The Monkey Brawl Story
This is more or less what we're talking about.
Date: 2001
Note: The statute of limitations has expired for any crimes possibly committed in this... I think.
One of my first jobs after college was a research technician position in one of the labs at Duke University. As a 21-year-old just getting into science, most of the tasks I did were rather menial, with the occasional experiment thrown in. As I gained experience, my frequent fuck-ups were caught less frequently and I was tasked with more important jobs.
After six months of working there, one of my bosses called me into his office and informed me I was needed to assist in the transport a monkey from another University to our institution.
A little background on this request: The National Institutes of Health had recently sponsored a large-scale primate study to determine the long-term effects of a diet high in fat and sugar. This was originally intended to serve as proof that our modern processed diets were bad for us (postscript: Monkeys, unlike people, do quite well on a high fat, high sugar diet). The lab I worked in was interested in the interaction between diet and neurological diseases; we would often receive the brains and/or internal organs of these monkeys for examination.
While I'd previously chauffeured organs several times, this time there was a catch: Instead of transporting organs preserved in formaldehyde, we needed to obtain fresh brains. This meant a necropsy at Duke and - for us - transporting a live monkey some eighty miles between their primate colony and our surgical suite.
These were the circumstances on the Thursday morning as I piled into the car with Barry*, our lab manager. We arrived at the primate colony around noon. My previous work hadn't taken me near an animal facility. I was expecting rows of steel cages housing depressed monkeys; what I found was a slick-fenced enclosure filled with topped pine trees standing about twelve feet high. Perhaps twenty monkeys lounged in these trees, chattering and socializing. The facility's lone employee led us to the building adjacent to the enclosure. I assumed we would be issued some sort of tranquilizer gun to stun the monkey, and was thus surprised when all we were offered were two butterfly nets on long poles. “What should we put the monkey in?” asked Barry, displaying more prescience than I. For that, we were given a battered kitty carrier, the sort you would find in a vet’s office. For the record, it was at this point that I had my first misgivings.
Note: The statute of limitations has expired for any crimes possibly committed in this... I think.
One of my first jobs after college was a research technician position in one of the labs at Duke University. As a 21-year-old just getting into science, most of the tasks I did were rather menial, with the occasional experiment thrown in. As I gained experience, my frequent fuck-ups were caught less frequently and I was tasked with more important jobs.
After six months of working there, one of my bosses called me into his office and informed me I was needed to assist in the transport a monkey from another University to our institution.
A little background on this request: The National Institutes of Health had recently sponsored a large-scale primate study to determine the long-term effects of a diet high in fat and sugar. This was originally intended to serve as proof that our modern processed diets were bad for us (postscript: Monkeys, unlike people, do quite well on a high fat, high sugar diet). The lab I worked in was interested in the interaction between diet and neurological diseases; we would often receive the brains and/or internal organs of these monkeys for examination.
While I'd previously chauffeured organs several times, this time there was a catch: Instead of transporting organs preserved in formaldehyde, we needed to obtain fresh brains. This meant a necropsy at Duke and - for us - transporting a live monkey some eighty miles between their primate colony and our surgical suite.
These were the circumstances on the Thursday morning as I piled into the car with Barry*, our lab manager. We arrived at the primate colony around noon. My previous work hadn't taken me near an animal facility. I was expecting rows of steel cages housing depressed monkeys; what I found was a slick-fenced enclosure filled with topped pine trees standing about twelve feet high. Perhaps twenty monkeys lounged in these trees, chattering and socializing. The facility's lone employee led us to the building adjacent to the enclosure. I assumed we would be issued some sort of tranquilizer gun to stun the monkey, and was thus surprised when all we were offered were two butterfly nets on long poles. “What should we put the monkey in?” asked Barry, displaying more prescience than I. For that, we were given a battered kitty carrier, the sort you would find in a vet’s office. For the record, it was at this point that I had my first misgivings.
Our well-thought-out monkey transport device.
Barry and I were led into the enclosure. Our guide pointed out the monkey we were to capture and, without offering any advice on how to do so, turned on his heel and walked smartly back into the air conditioning.
"Any ideas?" I asked, eyeing the monkey in question.
