Hippie Canyon Vintage Voicings: Monkey Head

Harold brought in a monkey head; not an actual monkey's head, but an animatronic one. My first reaction was, "Oh, my God! A monkey head!" I could barely contain my enthusiasm, but I'm not sure why. I was fascinated. It was just a head. Harold set it on its own special little table, underneath a pink fringed Victorian floor lamp. It had its own spotlight. We plugged it into the wall, and it sprang to life immediately, chatting chimpanzee speak, moving its head from side to side, wiggling its eyebrows, and cooing.

The monkey head is very random. It will sit quietly for some time, and then start going through its bag of tricks sporadically. It follows me with its eyes when I walk past it. I stare back. I also talk to it like it was a real monkey. "Hello, monkey!" Usually when I address it, it ignores me, but not always. I want it to respond, I want to strike up a genuine rapport, but it's just an animatronic head, so I also know that this is not possible. But my mind has conjured up several scenarios involving true connection.

I think maybe I will be at work one night, after the store closes, and the monkey head will strike up a conversation, because in addition to knowing a few movements, gestures, and sounds it would also know how to speak English. Maybe it could advise me in personal matters? Maybe it would be a psychoanalytical monkey? Maybe it would know some Freudian theories? Maybe it would be able to see inside my soul and guide me through some kind of mystical journey? The possibilities are endless.

Maybe it would be a monkey head from outer space? Or a God Head? Maybe it would have all the answers to all the questions in the Universe?

In the meantime, I enjoy it for various reasons, most of which are somewhat vague.

Customers are immediately drawn to it, also. As soon as they walk through the door, they see it sitting on its special little table, underneath the Victorian lamp, and they call out to their companions, "Monkey head! Look! Look at the talking monkey head!" They walk quickly towards it, to examine it closer, to have an intimate moment with this strange contraption; they react as if it was a real monkey.

It appears to be motion-sensitive (but not always), and when someone approaches, it moves its head, or lets out a little cry, or wiggles its eyebrows at them. Now I'm watching the monkey head, and other people's reaction to it, and its reaction to them. It's almost like a real monkey. Without a body.

A little boy came in the store with his family, and picked up the monkey's remote control unit and had that monkey head jumping through hoops. He ran down the entire list of available monkey tricks and commands, and I have to say that I was more impressed than ever. The monkey head was far more versatile than I had originally suspected.

An older man came in (maybe in his sixties or seventies) with coke-bottle glasses, and high-waisted brown polyester pants, and kept muttering to himself while he tried on roller skates. We had just put about eight pairs in the front window, and he tried on every pair to see if they would fit; none of them did. Each time he would put on a new pair, he would talk to himself about whether the skates fit him or not, and he came to the same conclusion every time: no, they did not fit. He would stand up and attempt to skate across the floor, anyway, just to make sure.

The little boy's family continued to browse for a while in the other rooms, and he spent all his time with the monkey head; while it made guttural noises, and shrieked out, shaking its head from side to side. I think it would have beat on its chest, if it had had one.

The older man continued to skate wobbly back and forth on the freshly tiled and slippery floor, muttering to himself about shoe size.

I hoped for the best, and went into the kitchen to make a sandwich.