sj mcmahon writes

Rainy Days and Monkeys

My back story is of no merit. It’s what you would expect from a nobody. I have spent the past few years travelling.  A seemingly endless journey. Not to exotic locations as you may imagine.  No such pleasures for me. I have sought my moves between grim, drained post-industrial towns. There I have gained low paid employment in the dullest of roles. A factotum of the lowest order.
With my last move I had found temporary employment, here. Working in a drab little café, in a dreary town. The clientele hate being here as much as I did. Yet still they come and still I serve them. They drink the stewed tea and machine generated boiled coffee. They gratefully eat the greasy overdone fodder that we prepare.
It rains a lot in this town. A muddy brown river fills every gutter. If you look closely you can see globules of oil in the water. On occasion these will burst to release a fetid sulphurous stink, that stings the nostrils. There is an unpleasant metallic tang to the air. If you stay long enough though, you get used to the smell and the taste.
Unemployment, breeds boredom and poverty. All three are rife in this town. The crime rate had rocketed since I landed here and illegality was held to be the best career prospect on the table. I should have counted myself luck to have a genuine paid job.
I didn’t.
The day it all changed commenced as uninspiringly as any other.

As usual the windows of the café were dirtied with tan rivulets of rainwater.  The regular feeders from the bottom of the food chain came and went.  Shuffling past me, they thrust sticky coins in to my hands. In return I served them indigestible slop. They all seemed, if not quite happy, then at least, indifferent to the food. It was as much as I could ask for and this occasion was just another cheery day in the sunshine café.
I had spent some time musing on the patchwork of stains on the countertop, when the door groaned another entrance. The relentless rain had long since warped the wooden frame. Now the door unhappily announced each opening, with a low and mournful grumble.
An unexcepted blast of heat rushed in from the dull dank street. It accompanied a new diner. Even our regular chompers felt the surprise of it.  Their heads swivelled to eyeball this unknown patron.
Heavily tanned skin and a broad grin set within greyed short hair and whiskers, greeted our tired eyes. The newcomer wore a black three-piece suit. The cloth had an unusually deep sheen to it. Like tilting an inkwell and peering in. The gold of a watch chain passed across his chest below a white crisp buttoned up shirt. He wore no tie. When I questioned this some time later in our acquaintance, he barked that, he, was no-one’s corporate slave.  
“Good morning all” the stranger bellowed heartily.
The usual clientele, bored already, barely acknowledged him. They returned to grind their chops around the remains of their stodgy meals.
The stranger gestured towards an empty table and I nodded my affirmation for him to sit.
“What can I get you?” I asked.
He had seated himself comfortably and turned his gaze, full beam, upon me.
“Well, now there is an interesting question.” He replied raising one eyebrow. “A friendly welcome would not go a miss. A hale and hearty salutation for me to join the happy crowd in this fair establishment.”
Clearly, he was trying to be funny. Couldn’t he see the place, these people? There was no joy here. Hospitality was served at a bare minimum.
“Sir you are of course more than welcome to eat here, but I can’t share your view that this is a place of merriment. I have to be here, I work in the miserable place. These other people are here out of habit and let me assure you they are all mightily sick of it. As am I.  Apologies sir but we only serve food here. There are no side orders of fun to be had.”
The stranger continued to grin back at me, evidently unflinching in his ignorance of the type of town and establishment he had entered.
“All you monkeys like a good pity party, don’t you? You all love a good wallow.”
I had thought to have heard it all, but was taken aback by his words.  
“Excuse me. I may be a little down but I am not wallowing. And how dare you call me a monkey. How incredibly rude.”
“Now, now. Don’t get your knickers in a twist. I meant nothing by it. It’s a turn of phrase, that’s all. Look, all humans see themselves as somehow superior to the rest of life. The truth is that man is a primate. Species wise I mean. There’s nothing wrong with being an ape or a monkey, or being called one either. Monkeys are highly evolved without being the selfish beasts humans have become. You should be thankful to be classed alongside them.”
I was unsure how to take this. Maybe this old man had mental health problems. No reason to be discourteous with me, but it could explain his attitude.
He continued.  
“I just see the bigger picture when it comes to humankind. I don’t see what the problem is. You are primates, monkeys are primates. You share a common ancestor. Why be insulted? if anyone has the right to be upset it’s the monkeys, not humans. You lot are by far the worst species.”
He talked as if he was an outside observer. Did he not consider himself to be human too? He may have a point about the human condition but he had clearly lost his mind.
“Very interesting point of view sir. “
I thought it best to humour him.
“I say it how I see it. The name is Scratch by the way”, he replied, pulling out a box of playing cards from his pocket. These he placed gently on the table. He patted them with some affection before turning his attention back me.
“Okay then. I think I’m ready to order.”
The table filled up with dishes, as I brought him order after order. It appeared that he reveled in the flavour of the greasy muck we served here. After much lip smacking and affirmation sounds, he final sat back, evidently sated. He wiped away a greasy sheen from his lips and said,
“Fancy a little fun? Let’s play a card game. If you win, I pay. If you lose, I get the meal for free. What do you say?”
He lightly tapped one finger on the box of cards resting on the table. I was torn. I was just an employee here and it was not for me to say who paid or did not. But then again, here was an opportunity to inject a modicum of excitement in to an otherwise gloomy day. Such chances are rare in this town and rarer still in the life of a no-hoper. I decided, as long as my boss didn’t find out then I couldn’t get sacked.
I drew in a deep breath, the better to blurt out my decision.
“Okay Mr Scratch, what’s the game?”
“One of the classics. Three-Card Monte. You may know it as Find the Lady, or in this case, Find the Monkey.”
He picked up the cards and fanned them deftly with one hand. In place of the usual king, queen and jack cards were illustrations of grinning primates.  
“Choose your lady and two number cards.”
I selected the monkey queen of hearts and picked two spade cards, on the off chance that I would be able to detect some sort of difference on their rear.
Mr Scratch flipped the three cards face down on the table. I was disappointed to see that all three had the same back panel. A repeating pattern of a tiny clenched monkey’s paw.
“Watch the queen.” He ordered.
With increasing speed, he deftly swapped the cards back and forth. Finally, his hands and the cards came to rest. Slowly his head tilted towards me, his eyes upon me.
“Find the monkey.” He commanded.
I had been sure to focus my attention on the moving cards and was certain of her location. With one finger I indicated the middle card.
Mr Scratch slid a finger nail under and flicked the card face up. The grinning face of the monkey queen greeted us.
“Well done, very good for a first timer.”
I have to admit, there was a surge of excitement. A new feeling for a slow soul like myself.  
“Best of three?” he said.
I nodded, eager to continue this indulgence. After all, it was such a simple game. So easy to win.
The cards were reset and Mr Scratch went through the same performance. This time, I lost.
The surge of anger that hit me, dropped to my belly and stayed there. Anger was no stranger to me, but neither was it a friend. Still, best to keep things in check. After all, it was to be best of three.
He dealt the cards once more.
The third time, I won.
“Well there’s no denying it. You beat me fair and square.” He said.
He pulled two banknotes from his wallet and threw them on the table. 
“Same time tomorrow?” he said, as he rose to leave.  
“Yes. You are most welcome.” I gushed.
He paused and grinned at me. It gave me an odd creeping feeling but I let it pass. He was just a weird old guy that I had got the better of. It wasn’t often I could call myself winner. Today was a special day.
Over the next weeks he returned daily. We played the game each time. At first, I won more than I lost. But as the days wore on it seemed my victories were behind me. I lost with increasing frequency.
Each time I had to allow him to leave without paying for the vast quantities of food he had eaten. I had begun to worry that it might end up costing me my job. Much as I hated it, I did need the money.  I decided to broach the subject with him.
“A body’s gotta eat.” He responded.
“Yes, but me employer has started to notice the disparity between food eaten and the takings.”
Mr Scratch looked uninterested and said, “I guess we should stop the game then.”
“No!” I cried out, panicked by the thought. “I mean, let’s not be hasty. Surely we can still play.”
His mouth twitched at the corners.
“I suppose there is a way – “
“Yes?”
“Well, we could play for, energy.”
I must have looked as puzzled as I felt. He continued.
“I’m an old man. I don’t have very much get up and go these days. How’s about you share a little of yours?”
“Now hang on a minute, I’m not in to any funny business.”
He laughed, shaking his head.
“No nothing like that. I can just take energy from being here with you. I can take small amounts. Call it your life-force. Your essence. A young’un like you, why you won’t even notice it’s gone. What do you say?”
It was the oddest proposition anyone had ever put to me. If he was crazy enough to think that he could somehow drag my lifeforce from me, just by sitting here, who was I to stop him?
“What’s in it for me?” I said. “Apart from not being fired.”
He reached in to his breast pocket. A small silver flask was pulled free. Pushing back the tails of his jacket and rolling up his sleeves he carefully opened the flask. The cap was then filled to the brim with an amber tinted liquid.
“This, my friend, is a shot of pleasure.”
He used two fingers to slowly pushed the cap towards me.
“Drink.”
 The small silver cap shone at me from the drab table top. I was never a drinker. Or a chance taker. Yet this old man has already brought more colour to my nothing of a life than I had ever know. What was the harm in one small mouthful?
So, I drank.
It was like a lungful of mountain air, the lush dappled greenery of a deep forest, a childhood sledge ride down a snowy hill, the sun on your face on a carefree afternoon and a lover’s embrace. It was Christmas, all your birthdays and Halloween rolled into one. It was all and everything and yet it was still more. 
Deeply delicious. Its touch left me almost as soon as its rush had hit. I desperately wanted more. Plus, I needed to beat the game. I knew I had it in me. Everyone’s luck changes, doesn’t it?
We played on. Each day the game was won and lost. Mr Scratch would breeze in to the café with increasing vigour. Shaking the rain from his overcoat, he would exclaim how beautiful the day was, how good it was to be alive in this little town. I, could not find a scrap of will or vigour to share his joy or appreciation.

