MONO ISSUE 1 PDF FLIPBOOK - Flipbook - Page 26
eczema. She’s mostly a hairdresser, but she took some classes on movie make-up artistry at the
community college, and she’s a wonder with foundation.
“June,” Mr. Taylor repeats, and I can see his despair lift a tiny bit. “Yes, okay. You do that, Wally.
Maybe we can salvage this thing.”
“Right away, sir,” I say as I zip out the door and pull my cell from my pocket. June is number one
on my speed-dial.
When she answers, I can tell she has a client in the chair, but she tells me no problem, she’ll be
there in less than twenty. She’s dedicated like that. I picture her kicking some old biddy out of the
hair salon, grabbing her make-up kit, and high tailing it out of there. Just that thought lifts my
attitude in a positive direction.
I pop outside through an emergency door so I don’t have to pass through ground zero again, and
clean air sweetens my nose. It is a lovely day away from the destruction of the Primate House. I’m
a little worried that paying customers will be disappointed with a singular monkey in a display
designed for sixty, but the fresh air gives me hope. Maybe we can dress some of the custodians up
as larger apes, to fill in the population. I’ll have to remember to run that by June. I wonder briefly
if we have any midgets on staff. Little people, I remind myself to say when I ask. June appears in a
flurry of estrogen and hair products. She looks adorable in her hairstylist smock and blue jeans, a
blond curl dancing around her left eye. She sees me and makes a beeline.
“What have we got?” she says. June is ready and raring to go. I like that about her.
“Disaster in the monkey house,” I say. “A couple of the friendlier marmosets created too much
friction and whoomp! Up they went. Took out all the residents but one. Need you to fix him up.”
June looks serious. “Take me to him,” she says.
I escort her to the Primate House and let her inside, and then leave her to do her magic. I walk
over to the camel exhibit to think. I do my best thinking there – there’s something about the
camels that relaxes me and puts me in a productive frame of mind. It’s the humps, I think. In the
middle of my thinking and hump-staring, I come to a realisation: perhaps I can turn this tragedy to
my advantage. I’ve been playing second fiddle to Mr. Taylor for almost twenty years. Maybe
there’s a way that I can use this monkey explosion to propel myself into Mr. Taylor’s squeaky
chair. A small wave of disloyalty washes over me at this thought, but I tell myself that Mr. Taylor
has never really been happy here. I’d be doing him a favour by knocking him out of his position. He
can retire to a nice cabin somewhere, and not worry about the detonative properties of animals in
captivity and all the myriad decisions that come with running a state-of-the-art zoo.
My cell phone buzzes and it’s June. She wants me to come see her progress. She thinks I’ll be
quite pleased. I enter the Primate House and immediately notice the odours of blood and monkey
are gone. The custodians have been busy with the lemon-scented cleaning products, and it now
smells like a new laundromat. They were only doing their jobs, but they have completely removed
the monkey essence that defines a monkey house. You can’t smell even a hint of faeces. I‘ll have
to do something about that. I find June inside one of the caged exhibits, putting the final touches
on our little victim. He is dry and blood-free, but I notice that his lips are a high-gloss red, and his
eyelashes are longer than I remember. I decide to let that pass. Most of the customers won’t
notice anyway.
“He looks wonderful!” I say, and June smiles proudly. Then I tell her I have some important
business I must see to with Mr. Taylor, and could she maybe get the macaque to defecate while
I’m gone, as the exhibit is smelling too disinfectant-y. I suggest some high-powered laxatives.
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