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Monkey Shoes

Contributed by Rivka Jacobs on 15/03/11

“Monkey shoes, monkey shoes, woo hoo it’s monkey shoes!”

Megan Bryant rose from her desk in her kitchen nook. She stood in front of her chair and listened to the noise coming from the interior of the house. She waited a moment, feeling perplexed. Billy was supposed to be up in his room; he was usually quiet and moody when he returned from visiting his mother.

There were thumps, the sound of glass rattling. “Monkey shoes, monkey shoes….” Billy repeated in a loud, piercing voice.

The crash and roll of a piece of furniture sent Megan trotting down the hall. She emerged into the spacious blue-painted living room and stopped short, aghast.

Billy was careening off the various chairs and couches, leaping, kicking at the end tables. “Monkey shoes, monkey shoes, woo hoo, woo hoo,” he belted. “Oo oo oo, monkeeee monkeee monkeee….” A lamp toppled to the floor; the bulb exploded.

“Billy, Billy what the hell are you doing? Stop it! Stop it this instant! Do you hear me? Billy!” Megan darted forward, attempting to grab the twelve-year old by an arm.

“Monkey, monkey, oo oo oo oo….” he answered, evading his step-mother’s grasp, imitating an angry chimp. He bounded and skipped, running away from her around the room. “Monkey shoes, monkey shoes….” He began pulling and throwing books off the built-in bookshelves.

Megan felt tears of frustration and anger sting her eyes. “Billy, stop now!” she screamed. She fumbled in the debris until she found the portable phone, an older one with a little antenna. She punched in her husband’s cell number.

Billy paused, his blue t-shirt scrunching and expanding dramatically as he caught his breath. He glared at her.

“… Tom, will you listen to me. He’s out of control. He’s wrecking the house … no, I am not exaggerating….”

“Monkey shoes, monkey shoes, woo hoo monkey shoes….” Billy started again, almost on cue. He hopped onto the couch once more, shot up and down several times and catapulted himself onto the recliner. The sofa cracked, the recliner snapped. He sailed off into the air, landed on the floor, and began bouncing in place, more and more quickly until he looked blurry. “Monkeee …. monkeee … sh … sh … shoes….” he said.

Megan reflexively slipped her eyes along the walls where her porcelain collectibles and special-edition plates were displayed in curio cabinets and on floating mantels. She shivered. “Tom,” she said softly, her mouth touching the phone receiver, “something’s wrong with him! It’s like he’s gone nuts. He’s breaking everything!”

Billy paused. “Monkey shoes,” he gasped, his chest heaving.

“Your father wants to talk to you,” Megan said, walking closer to him and extending the phone.

“But I’ve got monkey shoes,” Billy answered. “Woo hoo, woo hoo, oo oo oo….” He cavorted in a circle, hanging his arms like an orangutan.

“Your father wants to talk to you now!” She reached his side and secured one upper arm, yanking him to a stop. She thrust the phone near his face so he could hear his father’s angry yelling, like a tinny squawking, in his ear.

Still breathing heavily, he took the phone in both hands. Sweat dribbled in tracks over his reddened face. His brown hair was a wet, tangled mess. “Yeah,” he said, “it’s me, Billy … but it’s monkey shoes, Dad. Monkey shoes!”

For the first time, Megan looked at the boy’s feet. He was wearing some kind of new athletic shoe, covered in yellow and orange concentric swirls like eyes that seemed to gleam and glow and change color as she watched. The Velcro straps were coming loose and they seemed a bit big on Billy’s feet. The thick outer-soles looked high-tech and sculpted and appeared to move and light brightly every time Billy gulped for air. “Where did you get these?” she asked, pointing down.

“What dad? Megan asked me where I got the shoes … yeah, Mom bought them for me … today….”

“Well, you can take them off immediately, young man!” Megan said.

“Yeah, I know … I don’t know … she brought them home this morning, before we left … it was a present … I don’t know….”

Megan plucked the phone from his hand. “Tom, did he say Missy bought these? You…,” she said to Billy, pushing on his shoulder, “… sit down and take those off at once. Oh no, I am not cleaning up a thing. You will see what he did when you get back here … forget about the damn deacon’s meeting … we need you here….”

Later that evening, during dinner, the two adults sat by themselves at the table.

“Billy has been kinda quiet,” Tom said, picking at his chicken cassarole.

