I was an overworked, skinny, four–eyed pharmacist, barely hanging on, eking out a living at a pharmacy in a leased building that my overworked father, too, had leased before me until his heart gave out. Filling prescriptions, answering calls, standing all day while Mr. and Mrs. J.Q. Public picked at themselves, coughed their spittle all over me, and belittled me. 

They’d say, “Pat, Junior has an ear infection, big wax build-up, and I don’t have the mullah for Doctor Wilkes. What can you give me?” And “Pat, look at my throat.”  (Gladys’d open her mouth, sticked out her tongue.) “Aaaaa. See? Is it strep? Can’ya help me?  By the way, what stool softener should I use?” And some line-sheep would yell, “Pat and Gladys, quit yakkin’,  you twos’re holdin’ up line. Somes got jobs, eh?” My only friend, Perry, whom I leased from, said, “Aw, Pat, you’re the best person I know. You’ll get yours. Don’t worry about them!”  One sheep’d bleat, “Pat, why not hire yourself some help, ya cheapskate?”

I asked my older kid to stock shelves, answer phones, and such, but got no compassion. The response was, “Nope, I got plans.” And “Imma senior, things to do,” the headphones got plopped back on deaf earholes. The other one said, “For reals? C’mon, my steady’ll be pissed.” 

My days went like that. Overworked, I found my only solace in my mind’s constantly creating scenarios where I could be someone else with these herds of animals.

An abrupt change happened one evening. After stocking sparse shelves with Hostess cupcakes, hohos, and dingdongs alongside of an assortment of Halloween masks and Christmas trappings, I was about to close shop when at the service window I spied an unfilled script  fluttering in a broken window’s draft. I wondered which herded-animal-customer had snuck in while I was indisposed and what grief I would incur on the morrow for not being at someone’s beck and call.. On closer inspection, I saw that accompanying the script was an envelope addressed: Pat, Artist Extraordinaire. 

I read it, grabbed its sought-after items from the stockroom, delivered them, and took actions, and my life  never was the same.

The next day, unlocking the store, on a table usually devoid of saleable items, I found a stack of high-quality black leather pants, jackets, and hats; a case of Ray-Ban sunglasses; 50  blood-glucose meters, the newest available. A note read, “Thank you. Your fan.” Drawn there was a penciled stick monkey, a copy of what I sketch on the prescription bottles for sick kids.

Afterwards, at any time, a note would be left with which I would comply. Soon, my  once-struggling business became flush with goods that I couldn’t myself have acquired. Likewise, because of my low-asking price for these goods,  my customers had access to luxuries they hadn’t before. For them, my commodities were a steal, so to speak. 

Just before this change in my circumstance, out of our sleepy, meagerly-populated town, with its share of graffiti attributed to gangs (their obscenities plastered across empty storefronts), emerged a true artist.  “PK,” whose initials “tagged” all his graffiti, enhanced our scenescapes. A wall on a once-bustling-but-now-deserted street was painted with people hugging on benches at bus stops, laughing in groups, holding hands while walking dogs; all the “body parts” expressing love  (hands, arms, smiling faces) were caricatured in a beautiful manner to grab the observers’ eye.  Empty windows displayed life-like images of people at restaurant tables, eating and shopping. Across the wall-and-buildings’ mural, the artist painted  “Love me, PK.” 

Places classified as unseemly now were enriched; painted on trees, clothed squirrels scampered about; at the tops of eroding buildings, decorative birds wearing sunglasses flew. On the streets, painted street-rats smiled at prople with paintbrushes in their paws, ready to scurry down manholes, the manhole covers held up by a caped rodent some entitled “Mighty Mouse.”

 

One particular day, my customers were whispering, giggling before they reached my service window. They said, 

“We see he has a new pastime.”

“We must not keep him busy enough.” 

“He better watch or he’ll lose this new merch, participating in illegal activity.” 

Outraged, I responded, “I don’t know whatever illegalities you mean, Gladys. I’m always here. Look at the provisions you have now.” 

Gladys said, “Oh, you and your monkey business.” 

Everyone laughed, knowingly nodding their heads.  

That day I closed up early. I posted “Out to Lunch” and  walked the streets, asking myself what was going on. Why were my customers acting bizarre? Yes, I had expanded my merchandise, but they hadn’t acted strangely when that expansion first happened. Did they now think something unseemly was going on? I had no knowledge of the commodities’ procurement.

