This Monkey's Gone to Heaven

Chapter 1, This Monkey's Gone to Heaven

Chapter One




A suitable starting point might be July two years ago. Which makes the year 1999. It was evening and the mourning doves were calling sadly from the sycamores. I was at my mom’s house in the town of Irkly, Minnesota. I was sitting at the kitchen table, which was just filthy, unwashed from days of her drinking, sticky rings from spilt beer, crushed chips, dishes of half-eaten finger food, and I was staring outside at the empty bird feeder subconsciously worrying about my movie--I had just managed to finish the movie script--when suddenly it came to me like offal belched from the murky depths: no one in their right mind would be interested in the lead female part. It hit me like a fist. There was just no way. I looked at my mom. She was drinking a beer, waiting for her friend Dorothy to come pick her up. It was Wednesday, their night to go bar hopping.
My mom threw her head back and started laughing. "I'm not gonna do it, are you crazy?" she said. "I don't know the first thing about acting."
"Ma, please. You have to. You can't say no. I'm begging you. I'll do anything. Just read it, read the script. People like it."
She screwed up her face. "What people?"
"Well, Howser liked it. He loved it." Howser was my best friend, a photographer who lived in the same town of Irkly as my parents did. But I was lying to her. It was a fib. No one had even read the script yet.
She sneered in disgust. "Oh, what does Howser know? Besides, aren't you supposed to flying? How did you get so much time off to do this stupid movie, anyway? You didn't quit, did you? If you quit your job, your father is going to be so disappointed."
I did quit. She knew I had. I'd told her more than a month ago over beers. But bad news goes in one ear and out the other. It runs in our family.
"You spent twenty thousand dollars to be a pilot, and now you're just going to quit?" she said. "I'm calling your brother. He's gonna have a fit." My brother Stanley was a pharmacist and at the time the only stable one in the family. My parents routinely went to him for advice.
"He'll tell you to go back to Alaska. He knows what you should do."
"Ma, it's dangerous. I don't want to die in a plane!"
"Oh, you and that imagination."
"Ma, guys die up there. I’ve known several!”
"Oh, stop."
"Look what happened to Dad!"
"Well, that was your dad."
As if on cue we heard him downstairs, my dad, his electric wheelchair whirring in his basement office as he moved forward to reel up another porn from the past.
It was tragic. I was at work at the gas station when they called me with the news. It was about fifteen years ago on a beautiful calm day in August when my poor dad, a private pilot at the time, rented a small plane to practice his landings. He took off without checking the fuel. The plane was on fumes. When he ran out of gas, he tried to land in a field. There was a tree at the far end and he crashed into that. He broke his back and has sat in a wheelchair ever since.
One year later, for some strange reason, I decided I wanted to be a pilot, too. Three years after that I got a job in Alaska as a bush pilot, flying those small planes, going from village to village out in the middle of godforsaken nowhere, so lonely and isolated, miles and miles of empty tundra and howling winds. People that know me can't believe I fly airplanes. People that meet me think the same thing. "This man flies airplanes for a living?" They have a hard time seeing me in a small plane.
Before the tapeworm--my mom had read a book detailing the extreme dieting techniques of racehorse jockeys--I was fat. I'd always had a weight problem. (For years my mom blamed my dad because when I was a child he used to force-feed me sugar popsicles to keep me from talking endlessly about nothing. I have fond memories of driving my poor dad batty. "Emmett, can't you just shut up!" he used to say with his hands stretched into the air.) But that was the thing about flying those small planes, as a fat fuck I didn't fit real well. It was hard to fly with the yoke pushed up, wedged against my belly; imagine the red "Cessna" imprint on my flabbiness at the end of each miserable day. It was very uncomfortable. I never wore the seatbelt even though it was a federal regulation. I just figured in the event of an accident I really wasn't going anywhere. It was a snug fit. It was horrible, the tight squeeze, I mean. I hated flying. I felt like an animal in a cage too small, asphyxiating slowly. All I really wanted to do was write. Flying, I'd think up dumb stories and laugh myself silly, slapping my knee. I was a real hoot. My passengers were Eskimos. I imagine them shaking their heads, screwing up their faces in disgust, thinking I was just another example of the crazy white guy; not the king of all dumb asses as I would have it.
I was in Alaska at work flying a full load of passengers from their village of Kong back to Lousetown when I came up with the idea for the movie. This one Eskimo, he was simply enormous. He could barely squeeze inside the plane. He was bigger than me. Even with an extension, he could barely get the seatbelt around his waist. His wife was traveling with him. She was very petite. They made a strange-looking couple, that's for sure. That's how I got my idea. It was that couple that inspired me. We were so overloaded we barely made it off the airstrip. As we struggled our way back to town I came up with the story.