The two glanced involuntarily upward, at the ceiling, above which was Billy’s bedroom where the boy had been confined without supper.

Megan sipped some juice and played with a piece of bread. “I think you should go talk to him,” she said.

Tom nodded, and a few minutes later, while his wife cleared the dishes and began cleaning up, Tom Bryant hiked his corduroy jeans and moved to the hall in his stocking feet. He ascended the carpeted stairs, and came to the locked door at the end of the landing; he smiled at the pictures of Ironman and Lara Croft and Luke Skywalker in front of him. He knocked lightly. “Billy,” he called, “it’s your dad, let me in.”

The knob clicked.

Tom Bryant entered, and saw his son sitting on the end of his bed, his head bowed, his shoulders hunched. The “monkey shoes” were perched next to the shoe box on the floor almost under the end of the bed frame. They looked dull and lifeless. “We need to talk,” Tom began.

An hour later, Billy pulled off his jeans and shirt, getting ready for bed. It was a school night, and tomorrow was Monday. He had finished his homework. He felt better after his father’s visit, even if he was hungry. But he was so confused. And a little bit scared. He padded by the “monkey shoes” on his way to the bathroom. He brushed his teeth, splashed warm water on his face, patted himself dry. He tip-toed back, passing the shoes once again. He stared at them. “Why did you make me do those things?” he asked them. He stood looking down at them, then abruptly squatted and as quickly as he could, lifted each of them and threw them back into the box. He slammed on the lid. “I’m getting rid of you,” he said. “I’ll tell Mom something — I’ll say that piece-of-shit Tyler took you.”

The next morning, Billy bundled the shoe box into his backpack. He dressed as nicely as he could, even wearing the dorky jacket Megan had given him for Christmas. He passed through the parental gauntlet at breakfast with flying colors. “Yes, I’m sorry, Megan,” and, “I’ll never to anything like that again,” and, “I’ll pay you back for the damage,” and, “Thanks for talk last night, Dad.”

He ate everything — he was starved — and hurried out the door. He found his bike and began peddling, moving down their street, turning as usual left onto the next street, then left again on his way to his school. At the intersection of West Stoneway and Rods Drive, where he often took a short cut to avoid the group of eighth-grade bullies waiting along the approach to Briar Middle School, he instead deliberately pumped his legs hard and sped his bike straight towards Marshall Avenue.

As soon as he reached Marshall, he extended both legs and stopped himself with his boots skidding along the sidewalk; he saw the guys loitering about, smoking, exchanging pills they’d lifted from their parents’ medicine cabinets. He inhaled deeply, gripped the bike handles tightly, and called, “Hey Tyler, got something for you.”

“What’s up asshole?” Tyler said lightly. He’d stopped beating up Billy once he considered the younger boy properly trained.

Billy didn’t get off the bike. He walked it over to the group. “Got you a present,” he said. He reached deftly into his book bag, open at the top, and pulled out the shoe box. “Here,” he said.

Tyler narrowed his eyes and threw his cigarette to the ground. He yanked the gift away; his friends gathered around.

“What did that little jerk give you?” Billy heard one of them say as he eased his way backwards, turning the front wheel.

Tyler Dillon’s face lit up as he withdrew the shoes, dazzling bright in the grainy, misty March morning. “Monkey shoes!” he bellowed. “Fucking monkey shoes, monkey shoes….” He immediately bent, and unfastened what was on his feet, kicked these into the gutter. He slipped his toes into the yellow and orange, and secured the Velcro straps.

Billy spun the bike around and pushed at the pedals and rode as fast as his muscles could propel him, away down Marshall Avenue heading for South Avenue and the school. He could hear the shouts at his back, “Monkey shoes, monkey shoes, woo hoo hoo monkey shoes!”

As he turned onto South Avenue, he glanced behind, and saw them at the other end of the street; they were leaping and kicking at parked cars. The entire gang, not just Tyler. They were banging on street signs and shoving or hitting people who got in their way. All the while they chanted, “Monkey shoes, monkey shoes, woo hoo monkey shoes, oo oo oo, monkey shoes….”

Billy forced himself to go faster, until he arrived at the front of his school. He zipped up to the bike park that was across the grass from the main entrance. School buses were arriving, kids were disembarking. Cars had slowed to a crawl. “Lucky my mom always gets me things a size too big, ‘so you can grow into them,’” he muttered to himself.

