Monkey Bars

Posted by Amanda on Monday Feb 8, 2010 | Classified as: Literary Debauchery | Sub-Classified as: fiction, the craft

N.B: I wrote this sometime in November when I supposed to be writing for Nanowrimo. There’s something about speculative fiction that makes me smile.

The past is my playground, where I’m free to ride the merry-go-round as many times as I please without being scared of the monsters beneath. I like the swings best. I’m poised to jump as I pump my legs to shoot myself higher and higher; I’m reaching a place where I used to be queen of the castle. Or, at the very least, a duchess with a lot of pull with the rest of the nobility. After the swings, I go to the slide and ride the slick surface to its end, raising my arms in the air. The slides are joy. It is the highest and lowest point in my life.

The future is the challenge of swinging myself up to the top of the monkey bars to perch and dangle my legs between the bars. At seven, I was limber, agile, and energetic. At twenty three, I am ponchy, cumbersome, and no less energetic. So I scramble, trying to reach the top of the bars so I can look over the other houses in the neighbourhood. My surburbia. My kingdom. I just know that somehow the top of the monkey bars is where all of dreams will come true. But, here I am, staring at the monkey bars, paralyzed by fear that I won’t be able to get up there. The pebbles pay the price as I scatter them with a flick of my ankle.

The present seems to be someone’s idea of a drunken one night stand: it seemed like a great idea when both parties were intoxicated but the morning after is always a bitch. So I drink a fifth of the vodka I had stashed in my purse in one tough swig. It burns going down. Seemed like a good idea at the time. I’m still afraid of those stupid fucking monkey bars. Another bunch of pebbles are punished for their insolence. I’m alone on the playground when my mom calls at me from across the street; it’s getting dark and she made me dinner.

But I can’t go in. Not yet. I need to best those monkey bars.

Another fifth of the vodka downed before I toss my purse unceremoniously to the side. The bars are low enough that I don’t have to jump to catch them. My arms always burn in protest.

Too much work, they moan. Let’s just go back down to the ground and the pebbles and our mom.

I won’t take no for an answer. I’m so sick and fucking tired of being on the ground when it seems like everyone else can get to the top of the monkey bars. I hate them for being better than me. I hate being second best. I hate waiting. I ignore the pain in my arms and attempt to swing my legs up to catch the other bars with my heels. Several tries later and I’m still swinging with my legs half bent.

I hate these monkey bars.

After another stiff swallow of vodka, I’m tipsy. Angry. Upset at my failures. I rode the merry-go-round four times without falling off. I even closed my eyes, in spite of my brain reminding me of the monsters beneath that steal and eat unlucky little girls who don’t pay attention. No monsters ate me. My past loved me, relished my presence. So why didn’t the future welcome me with the same reverence?

Fucking monkey bars.

I try a few more times, but am met with the same failures. When my mom finds me three hours later, I’m sopping drunk from polishing off the bottle of vodka and crying from not being able to get where I know I need to be. Those monkey bars will solve all my problems. I know they will. Mama, why can’t I get to the top of the stupid monkey bars? Why am I such a fucking failure?

She soothes me, placing a calming hand on my clammy forehead, and holds me close to her sweet smelling blouse. Oscar de la Renta swims through my senses and suddenly I don’t want to get to the top of the monkey bars, as long as I’m safe on the ground. I have so much to be thankful for on the ground: my pretty mother, the pebbles, the grass, the terrifying merry-go-round, and the simplicity of knowing that my feet would always find their way.

You can reach the top of those monkey bars, my sweet, she murmurs into my lank black hair. Just believe in yourself. Try something else. Don’t be stuck on one method. Do everything. Try everything. Be spontaneous. Attack them. You are the maker of your design. But don’t run too fast. The present is a gift.

Yeah, the sort of gift that a mean aunt would give me on Christmas, I retort, burying my head between my knees. It’s not spinning down there; this weird chasm between my legs.

But it is a gift all the same, she says, smoothing my hair with a wise hand. Do not be so quick to judge yourself or others. We can help you reach the top of the monkey bars, you know. We love you.

Just like so many times before, I shrug off her help and protest that I’m a big girl who can take care of herself. I don’t need anyone to help me. I got up there once. I can get up there again. You should see if Dad needs you. I’ll be in soon. I promise.

