A Barrel Of Monkey

To correctly frame this story, I must remind some readers that I spend my days laboring at a local elementary school under the guise of a fifth-grade teacher. The job is great, the pay is okay, and the satisfaction is endless. What is most fascinating, however, is the uniqueness of each and every day. There are currently twenty-six kids in my class (a wonderful lot, they are), and each brings with them a multitude of dilemmas, excitement, experiences, successes and failures that, at the very least, I become aware of, and, at the most, I'm directly involved in. This formula makes for such a mishmash of possibilities that there are never any two days that are even remotely alike. It's kinda like snowflakes, only warmer.

Some of these days are a real joy. I've had kids cry out in excitement at seeing a grade on a test or project into which they poured great effort, an experience that I wish you all could share. I've had pies smashed into my face by students for a fund-raiser, been subjected to a cyclonic wind-tunnel-of-death money machine (where I spent an eternity-long minute desperately grasping for dollar bills which I could use for classroom necessities), and have ushered kids through an amazing (living) butterfly room exhibit at a museum on a field trip, all things equally enjoyable but hardly discussed in my teacher training. Unique experiences, all.

There have been bad days, too. I've met with Child Protective Services on more than one occasion, advocating for my kids. I've felt the pain of losing a student, just this year, to a motorcycle accident. I've dealt with a plethora of bumps and bruises, to both body and spirit, with over a hundred individuals that I have bonded with over the nine months of close quarters. These experiences have been unique, too. Each one requiring, at the very least, a slightly different approach than the last.

Then there are those experiences that can't be easily categorized. They fall into the gray haze that separates good and bad, joy and pain. They come in the form of bizarre contacts with parents (which, at times, clearly explains why their child is like the way he or she is), abstract district policy (see the math story I posted earlier), and dealings with the forty-odd other adults in my building that sometimes can be unexpectedly trippy.

One of these is the time I learned that the elderly steal, and they smile as they do it.

I was part of a group of teachers that put on a faculty luncheon. It's a monthly occurrence in our school, but each teacher only needs to help provide the meal for one of the nine school year months. One can show up for the other eight, no strings attached, and stuff one's face.

Anyway, our group stayed away from the usual menu, instead choosing a rather unique offering of sushi (maki rolls, to be exact), monkey meat (shish-kebab-like beef on a pointy stick), and other bits of side dish and dessert oddities. We made placards for each dish, complete with artwork clipped from some of my favorite comic book artists. Since we were serving "monkey meat", the theme was [dramatic pause] monkeys. Each of the tables in our library was covered in monkey bric-a-brac, such as monkey stuffed animals and figurines. My daughter had a Barrel of Monkeys game – you know, the plastic barrel filled with twenty or so hook-armed monkeys – that I borrowed and brought to the festivities. I scattered them creatively throughout the tabletops as a finishing touch garnish.

During that same day, there happened to be a gathering of elderly residents in our school. There is a retirement home next door, just on the other side of the playground. Our school, in the spirit of feel-goodedness, visits the residents from time to time, or plays host to them as they come tottering in, to have lunch or learn computer skills, or whatnot.

This group was indeed there for some computer training about the internet (note to self: find out what websites they wanted to see. Probably something like www.bennygoodman.com). They stayed for lunch, which, unfortunately for them, consisted of monkey meat. Once they were assured many times over that it wasn't from actual monkeys, they sat down to enjoy a meal.

They were pleasant enough, chit-chatting about the usual things, like swing dancing and speak-a-phones. To their credit, none expired during the visit.

As they were getting up to leave, their eyes wandered around to see what adorned the other tables. One plump old lass asked me if she could have one of the cute little red hook-armed decorative monkeys. It was an innocent enough question, I guess, but one that caught me completely off guard, especially when delivered by someone that looked like an amalgam of the Golden Girls.

What was I to say? We were playing ambassadors to a slew of cute, wrinkled grannies. Could I summon up the gumption to say no? Nay. I reasoned with myself – justified with myself, anyway. One missing monkey wouldn't really matter, would it? Would my daughter even notice? That would leave the rest, nineteen or so, for the game. It wasn't like she ever would link them all together with her (perfectly normal) four-year-old dexterity.

"Sure, go ahead," I said with a smile.

This is where it all went wrong, I can see that now. The ol' perfect vision hindsight. Little did I know that I opened the floodgates to another dimension. Not one of sight and sound, but a place where the elderly turn from cookie-baking models of nice to tchochke-hoarding epitomes of theft, hearts darker than anything this side of Mordor.

I should have known better. We were playing host to people who wittingly voted for Roosevelt four times! I don't think it was within what was left of their dignity to stop themselves.


		Pictured above: The Elderly. Not Shown: Their black, thieving hearts.

Well, they rushed in for the kill, like discovering an uncovered tray of brownies at fat camp. They swooped in, nailing each and every one of my daughter's monkeys.

Save one. It was close enough to me that I reached over and snatched it up. I really think a mummy with a nametag that read Alice glared at me.

So, that's it. They tottered back out of the room, leaving a wake of empty tables (save for the crowns of sesame-seed buns on their plates). I sat in awkward silence, along with some of my coworkers, not wanting to admit that Ethel James and her posse of septuagenerian desperadoes wiped up clean.

I got home that night, and, sure as fate, my daughter asked if I brought home her monkey game.

"Yes," I calmly said, hugging her. "But first, let me tell you something about grandmas…"

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