His name is Vito. He has 50cc of roaring Italian engine driving that back wheel. And there is storage space under the seat. This ain't no foolin' around.
Well, if I had thought the damned monkey had
feelings, then, no, I wouldn't have put the Santa hat on his head in the first place.
Yes, fine — he's a chimpanzee, not a monkey. Fine. And I'm a wealthy industrialist with ambitions that border on a Don Quixote Complex, but I'm no stickler for accuracy: you can just call me "politically corrected."
I understand that a chimpanzee is a primate, and therefore more evolutionarily advanced than a monkey. I've read my goddam Darwin. I just don't have the whole thing committed to memory to regurgitate in conversation.
Look: I don't know why you're coming to me with this. It wasn't even my idea to do the photo Christmas card in the first place. I mean, really: why do we have to mass-mail the world a picture of the staff?
If you want my honest opinion, as far as I can figure it, the whole thing was Barbara from Accounting's idea: she wanted all the clients to see how good she looks since she's gone on Jenny Craig. Thirty-eight years old, single, and on the prowl. For my part, I think it's absurd. Take out a personal ad on your own dime. But whatever, if it helps morale around this goddam mausoleum of an office space, I'm on board.
Well, I've seen him put the hat on himself. Yes, he has. He doesn't tell you that, but he has that Santa hat on half the day. He puts it on and acts all cutesy so the secretaries will give him candy. But that's his choice. If he wants to objectify himself, then he should be prepared to —
Why, just this morning, in fact. He had the hat on and was dancing in front of the mirror in it. How do you think I got the idea?
No, there wasn't anyone else around, but that's what I saw. And I figured,
Hey. Chimp digs the Santa hat. Maybe we could use that in the picture.
You're right — no means no. And I should have got the message when he took the hat off, stomped on it, and threw it at the photographer. But you know how people are. They act all modest, pretend they don't want to perform in front of the crowd, when you know they're just dying to do it. They just want everybody to beg for it. It's the same with chimps — like you said, we're all primates, right?
Enough with the drama already. It's not like I used the heavy-duty stapler. Yes. It was a garden-variety Swingline, with standard 35-2D size staples. Honestly, with all that hair up there, and the thick skin those monkeys have —
Right. Chimps. With all that thick skin those
chimps have up there around the scalp — half their bodies are cartilage, you know — I don't think he felt a thing.
Well, they're always jumping around and screeching, aren't they? That's what chimps do. It doesn't mean they're in pain. That doesn't mean anything.
That's not a bigoted statement. It's a fact. Haven't you seen all the Clint Eastwood movies? That's what chimps do. They jump around and screech. All the time. And they scratch their armpits, too. Are you going to accuse me of putting itching powder in his Old Spice?
This conversation is
not over. It's over when
I say it is. It's over now. I've said it's over. Now it's over.
No — I'll see
you in court. Goddam chimp isn't the only guy here with a fancy-pants lawyer, I'll have you know. And I should tell you, I have other professional resources at my disposal as well. So think about that.
I've got some phone numbers in my Rolodex, and when I dial them, I get results. You can take that any way you want to. But I've got phone numbers a lot of people would like to have. That's all I'm saying.
"If you really want to know what will get all that wax off your apple peel . . ." began the man in the top hat and Renaissance Era neck-ruffle.
I stopped my frenzied polishing, looked up into his eyes (one brown, one blue), and nodded to indicate
Yes. Yes, I would.
"It's urine does that trick." And with that, the man winked at me and vanished from my office doorway, as quickly as he came.
