I recently found a plastic chimp in the cupboard above the stove.

He’s smallish (key-chain sized), crouched forward with wide, glassy eyes. I found this chimp grinning in front of my cook books and thought, “Hey. A chimp.”

My reaction wasn’t HOW THE HELL DID THAT GET THERE but rather, “Hey. A chimp.”

Curious.

I’m not terribly surprised; friends give me things. My buddy Perry delights in sending me ghoulish dolls so when I call him to thank him (my voice full of dubious gratitude), he says, “Isn’t it horrible? I wouldn’t want it my house; I don’t think I could sleep with that thing in my house.”

Over the years, Perry has gifted me disturbing postcards with dead-eyed dolls, actual dolls (because dolls are creepy) and a bulbous-headed wooden creature that defies description as an animal:  dog? Monkey? Is the thing human?

This aqua-colored creature is distressed, using both meanings: it’s painted and scraped but also when someone comes upon it suddenly in my house, the thing elicits an “OH GOD” of instant repugnance. (I guess that’s distressing rather than distressed.) It’s Egyptian-like eyes and slightly twisted ‘un-smile’ make the thing more sinister than you’d ever think.

It’s a carved, wooden antique, something Geppetto would have burned after carving it, because he wanted a real son, not an undead evil force. However, it was a gift from someone I love, so I bent its stiff wooden legs into a sitting position and the thing now sits on the edge of a dying, potted fern, footless-legs dipped in the dry soil.

About nine years ago, my friend Dave borrowed my power sander and I artfully hid the bulbous-headed thing under sandpaper, hoping to give him a good scare.

“Why the hell did you do that?!” Dave yelled at me over the phone, three minutes after the discovery.

“Do what?” I said sweetly, proud of myself.

“You know what I’m talking about. I found that thing in the bag. The Companion.” Dave said. “It’s name is The Companion and you know it.”

Instead of laughing, I recoiled, because Dave had accidentally spoken its true name aloud. Of course I had never named it; but I recognized the truth of the name.

Dave’s very intuitive, touching another world with his wonder and unique energy. He often believes the best about people, and then he bends reality to fit this vision. I am honored we’re friends because he’s better than “good people,” he makes me want to be “good people.” He’s practical, too, so he’s not just wide-eyed and dreamy. Yet he sometimes bends the world to work just like he imagines, and I find that impressive.

So when he called the thing “The Companion,” I jumped uncomfortably because he didn’t just invent a name, he called that creature by it’s name.

When house guests recoil in horror and gasp, “What the hell is that?” I am required to sadly say, “It’s The Companion.”

Everyone knows the disastrous first step in Teenage Horror Movie formula is to pronounce aloud the thing’s true name. Three rules:  1) Don’t call the ultimate evil by name/read spells from an ancient book, 2) Don’t be near a secret government lab or accidentally collect ancient talismans, Egyptian necklaces, cursed oil paintings, etc. 3) Don’t be a virgin.

Idiot kids in those movies think, “We probably shouldn’t read from this ancient book, but what are the odds of a government lab and virgin blood nearby, the two necessary ingredients to unleash the spell?”

Uh huh.

I myself do not worry about The Companion because I do not live near a secret government lab, nor am I a virgin. (Well, technically, yes, I’m a virgin. I’ve never had sex with a woman. But, as a gay man, that kind of virginity doesn’t count. Right?)

See where this is going?

My friends are creepy.

They say creepy things and mail me creepy stuff and they torture me by leaving it for me in my kitchen cupboards for me to find weeks later and I think, “Hey. A chimp.” I keep searching for a common denominator, but I can’t quite name that common thread. What’s with all these people?

I decided my friend Michael (who loves gorillas) is goofy enough to leave me a chimp, so I called and left a snarky voicemail, busting him. Imagine my surprise two days later when Ron said during a telephone call, “Did you find anything in your kitchen cupboards lately?”

Ron works a big job at a big financial institution. He watches the wobbles of our international economy and he may actually have some insight into stuff. He tries to influence things towards the best outcomes, but the world feels very uncertain these days, so who knows? He’s worried. I didn’t think he had time to plant creepy monkeys in my kitchen. I love how Ron often surprises me.

Pressing this magic button emits a piercing screech and the chimp’s crystal eyes blaze a blinding blue light. When I say blinding, what I mean is “blinding,” because for the last week or so I’ve been testing it with friends, making them peer into the chimp’s crystal eyes and then I say, “Watch.”  I press the button and they jerk their heads away, rubbing their eyes and calling me an asshole.”I know!” I say excitedly. “It’s surprising how strong that little light is. It really hurts your eyes, doesn’t it?”