"Let's just do this," Barry said flatly, shaking his head.
We circled our quarry awkwardly, like two neophyte gladiators. The monkey cackled and shrieked, easily evading our feeble attempts to ensnare him. Ten minutes later, we were no closer to capturing the little beast. At a pace that would have ashamed our hunter-gatherer ancestors, we evolved a new strategy: I would first use my net like a cattle prod to flush our prey from the tree in which he perched. As the monkey leapt to an adjacent tree, Barry would then intercept him in his net. As I pressured the monkey from his perch, Barry made his move. In a smooth, fluid motion, he netted the creature. The arc of the net sent the monkey crashing to the ground, trapped underneath the net and momentarily stunned. “How’s that for using an opposable thumb?!?” Barry exclaimed, flush with victory.
"Any ideas?" I asked, eyeing the monkey in question.
"Let's just do this," Barry said flatly, shaking his head.
We circled our quarry awkwardly, like two neophyte gladiators. The monkey cackled and shrieked, easily evading our feeble attempts to ensnare him. Ten minutes later, we were no closer to capturing the little beast. At a pace that would have ashamed our hunter-gatherer ancestors, we evolved a new strategy: I would first use my net like a cattle prod to flush our prey from the tree in which he perched. As the monkey leapt to an adjacent tree, Barry would then intercept him in his net. As I pressured the monkey from his perch, Barry made his move. In a smooth, fluid motion, he netted the creature. The arc of the net sent the monkey crashing to the ground, trapped underneath the net and momentarily stunned. “How’s that for using an opposable thumb?!?” Barry exclaimed, flush with victory.
"Wait... what's he doing to Carl?"
The monkey was small, but it was fast and surprisingly strong. As we eased him into the carrier, we became aware of interlopers: The other monkeys - maybe twenty of them in total - had descended as a unit and formed a circle around us. There was no more chattering and barking from them. We stood, the elation of the catch seeping away as we realized the precariousness of our new predicament. Several of the monkeys advanced a step. Instinctively, Barry and I went into a back-to-back defensive position.
The pending battle for supremacy between man and ape was subverted by a timely rescue: The lone employee barged outside, ringing a cowbell that startled the monkeys and scattered their ranks. Breathing deep sigh of relief, Barry and I shared a grim fist bump and, captive in hand, returned to his car for the long drive back to Durham. Our passenger was understandably unenthused about the trip. The monkey pitched a terrific fit, screeching and shaking the cage in the small backseat of the car. Midway through the trip back, our passenger abruptly grew quiet. I’d turned to Barry to comment on the sudden lack of noise when I felt tiny hand touch my shoulder.
Oh dear. The monkey had picked the cage lock (ostensibly designed to detain cats), and was now loose in the backseat of a Geo Metro going seventy miles per hour on Interstate 85. Barry glanced over his shoulder and immediately panicked. The car swerved across several lanes of traffic, nearly slamming into a line of concrete barriers. All of us were hurled off balance but somehow Barry regained control of the vehicle. “Get him back in his cage!" he yelled at me as the monkey righted himself. "Kill that fucker!”
Oh dear. The monkey had picked the cage lock (ostensibly designed to detain cats), and was now loose in the backseat of a Geo Metro going seventy miles per hour on Interstate 85. Barry glanced over his shoulder and immediately panicked. The car swerved across several lanes of traffic, nearly slamming into a line of concrete barriers. All of us were hurled off balance but somehow Barry regained control of the vehicle. “Get him back in his cage!" he yelled at me as the monkey righted himself. "Kill that fucker!”
Situation critical.
The monkey screamed at me menacingly. I saw murder in his tiny, furious visage. He only about ten pounds, but he had tenacity and desperation on his side. If he got past me he would undoubtedly claw Barry's eyes out, then we would crash and die together in a most ignoble manner.
Without warning, the beast crouched and sprang at me. From the cramped front seat of an economy sedan, I did the only thing available. I threw a punch and connected hard. I'm not proud of this, but I punched the shit out of that monkey. The creature crumpled into the backseat, obviously stunned. Before he could recover, I grabbed the little demon and tossed him unceremoniously into the open maw of the kitty carrier. The monkey nipped my hand as I closed the door, leaving me with a semicircular line of teeth that immediately began to bleed.
