MONKEY FOOT

​

On his bed with a spread of comic books and a Polaroid, Guy kept reading the story in the photograph over the frames of his superheroes. An optic tale, trapped by a flicker of light. A middle-aged woman, forever frozen on film, with long curly hair spilling over her bandana. The smiling bitch leaned against a library wall littered with student drawings. A couple taps on his partially open door, and Guy slid the picture under his latest comic book. His mother peaked in.

     “It’s almost time for the big Star Trek television premier!” Her voice relayed an excitement Guy felt, because both hung on every advertisement for weeks. She pouted her lips. “What do you have that thing out for?”

     Guy glanced across his red quilt top, cheeks running hot while remembering it. “What?”

     “You better not be planning to send that to your girlfriend. That needs to stay in the family.” She casually approached the bed in her long pink dress, ready for the television’s science fiction debut.

     “I’m not.” His eyes darted over the comics, thinking of a way to explain it. A chill in his chest erupted when the mattress springs depressed as she took a seat. Why would he take a detached monkey’s foot from a garage storage box and bring it to his bed? “The Amazing Spiderman!” That is how. He prayed she did not catch this lie. “I saw it in this new one here.”

     His mother leaned in, peering over his shoulder at the art cover. “Ah. Spidey and Green Goblin, huh? Oh, and they’re both unmasked, it looks like. So, who had the monkey’s foot?”

     He looked to her eyes with a serious expression, putting on an educational tone. He hadn’t opened this comic yet, not knowing how either were truly unmasked, but he knew she never read comic books. 

     “Well, it wasn’t a monkey’s foot. It was a whole monkey. A live one. And toward the end, it grabs their masks while they’re fighting and… well… that’s as far as I got. I’ll know more later and then I can tell you all about it.”

     “Well, I was going to say: I know your sweetheart is into the spooky stuff, but that monkey foot came from your grandmother. I don’t mind if you look at it, if you’re curious from your comics or whatever, but it always stays in this house. Always, always.”

     “Yeah. That’s all it was.” Relief spread his body. “I just saw a monkey in my comics, and it made me remember I wanted to look at Grandma’s trinket. You know? That’s all.”

     “You know where your grandma got that monkey’s foot, don’t ya’?”

     He remembered. “Nuh-uh. Tell me, Mom.”

     “Your grandmother was owed a debt of gold stolen from her land, and the man smoothing it over gave that monkey foot to her instead. It was said to have been found from a treasure map, and had all kinds of evil, but amazing powers.”

     “Do you think it works?”

     “Guy! Of course it doesn’t!” She broke with laughter. “Your grandma got taken for a ride! But she thought it was real, and worth the gold. That’s what matters, I guess.”

     Taking the shriveled monkey’s foot into his hand, its light weight always surprised him. Three wrinkled toes remained intact with stiff fur and brittle claws, two missing from its unknown history.

     “Grandma said she used the second toe, right? ‘Cuz the first one was already used?”

      “I think so,” his mother said, “but let’s pretend it worked for her. How would you use it? Who on Earth would a nice boy like you want to curse?”

     “Mrs. Henley at school,” he replied, “for saying in front of the entire class that I’d be fired the first day if I ever got a job as a bus driver.”

     “Oh, yeah?”

     “So, yeah, I’d fire her. I’d make her do that one thing: spontaneously combust.”

     “Hoo-kay!” Then his mother laughed again, regaining composure. You boys and your mad imaginations. You make sure you don’t repeat that thought of yours to anyone.”

     “I was just kidding. So, I won’t.”

     The side of the mattress lifted with a squeak as she stood. “Well, supper will be ready in a few minutes too, so wrap things up and come out on time for dinner.”

Gently, the door clicked shut.

     Guy slid the Polaroid of Mrs. Henley into plain sight. He remembered Grandma’s story and even the things she told him in secret. The foot’s powers were real, and Grandma wanted him to have it. Guy grabbed the petrified foot, pinching fingers over the next toe in line as a claw threatened to pierce his thumb.

     It seemed the toe would just snap off, given its dryness, but the digit turned out rubbery. Back and forth, he twisted and pinched until it pulled off. Struggling to search his pocket while face down on the bed, he retrieved the small locket of ink that came with the foot. Flipping it open with a click, he pressed the toe to the moist red sponge within.

     Guy pushed the toe onto the library photo of Mrs. Henley, rolling it back and forth. The pigment stained her teeth and much of her face in crimson. All the way, his mind focused on Mrs. Henley; how she looked down upon him, humiliated him, and how her and her insufferable existence would hence burst into flames. Violent, white-hot flames. She must stand in the fire, incinerated until just a circle of black ash remained. The ultimate, literal firing of her. A fate far, far worse than any fired bus driver.

     The brittle claw left the photograph reddened and speckled with tiny dents and scratches...

 

​