After landing, I was so excited I left my passengers in the plane and ran across the ramp to the payphone to call my agent. (I considered Marty my agent, but I don't know if he ever considered me his client. It was never official, I guess.) Incredibly, Marty actually took my call. I pitched him the idea, knowing he'd think what I already knew, that it was pure genius.
"It's too complicated, it'll never work," Marty said.
"Take it to all the studios," I insisted. "Let them fight over it. It'll drive up the price."
"You're not listening to me. I'm telling you, it's not going to work. No one wants to see a movie about a fat guy lying on top of his dead wife. She's decomposing underneath him? That's disgusting."
"Teenagers will love it!"
He was quiet and I thought he’d hung up.
"Marty? Are you still there?"
"If you want it to sell, think action! I've told you. Action! Where's the action in a fat guy lying on top of his dead wife? It's just...It's ridiculous."
"Yea, but you see, the fat guy, he thinks he's somewhere else. He's lost his mind, Marty. He doesn't realize he's on top of his wife. He killed her, he can't live with it, so he invents someone else to blame. In his mind he's in a room of the house writing a story about two guys--actually the same person, they're alter egos. See, with the two guys, I’m thinking there could be a lot of action. They try and blame the other guy for the disappearance of their wife, even though, deep down, they both know that she's dead and they're each fully to blame. Marty, I'm seeing a lot of fistfights here. Maybe they could chase each other around in cars, we could have a lot of car crashes. God, it's got me excited just thinking about it!"
He was quiet again.
"Marty? Are you still there?"
In a somber voice he said, "Listen, um, Emmett. I want you to stop calling here. I think you understand."
"You're letting me go? Already? Well, what about the short story? I thought you loved it."
"All right, good luck."
Click.
"Marty? Hello?" I thought, Holy Shit, no way... It took fifteen years of rejection to find this guy. It was a huge coup when Marty first accepted my short story. I was ecstatic. I thought I had finally done it! One month later he dumps me without ever having officially accepted me. Over my brilliant idea, no less. I was confused. I was stunned. And like a fool I had already quit my flying job. I had already called the manager on the radio from the plane. I gave him the good news. "I'm going to Hollywood," I shouted into the mike. "I quit! Find another sucker, Stevo, I'm done!"
"What? You're giving your two-weeks notice? Over the radio?" It was the station manager, Steve. "Hold on. Your wife's here. She wants to talk to you."
I thought, Mother of God, what the hell is she doing there? Why isn't she at her office? This was my second wife at the time, Beth Ann. She was an ambitious politician. She held office--six years running--as a Representative in the Alaska State House, but her bright future would put her into the Governor's mansion. Her colleagues all predicted it. She would be their future Governor. But for now she represented this howling district of godforsaken tundra. She was not going to like the news that I was quitting. We were broke. I was planning on having everything ironed out before I told her. I was going to tell her that Marty my agent loved the idea for my movie. In fact, Marty pitched it to the studio and they loved it, too. Six figures against a mil. Do you hear that, honey? We made it, we did it! And you doubted me; you thought I was going to be a loser for the rest of my life!
"Emmett," she sounded worried over the speaker in my headset. "What's going on? You're joking, right? You're not really quitting, are you?
"Honey," I pleaded. "Listen, I'll explain when I get home. It's great. You're gonna love it. My agent, Marty, he thinks it's pure genius."
"Another short story? We need money, Emmett. We can't live on the money you might make on short stories."
"Honey, it's a movie!" I was so excited my voice started cracking. "I'm gonna make a movie!"
She grew quiet and then said, "We'll talk when you get home."
We lived in a very small house, 500 square feet, with no view. It was like a compound. We were surrounded by houses, literally. There's not much to do in Lousetown, a shitty little hole in the middle of nowhere, plunk-dunk, 400 miles from the nearest city, no roads in or out, just like a dirty dark asshole, so there was a lot of drinking going on. The drunks kept me up most of the night. Their shouts for joy and cries of sorrow reverberated off the many walls in our little compound and I garnered little sleep. Then there were the children who had no bedtime either, screaming when they got hurt behind the garbage cans, and shouting and laughing in the pitch of hide-and-go-seek, dark and bedraggled in the wee-wee hours. It was ghastly and I felt sorry for everyone. Beth Ann? She slept through it all. And thank God she did, because if she hadn't, we'd have had a house full of filthy kids and rowdy rank sots to take care of, her heart was so big and soft.
