Dad got me a monkey yesterday. Who knows why the name Bobo came to mind, but it did as soon as I looked at that tiny, furry face with the serious, but impish, eyes. Dad’s plan was for Bobo to inspire me. Don’t ask me to follow his thinking. Ever since I managed to write a complete short story in a single weekend – like no one’s ever succeeded in that before – Dad thinks I have the makings of a writer. He’s worse than a teacher, suggesting I write out a list of verbs and then come up with a second but better one for each, more active or something. He also bought me a new dictionary, as if it held the secrets to inspiration better than the older edition. I hate to break it to him, but no list of verbs, new dictionary, or noisy monkey is going to make me a writer. In fact, Bobo is having none of it.
The new dictionary still sat where I left it on the table when I decided to take a traditional photograph of Bobo, to sort of initiate him into the family. I put a bright red bib with a baseball emblem on him and a banana in his hand and sat him in a chair with a dishtowel tying him in place. He flung the banana at the wall, picked up the dictionary, opened it, and ripped a few pages out with his teeth. Then he smiled for the camera. “Eeh-eeh-eeh,” he said, which I think is his version of hee-hee-hee.
At least the dictionary inspired someone.
I set the camera down, but wasn’t giving up on the picture-perfect photo just yet. I bribed Bobo with a glass of orange juice. Big mistake. In less than a minute I was wearing it.
“Definitely not funny,” I told Bobo while I paper-toweled myself dry.
“Fine.” I snapped picture after picture of Bobo, all with his teeth showing and chin up, one with his hand on his head, another with his hairy arms in the air letting me know he wanted to be done now. I ignored him and kept clicking the camera. “Hee-hee-hee.”
I was so involved in laughing and focusing the camera on the adorable, mischievous little face that I lost track of Bobo’s hands. Which were untying the towel. A second later, Bobo’s chair was tipped over, then another one crashed down, and another, and another. All the while, “eeh-eeh-eeh” escaped his lips.
When I finally caught up to Bobo and held him firm in my arms, Dad walked in. “How’s the inspiration going?” he asked.
“Eeh-eeh-eeh,” was Bobo’s response.
I smiled as Dad took in the room, including one shredded dictionary. “Hee-hee-hee.”