Monkey Boy by Francisco Goldman (best self help books to read .TXT) 📕

I am fully Catholic but also fully Jewish; my father was Jewish and so was my husband. None of this half-and-half pie slicing. Just as Jesus Christ was both fully a man and fully God, rather than the Son of God dressed up as a young Jew or anything like that. Fully one, fully the other, at the same time. E pluribus unum implies a mestizo unity, neither a melting together nor an Ann Hunt library of white and a pushed-off-to-the-side infinity of separately shelved selves.

Three-quarters Jewish and three-quarters Catholic, keep a quarter secret only for myself.

Hello? Who do you wish to speak to, please? A child’s voice, a girl’s, I think. I ask for Lexi. I’m sorry, you have the wrong number. No one named Lexi lives here, she says, her voice that of a confident little girl. Methodically struck piano scales in the background. So it’s true, there are children. The policeman’s children? And Lexi has a piano too. Well, she’s always been musical.

Sorry, I mean Alexandra Goldberg. Doesn’t she live there?

Yandra! she says happily.

Yandra, I repeat.

Yes, sir. Alejandra, but everyone calls her Yandra. But I don’t think she can come to the phone right now.

She can’t? This is Alejandra’s brother, Francisco. Frank.

You’re her brother? Oh. Yes, sir. Just one moment, please.

I hear her voice aimed away from the phone shouting: Yandraaaa! Yandraaaa! Your brother is on the phone! A moment later she’s saying bossily to someone: Doogy, ve arriba y dile a Yandra que su hermano está en el teléfono. Another childish voice, whiny edge, answers: Pero Yandra tiene cel, por qué no le marca ahí?

She speaks into the phone: Why don’t you try her cell phone, sir? Do you need the number?

I tried that, I respond. There was no answer. But I can try again. Are you sure Lexi’s home? Yandra, I mean.

Yes, I saw her go up the stairs. Yandra has a show tonight with her band.

Her band?

Yes, sir. They have a show in Acushnet.

In Acushnet?

Yes, sir, it’s a town near here.

Please don’t call me sir, okay? You can call me Frank. What’s your name?

Monica Tupil.

That’s a pretty name.

Vos cerote sube a ver que está haciendo Yandra, I hear Monica scolding again. Pero YA! Creo que se está bañando. Into the phone: At school kids call me Tulip.

That’s a nice nickname. There sure are worse ones.

I guess it’s okay. I think Yandra is in the shower. I’ll ask her to call you back when she gets out if you want. Does she have your number?

I’ll wait. Do you mind? That way I won’t miss her.

QUEEEÉ? Púchica, inútil, ni siquiera le dijiste de su hermano? Doooog! No le puedo creer.

Monica to me: Yandra is in the shower, but Doog forgot to tell her that you’re waiting on the telephone. Doog has to shout that outside the door so she hears. Do you want me to tell Doog to go back upstairs and shout this time?

Sure, if he doesn’t mind, I say. Through the phone I listen to Monica furiously unleashing this new iteration.

Okay, sir, I told him.

That’s your brother you were talking to. Doug is it?

Oh God no, please, he’s not my brother. What, do I sound retarded too? Yes, his name is Doug, but I call him Doog. But his real name is Smelly Retarded Horseshoe Crab.

Retarded Horseshoe Crab? I laugh and she does too, a mischievous childish cackle. Who is this sharp funny bilingual girl? Tupil, a Maya surname.

In the background, a stern adult female voice, this accent pronounced, interrupts: Monica, don’t say retarded. We don’t use that word. And Monica responds: I’m sorry, Maki. I won’t say that anymore.

That’s Maki, says Monica into the phone. She just got back from work. I don’t know if you can hear it over the phone, sir, but Doog is upstairs shouting outside the bathroom door that you’re here. Yandra will come down soon.

Okay. Well, tell Doog thank you. How old are you, Monica?

I’ve been ten for almost one week. You know what my birthday is? February twenty-eighth. My mother says I was born right before midnight, so if I came out a few minutes later, three out of every four years, I wouldn’t have a birthday.

Wow, I’m glad you got in there just under the wire. Happy birthday, then, Monica.

Thank you, sir.

And Maki, she’s your mother?

No. Maki’s isn’t anybody’s mother. My mom is at her job. She works in a factory.

Really? What kind of factory?

They make vests for the soldiers in Iraq that bullets can’t go through, you know what I mean?

Bulletproof vests, sure. For US soldiers in Iraq?

Yes, that’s right. When you see the soldiers on TV wearing their bulletproof vests, my mom made them. Not just my mom, a lot of other people work there. Everyone else here works in the fish houses.

Oh sure, I say, the fish-processing houses. What about your dad? Does he work in the fish houses too?

My dad? I don’t even know who he is. I mean, I’ve never met him. Presumably he’s somewhere in this country, but he’s not here in New Bedford.

Presumably?

Yes, sir, presumably. He wouldn’t go back to Guatemala unless he gets deported. That’s what my mom says.

You sound like you’re pretty smart, Monica. Are you a good student?

Always straight A’s, sir. I like to study and read and do homework, unlike some of the other retards around here who I won’t mention by name. She whispers: Doog.

Is somebody practicing the piano there?

Yes, sir. I play piano too. But that’s Brigida. She’s just starting. She’s Doog’s sister, but she’s not as stupid as he is. Their mom works in a fish house too.

And Yandra plays in a rock band?

Oh yes, that band, Monica says. They’re not really a rock band. They’re called Ahab’s Hussies. It’s drunk sailor music performed by crazy ladies. Sea shanties, have you heard of those? That kind of music. They won’t be playing with Beyoncé at Gillette Stadium anytime soon, but I guess they have some fans around here. I told