When I got home that night my two boys--5 and 2 at the time--were crying, mouths black and cavernous, screaming at the tops of their lungs fighting over a Power Ranger doll. Plus, our dog Moonshine had left pies of diarrhea like hopscotch all over the carpet. Beth Ann was not in a good mood.
"You are not quitting, Emmett. It's insane. We can't afford it now and you know it."
I just stood there, staring down at my feet. I couldn't bring myself to tell her. Today was my last day. I wasn't going in to work tomorrow. Two-weeks notice? I wasn't going to wait two weeks. (After I'd tied down my plane, I approached Steve in the hangar. He was upset. "You can't quit now!" He kept calling me a little shit. "And after all I've done for you, you fat fuck!")
No more messing around, I had stories to write. I needed to get started. I was almost 34. I had to start living my life; I had to live my dream.
I took the dog for a walk. He dragged his itchy ass to the stop sign and back. I hardly noticed. I kept thinking of the movie.
When I got back home and opened the door, I knew I was in trouble. It was eerily quiet inside the house and Beth Ann was sitting in the Lazy-Boy with a sick smile on her face.
"The kids already in bed?" I asked cautiously.
"Tori came and picked them up." Tori was her sister.
"Oh, what for?" I knew it was coming, I read the mood all right.
She kept staring at me, that sick smile fixed there permanently, never wavering.
"I called Steve," she said happily.
"Oh?" Jesus.
"He said you really did quit," she beamed.
"Well, what the hell, Beth Ann?” She was calling behind my back now? She didn't trust me? I was her husband. "You're calling Steve now? That's a little embarrassing, don't you think?"
"I told him you didn't mean it, that you'll be back at work tomorrow morning."
I was livid.
"The hell I am! You don't control my life, Beth Ann! I've got shit I wanna do. I'm a writer! I need to get going! Christ, I'm almost thirty five years old. I don't have much time left. I'm not wasting my time in airplanes anymore. It’s just not good for me, Beth Ann. I mean, come on. My agent thinks it's a brilliant idea, this movie..." I went into a soft voice and tried to convince her. "Just trust me, you'll see. We could make some serious money, Beth Ann. You gotta trust me."
Her sick smile was unflinching.
She was very happy to add, "And I called your..." she raised her hands and clawed the quotes with her fingers. "...'agent' and he told me he wasn't your...'agent'...anymore."
"Way to go Beth Ann." I felt sick. "You called him at home?"
"That's right. I called him at home. I found his number in your 'writers' directory. And he didn't like it one bit. He was pissed that I bothered him at home. He barely knew who I was. The name 'Monk' just didn't register with him."
Her sick smile was finally fading. "It was totally humiliating,” she continued. “I can't believe you can lie to me like that. He doesn't think your idea was brilliant, he fucking hates it. He started laughing. It's so humiliating, Emmett. God, how could you?! A story about a fat man and he's on top of his wife and she's been dead for days? That's gonna make millions? That was your idea? Are you insane, Emmett? God, all I feel like doing is changing my name back. And if it wouldn't confuse my constituents, I would, too." She shook her head. "I feel like such an idiot, I can't even tell you."
I was deeply hurt and humiliated. I just stood there, feeling the shame spread all over me like prickly heat. God, what were my options? I had my kids, I loved those guys. What was I gonna do?
I did what I always did. I high-tailed it and ran. I figured when I made the money, I'd build that big house in the woods and send for my kids when I could. I cried as I sat in the backseat of the taxicab on my way to the airport. The driver, a Korean immigrant, kept staring at me in the rearview mirror.
"It's rate. No pranes tonight," he offered.
"I'm a pilot," I said, wiping tears. "I'm gonna jumpseat on a freighter."
"No pranes. Tomollow, tomollow."
"Just take me to the airport, please."
My easy ticket as a pilot was my awful job. Working pilots can fly for free. Just show the Captain your company ID and he'll let you on the plane if there's space available. I had no money to speak of, but I still had my company ID. I knew I was going to need it to get to Hollywood or back to Minnesota if Hollywood failed, so earlier in the hangar when I'd quit for good in person and Steve started demanding that I hand the ID over, I lied and told him I'd lost it. "You're a fucking liar, Monk!" Steve fumed. "You're lying right to my fucking face!"
The freighters were old beat-up planes, loud, sputtering DC-6's from the 1950's that hauled mail and freight. They had schedules running throughout the night. I was planning on jumping on one of those. Just wait around at the airport until one showed up.