I asked Ron why he bought such a gift and he said, “Well, because you collect creepy monkeys.”

I gently protested this alleged collection.

“Well,” said Ron, “There’s the painted wooden one with the fez and vest on your hutch with all the plants.”

“That’s just one.” I said.

“And the horrible Father Christmas monkey you tried to give away as a prize at your Halloween party but nobody would take.”

Two.

“Plus, The Companion.” said Ron.

When other people experience those “light bulb moments,” I imagine they always see fuzzy, yellow light and feel a soft glow of recognition. My light bulb moments always flash dangerously, orange-flickering moments where you can see the hot filament burning and the glow of recognition blurts out, “Oh fuck!”

“Three creepy monkeys is a coincidence.” I said to Ron. “That’s weird, but not - ”

At that exact moment, my eyes caught sight a gorgeous carving of a Chinese diety on my fireplace mantle:  The Monkey King. The exquisitely carved statue came from San Francisco’s Chinatown and is associated with the best person I met in San Francisco during my four months. And I gotta tell ya, I met some pretty awesome people out there.

Greg and I met shortly after I occupied the tree house. On our second date, I felt like crap but we really wanted to see each other, so we ate take-out from a health food store on an outdoor stone bench at the intersection of Noe and Henry. I felt like crap and Greg made concerned, frowny faces across from me because he felt bad that I felt bad. I remember thinking, “This is why we go on dates. For moments like this.”

I remember wishing I felt better and could enjoy the date a little more.

My sparkling life moments are often tempered by sober reality. It’s the ying and yang, I guess. Great joys, tied up with some creepy detail that throws off the moment. Recently, I have had great breakthroughs regarding my heart while I worried about money. I wrote my best-ever fiction in 2008, while dealing with some ugly, dark shit. And while I try to be grateful for beautiful moments, sometimes my inclination is to say, “Yes, but could I have the great breakthrough without being broke? Could I have this fantastic date and not feel queasy?”

Maybe not. Maybe it’s all necessary.

Although we did not date long, Greg and I developed a sweet friendship that endures. Greg will always have a place of honor in my heart. In fact, I recently bought us both matching Monkey King T-shirts from a cool website because the The Monkey King myth means something special to us. Note: I do not categorize my Monkey King statue as ‘creepy’ in any way, but he’s fierce and intimidating, which others might see as creepy.

I shared with Mary-Scott how “Crazy Ron” thinks I have a creepy monkey collection just because of four quite unusual monkeys in my home. Anybody could happen to have four very unique monkeys in their home and not own a collection. (Besides, nobody can be sure The Companion is a monkey.) I knew she would understand.

“Did he count The Companion?” she said.

“Yes.” I said, a bit testily because I had expected sympathy.

“And of course, Bongo.” she said.

“Bongo?” I said, surprised.

“He didn’t know about Bongo?” asked Mary Scott.

Bongo is my beanie baby I once kept in an office job. He was kidnapped one day by coworker friends, and I only happened to notice this because I was anonymously invited through a fake email address to view photos. I caved to the monkey-napper demands and Bongo was returned safely.

When I saw the Bongo photos the first time, I remember thinking, “Hey. There’s Bongo.”

“HE DIDN’T KNOW ABOUT BONGO?” Mary-Scott said, laughing. “What about how you send all those chimp emails with their creepy voices? Did he know about that? Has Ron gotten one of those from you?”

I remained silent.

Mary-Scott laughed harder. When she could speak at last, she said, “Surely, surely Ron knew about your Dad’s Monkey Face, that expression he taught you and your siblings. He knows you can make yourself look like Dr. Zaius, right?”

I remained silent.

As Mary-Scott howled with laughter, that orange-flashing bulb smashed itself itself on and off, that Halloween recognition that perhaps, just perhaps, I have a Creepy Monkey collection.

Then while discussing this creepy monkey situation with my brother, I suddenly remembered a beloved limp doll from my childhood, a monkey, (aptly named ‘Monkey’) that I barfed on one night while reassuring him that Mom would help us with this stomach ache. My vomit-stained monkey was never seen again. Talking with Matt reminded me of Franco.

Huh.

Earlier today, I complained to Ron about talking to “Crazy Mary-Scott.” He listened quietly and said, “What about those sexually explicit Curious George cards we traded back and forth through the mail? Did you count those?”

Crap.

What’s that second rule in horror movie after the unfortunate naming or reading from a book of spells? You suddenly realize you’re in a government lab or that you’ve accidentally been collecting ancient talismans. Uh oh. And what comes next - blood of a virgin?

Oh fuck.

This entry was posted on Saturday, March 21st, 2009 at 4:42 pm and is filed under Gratitude. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.