The Howler Monkey

The Howler Monkey lives inside of me.  Always has.  I maintain, that at this point, he lives in a cage, put there from years of customer service.  He can't be trusted out in public in my line of work. 
He's pissed.  The cage that holds him is strong, padlocked, and he has a noose around his neck to try and keep in him line.  All of it.  He didn't realize that he was being put in this position, didn't realize it for years, but one day he woke up and realized that he hadn't been out in a while.  At first he just thought about it, thought, Hey, this sucks, being in this cage.  Then he tried to get out.  He shrieked, rattled the cage, flung poo, but he was in tight.
I don't claim to speak monkey, but I do.  I heard him in there, first just rattling his cage. but then he started speaking to me.  At first it was almost polite, a gentle, Hey, can I get out of here, please.  Then he got nasty, was cussin' at me, mostly along the lines of Let me the FUCK out of here, let me out, let me out!!! 
He was quiet for a while, realized he was kinda stuck there, but as is his nature, he couldn't sit still for that. 
It started one day with a low howl, always in the background, a long drawn out buzz that eventually became like white noise for me, and it made me sleepy.  Then there was more.  A shake to the soul, so to speak.  Banging and pounding and screaming, he wanted out.  He made promises that he would behave if I just let him out, just a little bit, to see what it felt like.  He tried to reason with me but monkey logic doesn't fit in with the nine to five grind.   He tried to tell me all the things that I was missing, all the wonders of the world that were at my fingertips, that I was turning my back on and I was being foolish.  Talk talk talk.  Now he is hoarse, his neck rubbed raw from the noose, blisters on his hands from rattleing the cage and jacking off in the corner to try and sooth the soul.  I can hear him whispering in there, randomly picking at his ass and desperately flinging poo because he can't give up. Let me out of here you fucker and so help me I will rip your fucking throat out.  So help me, you will pay for this.  If I ever get out of here you will pay.
The only other thing he really does is reach out from between the bars and grabs my spine and shakes me to the base of my brain.  It's a friggin' jolt, man.  I never know when he is going to do it, and all of a sudden there it is, a earth shattering slam, altering my reality and making me question my existence. 
The hairy bastard must have gotten ahold of some speed or something lately as the jolts are getting stronger and more frequent.  My reality is getting hazier and funkier and more (and less) less realistic.  More real, less real.  I think he has found the mainline to my heart, blocking off my arteries and depriving my brain of oxygen.  I am getting delirious.
I try to soothe the monkey.  I spank him. I offer him whiskey.  I give him vidodin and sleeping pills.  Somehow they don't have the desired affect.  They seem to have the opposite affect, instead of making him mellow, they somehow remind him even more that he is in a cage, has been in a cage for a long, long time.  The cage gets weaker the more I offer him.  I try to pretend he doesn't exist.  I pretend he is someone else, just for a while.  I act like everyone has a monkey and I ain't no different and everyone else has their monkey in control, and who am I to let my monkey out, to run free, in this world. 
Sometimes I even pretend my monkey is free, free to do what monkeys do.  I pretend that the things I do are wild and free, my monkey is just a greyback, a gorrila in the mist, and just doesn't have the energy to swing with the pretenders.  I wonder about them, the pretenders, the ones who seem to have never had their monkeys in cages.  Never seem to have to worry about what their monkey is going to come up with next.  Their monkeys are full of energy and a natural sight to behold.  I see these people and wonder how they have their monkeys in control, so well behaved in public.  How can they go out and do that, day after day, night after night, annd their monkeys recover so quickly... they get back up and fling some poo again at the next opportunity and don't seem the worse for wear.
Is my monkey so different?  Is he so unwell behaved and incorrigible?  Does my monkey really cause so much pain and suffering that he needs to be locked up?  It isn"t comfortable having him locked up, wouldn't it be better to set him free?  Perhaps there would be some bloodshed, at first, some tears and laughter, but wouldn't he (and I) be happier in the long run?  He would wear himself out shortly, I bet... get back to being a well behaved and exciting member of society, life of the party, as they say. 
Haven't I just imagined the damage that could be done?  I seem to remember times when he was free... It wasn't so bad, was it?  Sure, grown men cried, women screamed in fury, there was much unhappiness, and there was love.  I remember my monkey being somewhat level headed, noone ever came to any physical harm... 
I feel sad, and oh so bad, that things have come to this.  And truth be told, noone ever told me to lock my bad boy away, it was just something I thought I had to do, something that I had seen other people do... and customer service, there is always that.  Can't be flinging poo when you are representing the people that give you the kool-aid. 

"Hey white boy! Come here, I'm gonna rehabilitate your skinny ass!"