“Hi Billy,” Nicole Perez said, and waved. “Billy, whassup?” Justin Davis said and slapped his upper arm. He walked with them across the lawn, around the mingling clumps of students They were chattering about something, but he didn’t hear. He was straining his ears. He froze.

“What’s that?” Nicole asked, looking back, squinching up her face.

Kids stopped their conversations, and peered over to South Avenue. They could hear car horns and squealing tires, the cracking crash of glass and the angry voices of men and women, then screams.

“Let’s go,” Billy said, his voice rising. “Let’s get out of here.” He shoved his two friends and when they wouldn’t keep up, he began running for the steps by himself.

From the street came the distinct sound of a mob shouting in unison, “Monkey shoes, monkey shoes, woo hoo monkey shoes, oo oo oo, monkey shoes….”

“Where do you think you’re going, Mr. Bryant?” one of his teachers asked, reaching for him as he dashed over the threshold of the open double doors. She stopped, and glanced outside as she noticed there was a commotion.

“Can’t wait, Mrs. Lovato,” Billy said between pants, “we gotta get out of here!”

Mrs. Lovato started to say something, but her attention was once again caught by the escalating turmoil in the yard. She rotated in place, trying to see. Other teachers and students already in the atrium of the building gathered around her. Those still outside who were left, who hadn’t already joined the pack, began to surge in a panic up the steps.

A roar of high and low voices could be heard approaching, their chant strengthening, growing louder and louder, ”Monkey shoes, monkey shoes, woo hoo monkey shoes….”

That evening, they sat together on the blue-flowered couch, Tom and Megan with their arms around Billy who sat between them. They watched the local news describe the riot at Briar Middle School. And how some of the instigators had to be shot in the legs to make them stop. Property damange at the school building and in the neighborhoods surrounding the grounds were estimated to be in the thousands of dollars. “But what is incalculable,” intoned the reporter, “is the trauma that these children suffered here today. Will their trust in a safe and good world be shattered forever?” The account was interrupted by a commercial.

“Oh my, oh my, ” said Megan, hugging Billy. “I’m so sorry you had to go through that.”

“But our Billy is a hero,” Tom added. “I’m proud of you son; your teachers and the principal, Mrs. Shaffer, told me how you ran to the cafeteria and tried to get the staff to help….”

“I was just trying to hide,” Billy said with a shrug.

“And how you ran to the teacher’s lounge and banged on the door, and demanded they protect the younger kids.”

Billy shook his head. “They were really scared. The sixth-graders. But I was scared too.”

“And the school said you stayed with the younger children until help arrived, and even walked some of them home when their parents couldn’t come get them right away! Like I said, I’m proud of you son….”

“Look,” Megan said, “it’s back on.”

“We’re here with special education teacher Mr. Aaron Klein,” said the female reporter. “Mr. Klein, can you describe what it was like this morning?”

Mr. Klein looked pale and round-eyed. Wisps of his hair, usually combed nicely over his bald spot, flew off in a new direction. “It was disturbing. Deeply disturbing for all of us, kids, parents, teachers, staff. It was a gang of students; students from this school. They were like a maddened mob, shouting ‘monkey shoes, monkey shoes’ and jerking and dancing around making sounds like apes….”

“What the fuck?” Megan said. She slowly held up the remote control, and pushed the “mute” button. She shifted so she could look at Billy.

Billy tightened himself into the smallest space he could. He kicked one leg, looked down at his fists resting in his lap. “What?” he said with exaggerated innocence.

“Billy, where are those shoes?” Tom asked, removing his arm from his son’s shoulders and likewise adjusting himself in his seat so he could see the boy’s face.

Billy waited a moment, then said, “I gave them away. This morning.”

“You gave them away?” Megan repeated, feeling sick to her stomach.

“Yeah, to Tyler Dillon.”

“You mean, the boy who was shot by the police,the leader of the disturbance?” Tom shouted.

“Yeah….” said Billy.

They all three sat without moving, without speaking, for several minutes. Then Megan said, “I don’t think anyone saw you bring those shoes in here, did they? I don’t think anyone could possibly make any connection….”

“No, ma’am,” Billy said.

“So, you know, we’ll just, you know, keep quiet about it, okay?” Tom said.

“Yes, sir,” Billy said.

“Well!” Megan chirped, slapping her thighs and jumping to her feet. “I’ve got a great dinner planned for my two men. Let’s go and eat!”