Note: This story is adapted from my (hopefully) upcoming work The Ivory Asylum.  It takes place in 2001, during my final year at Duke University.

The National Institutes of Heath had sponsored a large-scale study of monkeys to see what happened when they were put on a long-term diet high in fat and sugar.  Since our lab was so interested in this, we would often get the brains of these monkeys to examine.  One of my responsibilities was to make the sixty-mile drive to Winston Salem to collect these organs.  After chauffeuring organs for a while, Brian and I were asked to pick up and transport a live monkey from the colony at Wake Forest to our facility at Duke for necropsy.  The next morning, we piled into Brian’s Geo Metro, and arrived at the monkey colony around noon.  My previous work had not taken me near an animal enclosure, and what we found wasn’t what I had expected.  The primate habitat was a slick-fenced enclosure, filled with topped trees about twelve feet high.  Perhaps twenty monkeys sat in these trees, chattering and lounging.  A solitary employee led us out to the main building adjacent to the enclosure.  I assumed we would be issued some sort of tranquilizer gun to stun the monkey, and was surprised when all we were offered were two butterfly nets on long poles.  “What should we put the monkey in?” asked Brian, displaying more prescience than I.  For that, we were given a battered kitty carrier, the sort you would find in a vet’s office.  I had my first misgivings.

Brian and I were led into the enclosure.  Our guide pointed out the monkey we were to capture and, without a bit of advice on how to do so, turned on his heel and walked smartly back into the air conditioning.  Brian and I circled the monkey like two primitive gladiators.  The monkey cackled and shrieked, easily evading our feeble attempts to ensnare him.  Ten minutes later, we were no closer to snaring the beast.  No doubt slower than our hunter-gatherer ancestors, we evolved a strategy where I would flush our prey in a particular direction and Brian would intercept him as he leapt to an adjacent branch.  As I pressured the monkey from his perch, Brian made his move.  In a smooth, fluid motion, he netted the monkey.  The arc of the net sent the monkey crashing to the ground, trapped underneath the net and momentarily stunned.  “How’s that for using an opposable thumb?!?” Brian exclaimed, flush with victory.  As we eased the monkey into the carrier, we became aware of interlopers.  The other monkeys in the enclosure had descended from their perches and had formed a circle around us.  There was no more chattering and barking from them.  We stood, the elation of the catch seeping away as we realized the precariousness of our new predicament.  Several of the monkeys advanced a step.  Instinctively, Brian and I went into a back-to-back defensive position.

The pending battle for supremacy between man and ape was subverted by a timely rescue.  The lone employee barged outside, ringing a cowbell that proved sufficient to scatter the monkey’s formation.  Captive in hand, we returned triumphantly to Brian’s car to return to Durham.  Our passenger was far less enthusiastic about the trip.  The monkey pitched a terrific fit, screeching and shaking the cage in the small backseat of the car.  Midway through the trip back, our passenger suddenly quieted.  I’d turned to Brian to comment on the sudden lack of noise when I felt tiny hand touch my shoulder.  The monkey had picked the cage lock (ostensibly designed for deterring cats), and was now loose in the backseat of a Geo Metro going seventy miles per hour on interstate 85.  Brian glanced over his shoulder and immediately panicked.  “Get him back in his cage!  Kill him!”

The monkey screamed at us menacingly.  He was angry, probably justifiably.  If he got past me we were going to crash and I was going to die in an inexpensive two-door sedan.  The monkey was only about ten pounds, but he had tenacity and desperation on his side.  He crouched and sprang at me.  I’m not proud of this, but I did the only thing I could do: throw a punch at the monkey.  I connected.  Hard.  The creature was stunned, and crumpled into the backseat.  Before the monkey could recover, I grabbed him and tossed him unceremoniously into the kitty carrier.  The monkey nipped my hand as I closed the door, leaving me with a semicircular bite mark that welted blood.  It was probably the only fight I had ever won, and it came at a great time.  Brian was praising my prowess when he caught the first glob of poo the monkey flung through the bars of his cage.  The car swerved dangerously again, and I imagined how our obituaries might read.  This was no time to reflect; the monkey had changed tactics and was now picking the lock on its cage again.  Once more, I was called upon to be the car’s resident enforcer.

Few options presented themselves.  Putting my hand back in there would likely result in more monkey bites.  I searched the car for some sort of weapon.  All I could find were napkins and packets of ketchup.  Finally, I located a coat hanger under the seat, straightened it, and prodded the monkey each time it attempted to spring itself free.  It wasn’t Planet of The Apes, but it was close enough.

My solution, however, was imperfect and temporary, a band-aid for a problem that required a tourniquet.  There was no way I could duel the monkey back for the hour or more it would take us to reach Duke.  Nor could we return to the colony; heaven only knew what would happen if our backseat guest was able to somehow reunite with his pals.  After what seemed like an eternity, we spotted a Walmart off the next exit.  Brian was visibly nervous as he skidded through the parking lot at 40 miles per hour.  “Find me something to brace the door with!”  I yelled at him as he sprinted into the store.  I was left in the sweltering interior of the car with the monkey, who made another move to escape.  This time, though, he grabbed the end of the coat hanger and pulled.  Either my hands had grown sweaty in the sweltering interior of the car or the feces on the monkey’s paws gave him incredible traction; whatever the case, I lost the coat hanger.  The monkey was effectively in control of the situation.  Now it was my turn to emit girlish shrieks as the monkey whipped the metal rod about wildly.

Our savage ballet was interrupted by a tap on the passenger window.  My cries had attracted attention- a mother with two worried looking girls peered over the shoulder of a police officer, the source of the tapping.  What they saw was a florid, sweaty man pressed against the dashboard of a shit-streaked Geo Metro as a creature in a kitty carrier conducted a frantic symphony with a metal wand.  Horror movies begin in such ways.

“Everything OK in there?” the policeman asked.

I rolled down the window an inch, putting on my most convincing smile.  “Sure thing, officer,” I said, noting the shiny badge, “we’re just- uh- going through a rough patch right now.”  The irony of defending the monkey was not lost on me.

“You have a permit for that… chimp?” asked the cop, peering into the interior of the car before wrinkling his nose and recoiling slightly.  In his defense, the car did smell like a rancid tuna.

“Oh yeah,” I said, hoping this was the case.  Our conversation was abruptly interrupted by one of the money’s punctuated shrieks.  “You know,” I said, “he’s actually an African Green Monkey.  I don’t think he likes you alling him a chimp.”

The cop looked like he was going to make something of the situation- perhaps escort me to  a shelter for battered monkey owners- but before he could say anything, Brian returned, coming across the parking lot in a dead sprint.  “Noah!  I couldn’t find chicken wire, but they had a padlock and some packing tape,” he blurted out, brandishing both items wildly.  Brian was sweating profusely and still sported a formidable glob of monkey poo on his right temple.  Most of all, he had the crazy eyes going.

“He’s in the circus,” I explained to the patrolman.

We peeled out of there, leaving the cop, the mother, and her two daughters to wonder what the hell just happened.

Postscript: The next day, Brian sold his car to an illegal Mexican for $800 dollars, minus the cost of an interior cleaning performed by other illegal Mexicans.