the ruckus. I'd brought the primates some Cheez-Its as a treat an hour ago, but three boxes had only whetted the dairy-fiends' appetites and some fights had broken out over the crumbs. All traces of cheesy goodness were gone at this point, but animosity was still sparking up into violence all around me. The old comic book where I’d found the ad hadn’t mentioned the possibility of hysterical aggression over cheese products, but then I hadn’t even expected to get anyone on the phone when I’d called to order the Primate Variety Pack in the first place. It had seemed too good to be true – a comic book from the 60’s hadn’t seemed likely to deliver on its decades’ old promise of monkeys for $15.95 a piece, but here I was with seventeen monkeys fighting over Cheez-Its in my kitchen.

I was suspicious that the female spider monkey had a concussion – she'd been pushed from the ceiling fan by an overly excited Peruvian night monkey and had been shaking her head lazily for the past ten minutes, quietly petting her tail. I'd have to send the male to the lesbian charity event that night instead of her, which worried me. I hoped they had a costume or something so his genitals wouldn't be in plain view. The lesbians might not go in for it that.

In the meantime, I was faced with the daunting task of calming them down enough to get those with paying gigs cleaned up and ready to go. I spotted the golden lion tamarin, watching the madness below from inside a cabinet near the sink – he was small enough to hide from the others, and generally docile. I could probably carry him out to the bathtub without too much trouble.

I started across the room toward him, moving stealthily to avoid detection by the frenzied, screaming masses. Goddamn animals were out of control. I had to be careful. Most of them were small enough to pose little threat on their own, but in a frenzy of claws and teeth and opposable thumbs I was sure they could rip a man to pieces working in tandem. And if the spider monkeys got involved, it was all over. I had a feeling those things were vicious.

I kept my movements slow and smooth, sidling over to the golden lion tamarin, who eyed me warily from the back of the cupboard. I reached over to him and held my arm out like a perch, hoping he'd jump on, but he just stared at me. You'd think he'd have known he could trust me by now - he'd been here for a day and a half just like the others, and I had never hurt him. Well, except for the beer can incident last night, but it had only knocked him out for a few minutes, and I hadn't thought he’d figured out it had been me who threw it from across the room. But from the look he was giving me with his beady eyes, I deduced he might have given the matter some thought. Shit. I had to get him bathed and ready for his gig tonight. Had to sit on that dumbass's shoulder and accept tips for a few hours.

I wiggled my fingers like I had some food in my hand, but the golden lion was too smart for me and stayed where he was. I glanced around to be sure we hadn't drawn any attention, then grabbed him by the neck and stuffed him under my shirt to avoid detection. He chirped wildly and clawed at my stomach, but I held him firmly and made for the bathroom, his tail swinging out from under my shirt.

A few of the others looked up to see me retreating but were too busy knocking each other’s skulls on the table to care. I tried to take the golden lion out from under my shirt when we reached the living room, but he clung to my stomach with his sharp little fingernails and grabbed at my body hair with his fists.

With my free hand I turned on the bathroom sink and tried to find a lukewarm temperature while the primate scratched and bit. It was difficult to adjust two temperature knobs with a frenzied tamarin in one hand, but I kept at it until the tiny monster under my shirt grabbed hold of a nipple and twisted, at which point I dragged him away from my body with much squalling from him and swearing from me. Hoping the shock would calm him down, I shoved him under the pouring water. It didn’t, since the water was still ice cold, and I had to hold the miniature primate down with both hands to keep him from leaping onto my face.

I lathered him up with some shampoo – thinking it would be important to keep the fur glossy for customers. He resisted at first, with much gnashing of tiny teeth, but after a few moments of struggle, he gave in as the water warmed up. By the time I put him in a hand towel and rubbed him down after a thorough shampoo and rinse, he was smiling and gurgling at me like a baby. I wondered if this technique would work for the larger animals in the kitchen. It might be wise to invest in herbal teas, I thought, or in some high-dose Xanax, for expediency.

As we made our way through the living room I was happy to notice that the noise coming from the kitchen had died down. It didn’t sound exactly calm, but the hoots and clangs were subdued enough for me to hear my phone beeping in my pocket. I locked myself and the tamarin in the bedroom and resisted the urge to throw the little bastard down on the air mattress (my nipple still hurt), instead nestling him quietly amongst the blankets to keep up his good mood, and opened my phone. There was a text message from my roommate, who had been gone for a week and a half for her older sister’s wedding in California. “Weddings r gr8,” it read, “but Im ready 2 get back. Worried u will burn house down. How r u?”

I rolled my eyes. Burn the house down! She’d be impressed when she got back and saw how well kept the place was, now that we had 17 primates in it. The roommate was a great girl, one of my favorite people, really, but a little up tight. A little crazy. I wrote back: “Dont worry, the monkeys and i r fine.”

I put the phone down and grabbed my brush, thinking that I would have to buy some better grooming utensils once I got the business rolling – this one cheap-o plastic number wasn’t going to last long. I went to town on the tamarin, who gurgled a little and grinned at me. I pondered using a blow-dryer on him – golden lions are covered in fine strawberry-blonde fur everywhere but on their feet and faces. Even though he was tiny, he would take a while to dry, and if he fell asleep in the twisted position he was in right now, his fur might dry in a weird shape, which would be no good when the dumbass came to pick him up later.

My phone beeped again and I grabbed it to give the blow-drying idea some time to settle into my brain. Roommate again. “Monkeys? I hope ur kidding. C u tomorrow.” I glanced at the tamarin and typed back, “Sure. Where do u keep ur blowdryer?”

A few moments’ pause, then: “On my dresser. Please don’t electrocute urself.”

I laid the tamarin back down on the bed, where he snuggled deeper into the covers and sighed. Sneaking out of the bedroom, I put on my game face and headed for the kitchen quietly. To my surprise, the monkeys were now calm, mostly napping or grooming each other in the cupboards and corners. A few babbled upon my approach, and the female spider monkey stood up to greet me with a little wave. The Cheez-Its seemed to have been forgotten. I was going to have to buy some fruit tonight to avoid more riots.

Liz’s hair dryer was on her dresser, as was her comb and a few styling products. I hesitated for a moment before realizing that after tonight’s take I could buy her new and better products. There might be some tension over the issue, but she'd calm down when I got her nice stuff. I grabbed everything and headed back to the tamarin.

He really liked the styling cream, and we had a little fight over his repeated attempts to eat it from the bottle, but when the blow dryer turned on he lost all interest to abject terror. I kept it on low heat, though, and within a few minutes he was like butter in my hands again. What a sweet little monkey. I decided to make him my buddy and let him sleep on my pillow that night. We played with a few different styles but eventually decided on a sleek shiny look that made him as human as a foot-long fur-covered tail-wielding animal could. I thought it would go over well. The tamarin fell asleep on my pillow as I went to get the male spider monkey.