"Did you get him back in?" Barry asked.
"Yeah," I replied, failing to mention this was probably the first fight I'd ever won.
Barry was praising my prowess when he caught the first glob of poo the monkey flung through the bars of his cage. The excrement struck him directly in the temple and exploded like, well, a ball of shit. Barry recoiled instinctively and the car jerked and bucked with him. This time there was a scrape of metal as the driver's side connected with the guardrail.
Somehow, Barry used the ensuing rush of adrenaline to bring the car under control with the skill of an Formula One driver. Another glob of shit whizzed past us and impacted on the windshield. Together, Barry and I cowered in place as the monkey flung the contents of his bowels into the interior of Barry's car.
Risking personal hygiene, I chanced another glance into the backseat and was greeted by a grim sight. Our guest had shifted tactics and was once again picking the cage's lock.
Without warning, the beast crouched and sprang at me. From the cramped front seat of an economy sedan, I did the only thing available. I threw a punch and connected hard. I'm not proud of this, but I punched the shit out of that monkey. The creature crumpled into the backseat, obviously stunned. Before he could recover, I grabbed the little demon and tossed him unceremoniously into the open maw of the kitty carrier. The monkey nipped my hand as I closed the door, leaving me with a semicircular line of teeth that immediately began to bleed.
"Did you get him back in?" Barry asked.
"Yeah," I replied, failing to mention this was probably the first fight I'd ever won.
Barry was praising my prowess when he caught the first glob of poo the monkey flung through the bars of his cage. The excrement struck him directly in the temple and exploded like, well, a ball of shit. Barry recoiled instinctively and the car jerked and bucked with him. This time there was a scrape of metal as the driver's side connected with the guardrail.
Somehow, Barry used the ensuing rush of adrenaline to bring the car under control with the skill of an Formula One driver. Another glob of shit whizzed past us and impacted on the windshield. Together, Barry and I cowered in place as the monkey flung the contents of his bowels into the interior of Barry's car.
Risking personal hygiene, I chanced another glance into the backseat and was greeted by a grim sight. Our guest had shifted tactics and was once again picking the cage's lock.
Let's play a fun game of Find The Weapon...
Once more, I was called upon to be the car’s resident enforcer. My still-bleeding hand was a stark reminder of the unwise nature of hand-to-hand combat. Desperately, I sifted through a suspiciously large collection of napkins and ketchup packets in the front seat of the vehicle as I looked for a weapon. Finally, I located a coat hanger under the seat that I frantically straightened it into a rudimentary sword/spear while Barry provided a nervous running commentary on the monkey's progress to free himself. With no time to spare, I turned with my new weapon and parried the beast away from the fragile lock at which it pawed. Clinging to this strategy, I prodded the monkey each time it attempted to spring itself free. It wasn’t Planet of The Apes material, but it was close enough.
A crude stabby thing. MacGyver as shit.
Barry and I were still far from out of the woods. For starters, the situation was clearly untenable. There was no way I could stalemate a wily monkey for the hour or more it would take us to make it home. Nor could we return to the colony; heaven only knew what would happen if our backseat guest were to reunite with his pals.
"I can't hold him forever," I said, wincing as the monkey faked to his rectum before making a go for the bars. I jabbed again, driving him back.
"There's a Walmart at the next exit," Barry announced. "It'll have what we need." I glanced over; my lab manager was doing almost 80 and the Geo was vibrating badly.
The car skidded as Barry took us through the parking lot at 40 miles per hour. “Hold him there!” he yelled over his shoulder as he sprinted towards the store. I was suddenly left alone, standing sentry in the sweltering interior of the car. Sensing weakness, the monkey made another move to escape. Again, I jabbed my crude lance through the bars. This time, however, the primate seized the end of the coat hanger and pulled.
It's possible that the mixture of blood and sweat had loosened my grip. Alternately, the feces on the monkey’s paws could have provided him exceptional traction. Whatever the case, the petite primate ripped the coat hanger from my hands, disarming me like a kung-fu master subduing a nameless henchman.