"Hey white boy!  Come here, I'm gonna rehabilitate your skinny ass!"
Oh shit, oh shit... What the fuck am I doing down here, downtown, in the dark, all alone except for the crazy dude sitting in the bus shelter screaming things at me?  Well, he ain't really screaming things at me, he is just screaming.  At least I don't think he is screaming at me.
I find myself downtown most every morning, 4th and Royal Brougham, waiting for my 3rd bus of the day.  Now it is dark, often cold and wet, and I feel alone.  I see the cars driving by, north and south, but I can't see anyone in them.  I see the train go by, I see busses that are not mine running by without stopping.  I occasionally see people go walking by, some that you can tell are productive members of society, holding jobs and not screaming.  I see other people that are not what I would call productive members.  They are carrying their belongings with them and for some reason often seem to be injured.  And I see the violent crazy shouting dude.
I like to think that there are different levels of insanity, and lord knows I have personal experience in a few of them.  I prefer to believe that there is a level of insanity that puts people in a good place; rainbows and butterflies and happy meadows with a trout filled stream.  This level is pleasant and even if you end up talking to yourself and waving your hands around for emphasis it ain't a bad thing.  Well apart from the insanity. 
But I know that many of the people that I see are not in a good place, and I can't even begin to imagine what it is they are feeling (seeing or thinking).  Crazy shouty dude is one of those. 
The first time I really became aware of him he was quite benign, just sitting there on the curb towards the back of the parking lot.  I don't remember him talking, but he did get up and sit back down, get up and sit back down, several times.  The next time I really became aware of him he was sitting back there in the parking lot and his arm was moving around oddly.  At first I was scared he was sitting back there jacking off, which I did not want to experience.  But I had to look, and it wasn't anything as pleasant as that.  He was swinging his arm up and cracking himself in the face, over and over.  It wasn't a nonstop battering ram of punches that he was throwing at his face.  He would punch himself in the nose, stop for a second, then punch himself in the nose again.  Then stop.  Then go.  Hard... completely violent.
I was concerned, you know, and thinking that as a good citizen I should probably do something about this, report it to someone.  But I didn't. 
I saw him doing it again, this time he was much closer.  I had been standing there, waiting, and he came walking up.  He looked at me but I don't know if he saw me or if he did and didn't know that I was real.  Anyhow, he sat down in the shelter, put his stuff down, leaned forward and slammed his fist into his nose.  Hit, pause, hit, pause, hit... I could see blood streaming down his face, and could tell (somehow) that not all of it was fresh.  It is all a bit blurry now, but he may have been talking.
I know he talks, and the talk is worse than just the violence.  Oh, the things he says.  Right out loud...  I know what he is saying, it is usually along the same lines every time... One of the things he says something about rehabilitating my ass.  I don't know if he is telling someone this, or repeating something he was told.  I believe it is the second.  There are a couple other things he says that I can't repeat, at least not here... these things are really not meant for polite public consumption.  Dirty, nasty, evil, mean things... things I would never imagine saying no matter how mad or unhappy I was.  Things vile and racist. 
Sometimes he says these things and punches himself, sometimes he just punches himself, and, of course, sometimes he just says things.  Did I mention he does this loudly?  He does.
I am not the only one that has experienced this of him.  I have, at times, had company that didn't frighten me, that was there to experience these things.  I have seen him doing it as people walk by, people that would be optimally offended at some of the things he say.  No-one ever does anything about it. 
Once, just once, he was doing these things, and I was standing about 20 feet away.  It was raining and I was standing beneath a tree, trying to stay dry.   I pretend I don't see him, and usually have my music up just loud enough that I can hear him saying something, but I can't tell what.  I don't look at him, except every once in a while, outta the corner of my eye, just to make sure he hasn't moved or started doing something new.  This time though, I wasn't watching, and this time, though, he actually got up and came walking up to me.  I saw some movement, and there he was, about 5 feet away, just looking at me.  He didn't say anything, was just looking, then he turned around and went back to his seat and sat down.  I was freakin' terrified...
What the fuck am I doing down here?  Why here?  I don't have to catch my bus here, and honestly, sometimes, when I have the time, I do walk down around the corner to the busway to catch my bus... but I don't usually.  I could go farther downtown, way farther, if I wanted to... But the same things that bother me, the same things that frighten me and make me wonder, are the same things that keep me coming to the same stop.  It's dark, and it's quiet, and when the crazy dude ain't there, I am usually alone.  I get the chance to feel dirty and crazy.  I get to pretend that I am a little something more than what I am, although I don't know what...  Something about being like my hero's, Buckowski, Burroughs, Miller, Kerouac, Thompson... experiencing the other side of life, apart from the white collar customer service soaked existence that saps my soul.  I get to tell people that I do these things, that I have to take 3 buses to get to work, that it takes me 2 hours to make the journey... I stand in the dark and smoke.  I sometimes have a bottle in my backpack... I think about things and imagine that I could take a turn to the left or right and go and do something irresponsible.  I could disappear or find myself some intrigue that makes for good conversation.  But something ultimately that would stop me from going any further.  I get to have this little fantasy for 15 or 20 minutes a day. 
The threat of being beaten up by some insane bum is not exciting.  I would be powerless against him, this I know.  I could alternately get mugged by some of the other bums I know are out and about.  Any number of unhappy things could happen to me and I am torn.  Sometimes the insanity that I like to imagine, the happy flowers and horny unicorns, take the form of being on the other side of the tracks.  I am not so insane that I don't recognize that I want people to think I am a little nuts for living this way.  I don't know what it is that I want them to see though.  It isn't respect.  They don't need to think I am tough or admire me for the sacrifice I am making in doing this... More likely than not I need to be seen as different, not like them, not like you... out of the ordinary.  “There
he goes. One of God's own prototypes. Some kind of high powered mutant
never even considered for mass production. Too weird to live, and too
rare to die.” as HST said.