I kept crying in the backseat of the cab, thinking of the next few years without my kids around. But I knew they were in good hands. Whatever her faults, Beth Ann was an excellent mother, even with her political burden. She had a strong, deep source, a deep well that kept her calm and even-keeled. Or was I just wishing that? At the moment, in the backseat of the cab, things weren't so clear. But suddenly it struck me. Why was I feeling so guilty? I remembered now. It came to me. Seven--no, it was eight years ago--before Beth Ann had won her first election, I was the sole provider. I worked my ass off, never had time to write, flying everyday just so she could go fund-raising for her next campaign. She didn't work, she didn't make a dime. I covered all the bills, I did it all. We had a deal. "You work these two years for me, then I'll do the same for you," she had said cheerfully. She owed me! Two years! I couldn't believe I'd forgotten.
"Pull over," I told the driver. There was a phone booth on the side of the road. I called her. I was livid.
"You remember our deal?! You owe me, Beth Ann!" I shouted into the phone.
"I wanna divorce, Emmett." She was crying. "I can't believe you can leave the family like this."
"What?!" The wind was sucked from my sails. I was dead in the water.
"A divorce? Are you serious?" I didn't want a divorce. I loved this woman, I really did. The big house in the woods I was going to build, I envisioned a room in it for her, too-eventually after things got ironed out. Anyway, how was I going to get my two years she owed me? Divorce meant alimony payments, that I would have to pay? (I'm trying to be cute here.) Still, I feel bad for admitting that. But it's true, even if it does make me sound self-centered.
With alimony payments I'd be strapped for the rest of my life. I had to think of something. Beth Ann kept crying, blubbering. All I wanted to do was go back to the house and hold her, whisper into her ear that everything was going to be all right. I imagined coddling her in the Lazy-Boy, whispering, "After this movie, honey, we won't have to worry about a thing. We'll be rich."
"I'm getting a lawyer," she said. "You should probably think of getting one, too."
"But, honey..." I stammered. "What about your future? Think of politics. A divorce? That's no good." What I meant to say was, Think of the kids. But, on second thought, man, those two...They were so well adjusted, C and V. They've been able to handle everything so well. Nothing ever seems to trouble them. They're always traveling, staying at so many different places. C traveled so much in two years that he racked up 100,000 frequent flier miles at Alaska Airlines. He had his own Frequent Flier's Card as a two-year-old. And V's the same way. They were used to change, constant change. They led a dynamic life, one that I was secretly proud of.
Beth Ann was weeping. She said, "I don't care about my future. I can't believe you, Emmett. How could you just leave us like this?"
"Honey, please, just let me do this movie. I'll just be gone for a few months, then I'll come back." Tears were streaming down my face. I couldn't stand to hear her cry.
Then there was silence.
"Honey? Are you still there?"
She heaved a huge sigh.
"Emmett, I don't think I love you anymore."
"What? What do you mean you don't love me? What are you talking about?"
"I don't know. I've been thinking about it lately. Maybe this is a good thing." Her voice was suddenly clear.
The cab driver started honking. He wasn't going to wait anymore. I waved him off and he drove away (with my duffel bag that I would later have to track down).
"What do you mean you don't love me? Just like that? So sudden?"
"No, I told you. I've been thinking about it lately."
"Well, when did this happen? Since when?"
"You're not happy here, Emmett. Face it, you hate it here. You hate my job, you hate living in Alaska. You just wanna go back and live at the Chicken Coop back in Minnesota. We don't have much of a future together if you think about it."
"Well, what about the kids?! Jesus, Beth Ann! Think about the kids!"
"Oh, come on now. Don't be so melodramatic." See how fast this woman rebounds. It drove me nuts. It made me feel like the weak person, running away with my face in my hands. I was getting all choked up. I could feel the emotions surging up from the darkness, stirring memories, shifting the ugliness.
"This is a good thing," she continued. "You do your movie, it'll be a trial separation. My mom can come up and help with the kids."
"She won't want to live in that tiny house, there's no room for her! This is crazy! What about money, I thought you were concerned about our money situation?" Her parents were very wealthy. There was never any problem with money. The problem was pride. She felt foolish asking for help and sometimes I did too.
"This is what I hate about you, Emmett. It's almost like you prefer the friction, you prefer beating against closed doors. The door's open. I'm telling you, you can do your stupid movie and now you're telling me you don't want to. You're coming up with excuses."
She had a point.
"Oh, that's bullshit, and you know it. I'm doing the movie, I'm making this movie! I'll show you, Beth Ann!"
"And I'm saying that's good. Who knows, maybe it will do something, maybe you will make millions and get famous."
"I never said I wanted to get famous!"
"You will. I know it."