Dear Writerly Rhododendrons,
I have two stories for you today. One has been workshopped online and submitted to a few places with lukewarm responses, and I'm just not in the mood to send it out anymore. The other one, "Bananas," is more recent and also workshopped, but in an in-person workshop. I think it's missing just a little bit something, but I think it's funny, so here it is.
Until next time, whenever I think of something interesting to say. It might take a while.
-Matt
"The Last Wedding"
The news came three months before the wedding. His wife and daughter considered postponing, told him that the time for celebration could wait, that the planning would keep everyone busy and he deserved to have peace, even if for a little while. With the smile that he had employed throughout the ordeal, he said no; it was because he only had a short time left that he wanted to see it through. He would see his only daughter get married. The sickness might take his life, but it wouldn't take this.
Invitations went out. Planning resumed. Everyone went through their routines, the only thing keeping them going was the serenity he seemed to exude. He told them he accepted his fate, had made peace with it, and once that happened, each new day was a gift.
The day came. Family and friends came from all parts of the country, some from farther away. They had decided to have the wedding at the house because it was getting hard for him to get around. Flower arrangements gracefully adorned the backyard. A live jazz band played in the background. A multi-tiered pearl white cake was on display, waiting to be cut. It was perfect and he felt his eyes moistened, but held back fearing his tears be mistaken for sadness.
On that beautiful Spring day, he almost looked healthy if you hadn't known how fit he used to be. For the first month after the news, he was still able to run everyday. Now he used a cane, although he managed without one on this day. The family had kept the news from everyone, but the guests seemed to know something was wrong, even if they didn't know what. They saw his wife paying more attention to him, frequently by his side. They saw his enigmatic smile, but it seemed different, weaker. His clothes fit loosely on him and his gait was unsteady. Whispers and rumors cast a pallor on an otherwise joyous day.
This wasn't lost on the father of the bride. He saw the strange looks. He saw conversations take on a different tone when he got close. He noticed all this and it just wouldn't do. This was unacceptable.
When everyone was seated in the yard for the ceremony, he took a microphone and welcomed everyone to their house. He beamed charismatically, walked through the crowd, patting friends on the back, delivering corny jokes. For a moment, everything felt normal again. The gloom lifted. People smiled. Some laughed. When he was done, he went back to his seat and his wife patted his hand and told him he was wonderful.
When it came time for the father-daughter dance, he took his daughter by the hand and told her she looked beautiful and how proud he was of her. Then the music came on, a much more exuberant number than expected, and he broke out into a lively rendition of the Macarena. The crowd roared and clapped in approval as the new bride looked on with a mixture of amusement and embarrassment. After the applause subsided, he signaled to his co-conspirator, the DJ, to put on the planned music. As father and daughter swayed on the dance floor, she laughed and called him a loser.
The dance floor opened and his new son-in-law took over. Partner-less, he motioned for his wife to join him. It took some convincing, but she could never resist him. As they danced, arms intertwined, she leaned in close and whispered in his ear. Please don't die, she said, choking back tears. She lifted her head from his shoulder. He looked at her, smiled, and kissed her on the head.
Later that night in the shower, when everyone had gone, a heavy weight fell from his shoulders. As the water cascaded onto his face, he thought of how grateful he was to have been able to walk his daughter down the aisle, but his mind wandered. He was prepared for death, but not for what he would miss. He thought of his wife's touch. He thought of the smell of grandchildren. Strength eluding him, tears began to flow, mixed with water and went down the drain. He could hold back no longer. He would let it all out, because he would not do it when someone could see him.
His wife asked him how he was when he came into the bedroom. He smiled, kissed her gently on the lips, and told her everything was fine.
"Bananas"
Cable access television show host is surely not something one aspires to be, least of all Sonny. No, this was a stepping stone for him, merely another rung on his scale to the top of the show biz ladder. He has too much of a talent, he told himself, to be wasting away in his podunk fucking town. He was made for better things, like the Armani suit he wore, not that anyone has the courtesy to notice. It was an extravagance, yes, but you dress for the career you want, not the one you have.
"Sarah," Sonny said sweetly to the production assistant, "could you please move that a little?" The bright lights in the cramped studio were blinding. He felt like he needed sunscreen. "Thanks." But it hadn't been moved much, still felt like he was baking underneath a fucking tanning bed. He smiled, showed his happy face, because you never let them see you angry. The big break could come at any time and angry is unattractive.