As I passed by a playground, where the artist had created an image of zoo animals—monkeys, elephants, tigers, and lions—linked together arms to tails to trunks, as if at a circus, something additional had been painted to the “Love me, PK” monaker: a stick monkey dressed in a black jacket and hat. It was my monkey! An exact replica of  the one I sketched on children’s prescriptions! Not believing my eyes, I tracked down all of PK’s graffiti, and there was my monkey now hanging off every piece PK had painted! Even the colossal water tower tag, “Love me, PK,” had a monkey in sunglasses hanging precariously, as if freefalling, from the “K.” I always wondered how PK had the bravery and skill to complete such a task so expertly, so covertly; but now, I was aghast at PK’s unmitigated gall to rescale this height–and paint my monkey! 

I was horrified. PK had never been caught, let alone seen, but now his involving me was unconscionable. I was a respected member of society. PK was a rebel, who had mastered the magical craft of disappearing.  I, out in the open, was a humble servant of the people, who doodled monkeys on kids’ prescription bottles. Might I be held accountable for this graffiti? 

Also, I was baffled. Why me? Why was PK involving me, adding my signature “stick monkey”? Was PK now a ne’er-do-well? A criminal at my expense? What was the connection between my pharmacy’s benefactor and this PK, plagiarizing my “Monkey Man”? Truly, I should have repaired my surveillance cameras, but no one robbed anyone in Coal Town. Besides, my benefactor was bringing goods in, not stealing a thing! 

I needed answers. Could I halt my activities without repercussions? My life felt so much more comfortable fulfilling financial obligations compared to the life I led before. Worried, I vowed, if contacted again, I would make some difficult decisions.

One night the opportunity presented itself. Into the alley I had taken the store’s garbage—collapsed boxes and crumpled packing paper for incineration as well as bagged styrofoam peanuts for the trash bin. Entering through the stockroom, I glimpsed a shadowy figure by the service counter.  I jumped into action, knocking over displays. Another note lay on the counter. I grabbed it, stuffed it in my pocket, but lost sight of the figure. Had the shadow already slipped away?  

Just then, the front door jingled. The intruder was heading into the street! Faster than a zoo animal, I followed the shadow—I still couldn’t see the face in the night—running down Main Street. As it turned the corner, pausing nanoseconds under the streetlight, I saw, no, it wasn’t possible, but, yes, something furry with, oh, my God, a monkey face!

Chasing the Monkey Man, tripping over the debris spewing from the alley’s garbage cans he threw down, I was losing him. Frantically peering into every doorway, window, car; jiggling all locked entries; pushing every panel; looking for manholes for an escape, I found nothing.  Dejected, I returned to my store. 

What fresh hell did I find there? My store had been ransacked, all the new goods stolen; my stockroom shelves were mangled into twisted mounds with their pharmaceutical contents oozing there, a liquid mixture of powders, capsules, and plastic containers.

I called the police. What other resources did I have? With their intervention and admonishments, I followed whatever recourse available: calling necessary agencies—drugs had been tampered with (although none had been taken by the assailant, only made unusable); assessing the damages—I couldn’t acknowledge the theft of the newest merchandise, not having knowledge of how it was procured, and not having paperwork for any legal accountability of it. 

So my business was closed until I could make it viable. Who knew when or if I’d be able to operate anything that resembled a business, now that I had chased the Monkey Man? If only I had repaired my surveillance system, if only I hadn’t chased him. 

 

Later, as I was mopping the stockroom, moving its twisted shelving, the police came by again. 

“Hello, Mr. Johnson?” Officer James called on entering. “I’d like you to come with me.”

Thinking I was being taken into custody—why not? I was an unsavory citizen now—Officer James said, “The Hub Bar across the street has operational surveillance. Come with me. You must see this.”

My heart leaped, whether for joy or fear of what was discovered, I didn’t know.

Officer James led me into The Hub’s office, where Dale and Rosie’s stern gaze matched my angst. I thought I might vomit, relieve myself, or both. 

Officer James pointed to a chair before the monitor. “Sit.  Go ahead, Dale, hit the button.”

On the recording, I watched my masked Monkey Man enter and exit my building and my pursuit. We knew this information already. But then, I nearly catapulted from my seat. Two more figures in monkey masks and fur entered, remained inside for long enough to damage the premises, and exited with trash bags probably full of loot. Then, I went back in.

