Improv, Week 5

(testing my prompt for this week)

Gorilla Warfare

"Sometimes I forget there are gorillas behind me." My daughter, swept up in the latest app for I-phone, keeps getting bashed by primates in her pursuit of something I have yet to identify. But I relate to the ambush. My gorilla that day was laundry. I, for the moment, measuring my life in scoops of Tide. I used to proclaim, with some sense of originality, that while polishing one piece of my life, I neglected other pieces dissolving undetected into disarray. The mounds of laundry the product of dustless bookshelves, spot-free drinking glasses, tubs free of iron stains. Then I learned everyone feels that way. I'm no exception.

Sometimes I forget there are gorillas behind me. The five-pager due on Tuesday, buried in the prose of the hundred-pager up for discussion on Monday. My brain itches the word "write," my planner etches the word "read." What, Milton, should I remember from your tale? It won't be relevant. The relevant gorillas sneak up behind me in the robust analysis of a classmate. I remember fire. And ice. Damn primates. Reading the prose was not enough.

A gorilla. The word still evokes an image of my sister-in-law's dad, years before I was born, climbing into the gorilla habitat at the zoo, looking for a fight. I'm not kidding. He was inebriated, Denise says. That's her retelling the story he told her. I didn't know smuggling alcohol into a zoo was an option. Or desirable. He climbed in on a dare. He lost the fight. Lost two teeth. And some blood. Roger woke up the next morning in his own bed, where his friends left him and his mom found him. The gorillas I've seen seem sedated, content to let their leathery palms rest on the ground, staring in one direction for drawn out intervals. They looked bored, uninterested in the gawking audience, unfazed by our hankering to see them do something. Anything. Roger, I guess, determined to test the quiet. I'd like to see them in the wild.

Sometimes I forget there are gorillas behind me. Once, while buying groceries with my two youngest children, anxious to check out with the essentials in tow, I let drift through my ears Emily's quiet request to find a bathroom. I accused her many times before that of a bizarre fascination with restroom decor, certain that she only wanted to see what every toilet in every venue in every town looked like. Wasn't there anything original anywhere? But this day, comparing the fat content of fat-free refried beans and original refried beans, I failed to respond. I checked items off my list, Emily jogging my memory as I grouped cans, boxes, toiletries and produce on the checkout belt. "Almost done," I promised distractedly. As I handed my card to the cashier, a flood ensued, an embarrassing apology, an intercom call for disinfectant and mop. I was sorry. So sorry that I didn't heed to the gorillas behind me. I failed as a parent that day. I hugged her tightly, trying to undo her embarrassment at something she couldn't help, accepting all the blame myself, as I should. Tomorrow, I would do better.

Sometimes I forget there are gorillas behind me. The empty dog food bowl. The postponing of another date night. Sebastian trailing me with a ball in his mouth, wagging his tail. The stained coffee pot. The empty wine glass in the upstairs shower. The $30 field trip fee due yesterday. The empty toilet paper roll. Missing the deadline for a group rate at the Hilton DeSoto. Thesis research. The weeds around the lantanas. Forgetting to call my best friend. The unmopped floors, unanswered letters, 2,000 emails stuck in my inbox. Sometimes I forget, when I beg for consolation, there are gorillas behind you, too.