The Escape Artist
To catch a monkey
At my new school, I quickly learned that mischief was currency. Every day, the neighbourhood kids converged at the edge of the forest; a secret meeting spot where plans were whispered and trouble was hunted with religious devotion. It was our ritual: find chaos before chaos found us.
One crisp afternoon, as we lounged under a sky too blue to trust, something flickered across a nearby yard. A blur: small, fast, moving with impossible agility.
“What the hell is that?” I asked, squinting.
A voice from behind a cluster of kids answered without hesitation.
“It’s a monkey.”
That was all the permission I needed. Before common sense could object, I bolted. Instantly, a swarm of kids followed; our footfalls thunderous, our shouts ricocheting down quiet streets as we chased a rogue primate like a pack of feral wolves.
The monkey moved like smoke; slipping through yards, ricocheting off fences, vaulting over bushes as if gravity were optional. We shredded garden beds, sent garbage cans flying, and sprinted through backyards like we were on a mission from God. For once, the weight I carried every damn day fell away.
I was a kid again, chasing the impossible.
After what felt like half an hour of hell-or-high-water sprinting, I spotted it hunched in a woodpile, pretending to be invisible.
“I’ve got him!” I yelled, lungs on fire.
One of the kids, like a magician with poor life choices, produced a crumpled Safeway bag. I lunged, scooped the monkey in one clean swipe, and somehow avoided getting bitten. Triumph surged through me. I hoisted the bag high above my head.
“Got him!”
The street exploded with cheers.
“Where’d it come from?”
“Whose monkey is that?”
“Holy shit, you actually caught it?”
For the first time in forever, I wasn’t the weird kid, the burden, the punching bag. I was a legend.
With the bag swinging triumphantly at my side, I marched home with a parade of kids trailing behind me. My Auntie stood at the door, arms crossed, eyebrow already halfway to heaven.
“What do you have there?” she asked, barely suppressing a smirk.
“It’s a monkey!” I said.
The kids echoed like a poorly rehearsed choir. “It’s a monkey!”
Auntie sighed. “There are no monkeys in B.C. It’s probably a rat.”
“No way! It’s a real monkey!”
Before I could get out the words “DON’T OPEN IT!” she popped the top of the bag.
The monkey erupted like a missile. It launched itself straight into the air onto her head and immediately pissed in her hair.
Time froze. She screamed, and the monkey bolted.
“Oh shit!” I gasped.
A chorus of voices echoed: “OH SHIT!”
Then it was full chaos. The monkey blasted off Auntie’s head and straight into the house, trailing disaster behind it. Lamps toppled. Curtains whipped. Paw prints appeared in places no living creature should be able to reach. We tore through the house in pursuit; shouting, stumbling, slamming doors.
Eventually, we cornered the little bastard atop the fridge, glaring at us with the smugness of a creature who knew damn well it had won. It took all of us working together, and a beat-up birdcage to capture it.
The escapade made the news, and news spread like wildfire.
That evening two very bemused apologetic strangers arrived. The monkey, it turned out, belonged to an exotic pet collector down the block. They handed me fifty dollars as thanks; half reward, half admiration.
Not bad for catching a monkey with a Safeway bag.
For one wild afternoon, I wasn’t the kid carrying the world on his back. I wasn’t the house servant, the target, the one walking on eggshells. I was a hero. A story worth retelling. A legend.
Even if it only lasted a day.