“Look, Jake! We’ve got an audience!”
Sure enough, there were three other white-haired, black-faced
monkeys sitting in the shade by the foot of the hill watching and
waiting intently for the concert to start. It made sense that this wasn’t
the first gig that Tree and Sid had played at the North Samrin Island
outdoor arena. Those were probably just the groupies. As if to show
his appreciation for their arrival, Tree immediately launched into a
rousing blues number of his own creation, alternately singing and
blowing into the harmonica.
They say I’m a higher being,
But I’m too busy being high,
I’m supposed to know the whole universe,
But all I can see is the sky.
So make a monkey out of me
Go on, make a monkey out of me
I don’t care, just pick these bugs from my hair,
And make a monkey out of me.
It’s supposed to be only illusion,
That the world looks flat as can be.
But I’m gonna have to get back to you on that one,
Right now I’m rubbing my ass on a tree.
So make a monkey out of me
Go on, make a monkey out of me
I really don’t mind if you kiss my behind,
And make a monkey out of me.
I clapped, and the monkey audience hollered and screeched.
The best part of the song was Sid whining in the background—he
actually sounded like he was trying to add some kind of obscure
harmony to Tree’s baritone.
Sid sat calmly like a seasoned performer and received his praise
with poise. Tree put his arm around him and began picking lint out
of his coat. “He’s pretty good, isn’t he?”
“Yeah,” I agreed, watching him groom the talented simian. He
seemed to take such good care of the animal that I wondered if he in
fact ever had any kids of his own.
BIG AMERICAN BREAKFAST
120
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