I had promised it before.

I hadn’t been home in five years. I slept on the playground, curled around my empty bottles as though I gave birth them. But I didn’t want to leave without reaching the top. I would take as many tries as I needed in order to get up there.

There are countless more attempts before I collapse on myself underneath the stars and clouds. I am alone in this, I think to myself as I weep bitter tears. I am alone. These stupid monkey bars are going to be the end of me. I can’t get where I need to be. What if this is all there is? What if I never reach the top? The monkey bars cast frightening shadows across the playground as I drift into an uneasy sleep, full of empty dreams and sad nightmares. My unconscious doesn’t bother trying to scare me anymore. The loneliness scares me enough.

The dawn breaks and I begin with making another attempt, falling on my back and knocking the wind out of me. Tears stream down my face as I curse the Divine for failing to notice that I was struggling. I gave everything I had for so many years, happy to feed the heartless, the soulless, and the aimless with my heart, soul, and ambition. All I asked for was to get to the top. So why am I still here at the bottom? Why am I, your raven daughter, the one to pay the price for mistakes I haven’t had the chance to make?

I throw more pebbles at the sky and curse the infernal Divine.

I sit on the swings, trying to be the queen, the duchess. A startling man wanders onto the playground and manages to catch up to my swinging, smiling warmly at me. He says his name is Michael. He has green eyes like spring leaves. I like him instantly. I ask him if he’d like to ride my merry-go-round and he says yes. The monsters raise their scary eyes above, curious about the man called Michael. Michael plays games with me and we are happy. Mama doesn’t call me inside this time, she just watches from the door to our house, smiling and content that someone is playing with me. I’ve had other boys play with me on the playground but they all left when it was time for dinner or when it got dark.

Michael stays with me and drinks the raspberry schnapps I buried underneath my slide a few years back. It is sweeter with company. He tells me that I’m pretty and that I should smile more. So I smile more to make him laugh. He laughs with every fiber of his being. He is a man and a child. I envy him his merriment but his smile is pretty, with the gaps between his teeth and a twinkle in his leaf-green eyes. I like him. He is pretty and handsome and perfect. I hope he stays with me forever.

The monkey bars loom in the growing dark.

Can you climb to the top of the monkey bars? I ask him, swigging the schnapps, feeling the alcohol warming my veins. I’ve been trying but I can’t get up.

Michael is very tall. Tall as a tree. Even taller than Dad.

When he stretches his arms, he can touch the clouds; he says that they tickle his fingers. He hops up to the top of the monkey bars and reaches for me but I can’t get up yet. I’m still stuck on the ground and in the pebbles.

I can’t make it, Michael, I sob, wracked with guilt and sadness. I want to come up.

I can lift you, he soothes. Lean on me. Let me save you.

I can’t.
I can’t.
I can’t.

It’s beautiful up here, he says as I sit on the ground, fists in my hair. Please let me help you.

I refuse. I want to be up where he is but I need to get up there myself. He doesn’t understand me. I am alone again. Michael is ahead of me. I am jealous of his ease. Why do I always struggle?

But he doesn’t want to be on top without me so, without another word, he lifts me on his shoulders. I protest loudly; I’m afraid of heights and of the monkey bars. I don’t want to go up, I tell him. It’s okay to be on the ground.

No, you belong up there, he grins. Go and I shall follow.

I grasp the top of the monkey bars and pull myself off his shoulders without a lot of fuss. He is so tall that I graze the clouds. They tickle my cheeks. Michael is so handsome and perfect. I love myself when we are together. I sit on the top of the monkey bars. The sky is peaceful. The neighbours wave as they walk their dogs. I am so happy that I wave back. But the great epiphany has not come and I find myself disappointed.

Michael sits with me and wraps his arms around me. I am still ponchy and cumbersome but he just squishes closer; he is unafraid of the external me. Smile more, he says as he rests his strong chin on the top of my head. We are on top.

We are together. Life is a miracle.

Mama calls to me from our front door. She is proud of me for reaching the top but she was proud of me no matter where I stood or sat or danced. The Divine still ignores me as I sit with Michael’s arms around me but it’s okay. I don’t need their approval or help anymore. I have Michael. He has me.

The monkey bars have been bested.

Now I’m eyeballing the clouds.