In a car parked haphazardly outside of a rural North Carolina Walmart, the monkey was effectively in control of the situation. I plastered myself against the barrier of my seat. The angry monkey whipped the metal rod about wildly. Each time he connected with the back of the seat behind which I cowered I would emit an involuntary girlish shriek.
Our savage ballet was abruptly interrupted by a tap on the passenger window. My cries had attracted unwanted attention: A mother with two worried looking girls peered over the shoulder of a uniformed rent-a-cop (although I can't completely rule out whether this was proper law enforcement), who again tapped on the passenger side window. In response, I rolled down the window exactly one inch. Rent-a-cop peered inside, taking in the scene: a florid, bleeding man pressed against the dashboard of a shit-streaked Geo Metro while, in the backseat, a creature in a kitty carrier conducted a frantic symphony with a metal wand. Horror movies begin in such ways.
After ten LONG seconds, the guy asked a question he already knew the answer to. “Everything OK in there?”
What the fuck looks right about this? I wondered. What came out of my mouth: “Sure thing. We’re just, uh, going through a rough patch right now.” The monkey shrieked his assent, causing both of us to wince.
“You have a permit for that… chimp?” asked rent-a-cop, leaning into the car before wrinkling his nose and recoiling from the rancid tuna smell that boiled out.
This was the first time it occurred to me that what we were doing might be - I don't know - frowned upon by people in authority**. I suddenly had a vision of myself, Barry and the monkey sitting next to each other in handcuffs at the police station.
“Oh yeah,” I bluffed, hoping this was the case. The guy didn't look like he bought it, but our conversation was again interrupted by one of the money’s punctuated shrieks. “You know,” I said, seizing the initiative, “he’s actually an African Green Monkey. I don’t think he likes to be called a chimp.”
Rent-a-cop cocked his head. I wondered how far he was prepared to take this on a minimum wage salary. Behind him, one of the little girls said, "Mommy, what's going on?"
Before anyone could answer, Barry returned, coming across the parking lot in a dead sprint.
"I couldn’t find chicken wire, but they had a padlock and some packing tape,” he blurted out, brandishing both items wildly before thrusting them into my hands. Barry looked INSANE: He was sweating profusely and still sported a formidable glob of monkey poo on his right temple. Most of all, he had the crazy eyes going.
“He’s in the circus,” I said to the patrolman as way of explanation (note: I have no idea what that meant, not even if I meant Barry or the monkey, but it's what I said to put bow on our interaction). "Drive Barry," I said quietly as the car's engine puttered to life.
"I can't hold him forever," I said, wincing as the monkey faked to his rectum before making a go for the bars. I jabbed again, driving him back.
"There's a Walmart at the next exit," Barry announced. "It'll have what we need." I glanced over; my lab manager was doing almost 80 and the Geo was vibrating badly.
The car skidded as Barry took us through the parking lot at 40 miles per hour. “Hold him there!” he yelled over his shoulder as he sprinted towards the store. I was suddenly left alone, standing sentry in the sweltering interior of the car. Sensing weakness, the monkey made another move to escape. Again, I jabbed my crude lance through the bars. This time, however, the primate seized the end of the coat hanger and pulled.
It's possible that the mixture of blood and sweat had loosened my grip. Alternately, the feces on the monkey’s paws could have provided him exceptional traction. Whatever the case, the petite primate ripped the coat hanger from my hands, disarming me like a kung-fu master subduing a nameless henchman.
In a car parked haphazardly outside of a rural North Carolina Walmart, the monkey was effectively in control of the situation. I plastered myself against the barrier of my seat. The angry monkey whipped the metal rod about wildly. Each time he connected with the back of the seat behind which I cowered I would emit an involuntary girlish shriek.
Our savage ballet was abruptly interrupted by a tap on the passenger window. My cries had attracted unwanted attention: A mother with two worried looking girls peered over the shoulder of a uniformed rent-a-cop (although I can't completely rule out whether this was proper law enforcement), who again tapped on the passenger side window. In response, I rolled down the window exactly one inch. Rent-a-cop peered inside, taking in the scene: a florid, bleeding man pressed against the dashboard of a shit-streaked Geo Metro while, in the backseat, a creature in a kitty carrier conducted a frantic symphony with a metal wand. Horror movies begin in such ways.