Now, I do not know if I am tired of life, or tired of this town. I really can’t say. I just haven’t the energy to think it through. These days, getting out of bed and staggering to work is almost too much to bear. I have to though. Mr Scratch will be waiting for me, with the game and that flask of delectable nectar to tease me.
The thought of it makes me tremble. Not with fear you understand, but with sweet anticipation. I have found something to live for, even if I feel like I am dying. I must play on.
I no longer serve at the counter in the café. I can’t muster the strength for that anymore. I simply sit and wait for him to arrive with his pack of cards. He bounces through the door these days. The relentless rain dampens neither his clothes nor his spirits. There’s a glow about him. It makes my eyes hurt, so I have to squint at him and the cards.
There is hearty laughter on his part as he embraces me. I can barely move my arms from my sides. Better to conserve my energy for the card trick.
This time, Mr Scratch says the game will be different. This time he has a special place for me go, whether I win or lose. He says I deserve it, now I’m a somebody. I feel even less of a person since I started sharing my essence with him, but I don’t say anything.  I just smile and listen.
He’ s telling me it can be hot and dusty there. Noisy and strong smelling. That it is to be endured. It’s not to everyone’s taste and not all monkeys are invited. Only the lost ones like me. The special monkeys.
Mr Scratch says there will be no more rainy days where I am going.

By SJ McMahon 2019 ©