“What’s going on over there, Pat?” Dale’s voice held harshness. Rosie had raised a curious eyebrow.

“I don’t know!” I bellowed.

Officer James, notepad in hand, asked, “Mr. Johnson, in light of this evidence, have you anything to add to your statement? Can you shed any light? Who are these, these monkeys?”

“I told you everything! I followed only one.” I started to cry and thought I’d never stop.

The officer closed his notepad. “We’ll let you know whatever we turn up. Good day.” 

Leaving The Hub, I had to rid myself of this “monkey on my back,” of these monkeys; I had to go to the one who had first left me the very first note.

 

That momentous night, after reading the note, I filled a script for the antibiotic doxycycline, which I scribbled on the blank script and forged a doctor’s name. Hurriedly, I packed gauze, paper towels, peroxide, neosporin, surgical tape, wet ones, bottled water, a man’s change of clothes, health bars, and chips. I dumped a pocketful of painkillers into my pants, swung a blanket around my neck and proceeded to a pavilion at the farthest location within Creekway Park. There was Perry Kyle Sermac, my friendly voice in the pharmacy line, soaked with paints and blood, a tree branch protruding through his actual front and back side at the waist, as if he had been shot with an arrow.

“Oh, my God, Sermac! What the hell happened?” I exclaimed. “You need a hospital.”

“Nope. Won’t go. ‘S why you’re here. Fix me best you can.”

Not knowing whether to clean his body first or the wound, initially I gave him the painkillers.Then, I laid down the blanket, moved him on it, stripped off what clothes I needed to, removed the branch, for which he screamed, cleaned what skin remained soiled, and dressed the wound. Afterwards, I gave him the antibiotic and another painkiller. 

When Sermac opened his eyes, I asked, “Why me?”

“Who else? As a  former freaked-out kid-patient, I loved those doodles. You inspired me. Besides, couldn’t think of anyone else to help without causing trouble.” 

“What happened that you got a tree through your gut?”

“That decrepit billboard on Route 40? Was goina paint it. Sneezed. Coughed. Fell through it. Into a tree. You still look puzzled. I’m PK. Graffiti artist. Perry Kyle.”

“What? Graffiti? Why, Sermac?”

He shrugged and winced. “‘Citement. Art. Paintin’. Danger.” His words were  slurring.

I said, “Let me get you somewhere safe.”

“Don’ involve yo’self. Imma sleep in my car. Will take care o’ you for this. Now you’ll be swell. Promise.” 

It being an unseasonably warm October night, nearing dawn, and having Perry Sermac tucked under a picnic table, I left to sleep awhile. When I returned before opening the pharmacy, no trace of Perry or our night’s activities existed.

 

Perry had to know about the masked Monkey Men; common sense told me that he was the benefactor for all my merchandise. Wouldn’t he also know about these criminals and have access to the store I leased from him? The only place I knew him ever to “occupy” was an apartment above the pharmacy. 

Evening was upon me as I climbed the steps to his dark apartment, but I could read a sign on his door: “On Vacation—back in a month” and the date written beneath it. Disappointed, bewildered, I headed for home.

On entry, the kitchen smelled, the garbage not having been taken out from the previous time I had asked. “Honey?” No signs of my wife. The kids had that vulgar hip hop  reverberating off the walls.  “Turn that down,” I yelled, not believing anyone heard. “I’m the only one to take the trash out. Again,” I said to silence.

Outside, my kids met me around the corner. “Oh, you scared me. You could have taken out the trash.”

“Dad,” my son said, “you messed up.”

“Yeah,” my daughter chimed in.

“You, we, had it made. All you had to do was let it go,” the boy, a pharmacist’s kid, PK, said. “And you didn’t.”

“Yeah, a mess,” my girl, a pharmacist’s kid, PK, said.  “You messed with our group. The PKs, me, my bruh, Perry Sermac, there are others. We all take care of each other.”

“Got a good business hustle, too, Dad,” my boy explained. “Moving stolen stuff. Gave you what awful merch we didn’t want. Kept other good merch. We made a killing off of it. Figured if anything went south, pin it on you.”

“Police got you on surveillance. From a camera across the street.” Pat’s stomach was churning upon itself for about the fourth time this day. “You’ll get caught. Thieves.”

“We’ll think of something,”  PK said. “We always do.” 

In their hands each held a monkey mask. Then everything went to black.