After ten LONG seconds, the guy asked a question he already knew the answer to. “Everything OK in there?”
What the fuck looks right about this? I wondered. What came out of my mouth: “Sure thing. We’re just, uh, going through a rough patch right now.” The monkey shrieked his assent, causing both of us to wince.
“You have a permit for that… chimp?” asked rent-a-cop, leaning into the car before wrinkling his nose and recoiling from the rancid tuna smell that boiled out.
This was the first time it occurred to me that what we were doing might be - I don't know - frowned upon by people in authority**. I suddenly had a vision of myself, Barry and the monkey sitting next to each other in handcuffs at the police station.
“Oh yeah,” I bluffed, hoping this was the case. The guy didn't look like he bought it, but our conversation was again interrupted by one of the money’s punctuated shrieks. “You know,” I said, seizing the initiative, “he’s actually an African Green Monkey. I don’t think he likes to be called a chimp.”
Rent-a-cop cocked his head. I wondered how far he was prepared to take this on a minimum wage salary. Behind him, one of the little girls said, "Mommy, what's going on?"
Before anyone could answer, Barry returned, coming across the parking lot in a dead sprint.
"I couldn’t find chicken wire, but they had a padlock and some packing tape,” he blurted out, brandishing both items wildly before thrusting them into my hands. Barry looked INSANE: He was sweating profusely and still sported a formidable glob of monkey poo on his right temple. Most of all, he had the crazy eyes going.
“He’s in the circus,” I said to the patrolman as way of explanation (note: I have no idea what that meant, not even if I meant Barry or the monkey, but it's what I said to put bow on our interaction). "Drive Barry," I said quietly as the car's engine puttered to life.
Like this, but on the inside.
We peeled out of there, leaving the cop, the mother and her two daughters to wonder what the hell just happened. Forty minutes later, we handed a shrieking, duct-taped box to the surgical team. Seeing our bedraggled and filthy appearance, one of the guys started to ask us something. It might have been, "What happened?" but the question died in his mouth under our withering gazes. Wearily, we returned to the car and surveyed the damage. One hubcap was missing, probably lost when we clipped the barricade. A few fresh scratches dotted the paint on the driver's side and one of the tires seemed to have developed a slow leak.
Inside was much worse: the acrid smell of terror and adrenaline were present as sour notes sitting atop the stench of animal spoor. Several of my bloody hand prints decorated the dashboard on the passenger side. At some point the monkey had pissed in the backseat. And then there was the shit. So. much. shit. It caked the windshield. At one point on the drive home, Barry had instinctively activated the wipers,only to realize the material was on the inside. He held up his hand, contemplated scraping the detritus away bare-handed, then dropped his hand defeatedly into the lap as he muttered, "Fuck it." Those were his only words on the trip home.
The next day, Barry sold his car to an illegal Mexican for $800 dollars, minus the cost of an interior cleaning. For my part, I was given a $25 dollar gift certificate to Applebee's in an implicit exchange for my silence.
*Fake name.
**Although I cannot prove it, in hindsight, I can imagine no way that this was strictly above-board. For that reason, I've been a little loose with identifying details.
Inside was much worse: the acrid smell of terror and adrenaline were present as sour notes sitting atop the stench of animal spoor. Several of my bloody hand prints decorated the dashboard on the passenger side. At some point the monkey had pissed in the backseat. And then there was the shit. So. much. shit. It caked the windshield. At one point on the drive home, Barry had instinctively activated the wipers,only to realize the material was on the inside. He held up his hand, contemplated scraping the detritus away bare-handed, then dropped his hand defeatedly into the lap as he muttered, "Fuck it." Those were his only words on the trip home.
The next day, Barry sold his car to an illegal Mexican for $800 dollars, minus the cost of an interior cleaning. For my part, I was given a $25 dollar gift certificate to Applebee's in an implicit exchange for my silence.
*Fake name.
**Although I cannot prove it, in hindsight, I can imagine no way that this was strictly above-board. For that reason, I've been a little loose with identifying details.