The Great Christmas Monkey Hunt
[Rough scrap from a story to be written at some point in the future.]
Annie, age six, saw it first. She squealed, tiny hands pressed flat against the window that looked out across the back yard, and cried: “An elf! AN ELF!”
I darted over, pushed my nose against the glass above her, and a chill ran through me—the chill of a strange silhouette in your kingdom. Annie was right: there, at the far end of the yard, was the shape of a little bent-over man struggling through the snow-drifts. But it wasn’t actually a man, and it wasn’t a child, either. The shape was truly tiny. Miniature.
My brain was primed from watching Planet Earth in school this year, and I recognized the shape: It was a monkey. (In the next moment, a flash of wonder: I’d actually used something I learned in school.)
“Holy shit,” said Uncle Mike, leaning over my shoulder. From the outside, he and Annie and I must have made a Truman-family totem pole. “That’s a macaque.”
The little monkey kept its pace, stumbling step-by-step. It really did look like a little old man with long, lanky arms. It even had the suggestion of a bushy gray beard. Then the wind rose and gusted for a stretch of seconds, pulling a scrim of white across the window, and when it fell, the monkey was gone, disappeared over the boundary into the next yard.
There were many questions. Where had this macaque come from? What was it doing in Minneapolis? Had it been brought here and given as a gift? Who would give a monkey as a Christmas present? How did it escape?
Was it dangerous? (Mom.) Could we keep it? (Annie.) How did Uncle Mike know anything about monkeys, anyway? (Me.)
Trumans were suiting up: Dad pulling on his thick black boots. Cousin Mike Jr. pausing his video game and instructing Annie in loud, monospaced syllables: “Don’t. touch. this. Okay? Don’t. touch. it.” Uncle Mike rummaging in the closet for ski goggles.
And me, begging to come along. Dad agreed, I think because he hadn’t seen the macaque himself and wasn’t quite convinced it was real. Also because he knew I would be annoying to Mom and Aunt Ronnie if he left me behind.
Uncle Mike cracked the back door and it was like opening an airlock; the warmth was sucked out of the room, out into the silvery swirl. I felt like Master Chief in my layers of snow-gear—thick and sturdy and a little stiff. We all tromped out onto the porch, and Mom sealed the ship behind us and waved farewell through the glass.
I followed behind Dad, hopping to place my steps in the craters he made with his black boots. We were going back across the yard, straight to where we’d seen the macaque last. I narrowed my eyes and made a tough expression under my scarf. There might be macaques everywhere.
The Great Christmas Monkey Hunt had begun.