The Mexican Monkey Returns

The Juanster is a very important Patron.
Mucho Importanto. In his world.

In my world he is the Mexican Monkey. He really hates being called a Mexican, being from Columbia. When friends of his in Columbia come to America to work at his silk screen factory with cushy un-Mexican type of, over- the- border-work, in other words, desk jobs rather than sweat and grunt jobs, they can't get use to American ways. Our, in the fast--you want a siesta? What are you crazy? ways. They go back to Columbia.

"Juan? How long did it take to get use to living in America?" They ask.

Without thinking, Juan says, "About two weeks."

His sainted mother took in laundry to pay for the Juanster's passage to America.

"Mijo, El Norte," she said and pressed the cash in his palm.

Not that Juan's family needed money. They came from money but Juan is high energy. If mom didn't rid the nest of the Juanster, the youngest, she would be doomed to an early death.

"El Norte, Mijo," she waved to her youngest when he left on the plane. Then prayed to the Madonna, thanking her for giving her the will to go on and a special prayer to St. Anthony that she would light candles for seven days and nights if he will keep the Juanster from finding his way home.

Not to worry Mom.

The Juanster is happy in America. He is making lots of Yankee dollars and became a citizen so he can continue to make more Yankee dollars. Juan is at home in a hyper-active-do-or-die society absorbed with wealth.

Mexican Monkey promised, as monkeys do, that he would be over Thursday to trim the hedge in the alley. He knows how important the task is with the Zionist Jihad Party Boys roaming the alley night and day. Village Idiot alone, directly in back, needs constant monitoring lest he starts the hood on fire.

He was busy making money at his silk screen factory. Really, he couldn't come over because he was waiting for a client to come after work hours. The fucking hedge is growing and is no longer clipped flat at seven feet but now has pointy growth. How the fuck can we get drunk with a fucking pointy hedge? It throws you off, you think you've already had enough to drink when there is actually more beer time.

He came, after ten in the morning and thirty-one seconds. Mexican Monkey is very high energy. If he comes over earlier, and I haven't read my newspaper, his monkey antics begin to really irritate the fuck out of me. I've chased him down the street with my cane.

"Mike. Mike." Mexican Monkey pleads as I read.
"Mike! MIKE!"
"What the fuck is it now Juanster?"
"Look at this, it's a picture of how bone chips, like the ones in your foot and back, cause you to have a heart attack. Look at the pictures, Mike."

When I stood and headed straight for him, my fingers spread to grip the scrawny neck of a five- foot-four ninny, he fled in terror with a three legged fat man close behind. My foot hurt for three days chasing him down the block. If I was going to have a heart attack, it would have been then. I wrote a letter to his mom asking what prayers did she say because I don't think Los Angeles is Norte enough. I think the Virgin thought Los Angeles but mom was thinking New York.

After that, Mexican Monkey can only come after ten. Now ten and thirty-one seconds because he thought the idea was stupid. I told him that if he wanted not to have serious breakage of his body, that ten and thirty-one seconds would be safest.

After the hedge was trimmed, he agreed it did make it better for more beer than the pointy hedge led you to believe. We had some suds and then went to our local sushi bar for a few more pints with sushi. Mexican Monkey made phone calls, I paid the bill and he left to make more money bugging the living shit out of someone else.

And I'm still waiting for Mom to send me those prayers. All I got so far are postcards with a silly happy face on them.