Sonny was about to sweat through his clothes. He peeked into a small mirror he kept behind the desk, a last minute check before going live, grimacing when he noticed a wrinkle around the corner of his left eye that he hadn't seen before. He loosened his perfectly knotted tie and hoped he wouldn't have to suffer incompetence much longer. He would need hiring and firing control when he hit it big. It was the surest way to guarantee quality.
I can't be too far now, Sonny thought as he stared into the camera lens. Two years on this damn talk show had come and gone, but he finally had a good guest. He'd lost count of the number of times he had to sit across from every Tom, Dick, and Sally in town trading inane pleasantries. Sometimes they didn't even have the class to dress decently. Television was no place for sweatpants!
Someone from the newly opened zoo was coming by with animals. They did it all the time on Conan and Leno. Audiences ate that shit up and Sonny thought that it might just be enough to get noticed, to get a foot in the door.
"Sonny. You're on in one, two..." said Sarah, then held up three fingers. The camera's light glowed red, signaling the start of the Sonny's live broadcast to anyone who just happened to tune to Channel 73 and had absolutely nothing better to do with their time.
"Hello again," Sonny said, smiling his expensive porcelain Veneer smile. "We have a great show for you today. Graham Singer is here from the Middleborough Zoo with some our friendlier, furrier friends."
A man in his twenties—a good ten years younger than Sonny—in a T-shirt and jeans walked out. He had a strong jawline that Sonny craved, the kind that stars were made of. Sonny noted to himself to focus the interview on the animals. No sense in giving the man any more screen time than necessary.
In the man's hand was a rope leash. On the end of it was a sheep.
Oh God, Sonny thought. What is this? A fucking petting zoo? Where were the big ticket animals? Bears, lions. That's what people wanted to see.
He clenched the muscles in his jaws, his lips locked into a perma-smile. "Graham," he said, taking his hand in a firm grip. "Nice to meet you. Who's this we have here today?"
"This is Cindy. She's two."
"Beautiful, just beautiful," Sonny said and groaned inwardly as the man spewed his litany of sheep factoids. They're great in a stew, he thought. How about that for a fact?
The sheep was followed by an anteater (not exactly cuddly and endearing) and an owl, that Sonny discerned wasn't of the stuffed variety because it blinked. Resigned to the underwhelming turnout, he said, "And do you have anyone else here with us today?"
"We sure do," Graham said. "Bring Jeremiah out," he said to someone offstage.
A woman carried out...a monkey and places it on Dr. Dolittle's lap.
"So, this is Jerry. He's a capuchin monkey," he said and Sonny began to sweat. Of all animals, why did it have to be a goddamn monkey? The little beast climbed onto Graham's shoulder, started picking through his hair.
"What, uh, what is he doing?"
"He's grooming me. It's a social act, keeps them clean."
Clean, Sonny thought. Don't monkeys throw shit at one another? That's not very clean, is it? He wondered what would happen if it threw some of its digested breakfast at him. Can they show that on television?
Then he noticed the monkey stop and stare at him with its beady eyes. He resisted a shudder.
"What else can you tell us about this little guy?" Sonny was on autopilot now, too wrapped up in his own thoughts. And there they were again, those beady little eyes, staring at him. Those cold, murderous eyes. He felt a tremor course its way through his body, settling into a tick under his right eye. What was it looking at? Monkeys can be vicious, many times stronger than an adult man. One tore a woman apart just last week in Connecticut. He should have insisted on security when the producers had refused.
Sonny was busy contemplating his death by monkey when he realized that there was a banana in his hand. "If you just hold that," he heard Graham say," and Jerry will..."
What Sonny would later describe as a savage attack went more like this: The capuchin hopped onto the desk, looked uncertainly at Graham and then reached for his treat. Sonny's natural reaction—as anyone's would be—was to drop the banana, jump back, and yell, "Get that fucking monkey off of me!"
Silence descended on the studio. Sonny looked up to find the camera's red light is still on and Sarah's mouth frozen open.
His reaction video was replayed on every network entertainment and news show. The "Monkey Dude" viral video amassed fifteen million views in its first week online.
Sonny got his wish. He became famous.
