GORILLA: A SHORT STORY

I went on the family trip this year hoping that Mom wouldn’t bring the gorilla. What gorilla, you may ask. Or maybe you don’t give a shit. Either way, I’m telling you.

Mom’s gorilla has been with her for way too long. At first it was flat-out denial. “What?” She would ask us, confused, whenever we mentioned the gigantic hairy mammal eating plants on the balcony. It seemed like she just couldn’t see it. Or was she challenging us? I pressed on, adamant that she admit she could see it, which led to a provoked fight as well as accusations that I was attacking her about this non-existent gorilla.

Perhaps things would have been fine if the gorilla had a mild temperament. As it was, we spent many uncomfortable dinners eating quietly amidst a room being torn apart by the gorilla having one of its tantrums. We learned to tally up the damages and leave the list on my Dad’s desk. My brother and I would glue the furniture back together, kind of like a fun bonding ritual, except we didn’t talk.

Over the years, Mom started to take on the gorilla’s characteristics. Her coworkers started to complain about unexpected outbursts. We would ask Mom to control the gorilla, and she would ignore us. Sometimes she deflected it onto us: “You take care of it then, since you’re the one that has a problem with it.” So we did the only thing left to do - we got used to it. I began buying household items with an indestructible factor of 10, a rating reserved for dog toys on Amazon.

I was careful not to name Gorilla because I didn’t want to get attached. Givers of unsolicited advice warned against this. They suggested that not naming Gorilla makes her feel like she’s not part of the family, hence the tantrums. An irate gorilla is the last thing you want. When that thing flies into a rage, you better catch it before the eyebrows knit together.

I didn’t buy this. I didn’t buy Gorilla either, but I was never involved in any decisions. The way my Dad tells it, there was no decision. One day he got home from work and there was my Mom cooking in the kitchen, with a gorilla in the corner. He merely adjusted his glasses. What else could he do? He's a civil engineer, a city planner. As life with the primate went on,
Dad started to plan everything around it, including our family trips.

So why did I think it would be gone? It was more than wishful thinking, it was based in practicality. We were taking a week to drive up the West Coast, stopping to visit and sightsee along the way. Have you ever travelled with a gorilla? For our family of four, my Dad rented a van that sits seven. The gorilla needs three seats. We also have a lot of luggage, and I mean luggage as in moisture wipes and bananas. And guess what? Bananas stink, when you have an entire trunkful. We have to keep the windows open. So much for conversation. For miles all you can hear is the whooshing highway and heavy breathing.

Yes, Gorilla pants loudly even though the A/C vents are all pointed at her. There were frequent stops to attend to her needs, whenever they arise. All those bananas have to go somewhere, right? The bathroom stops are usually half an hour, sometimes longer if she isn't feeling it. Then there's the shower. We sleep in a rainforest habitat every night. Gorilla spends the night sleeping in the tub, steaming up the entire motel room and using up the hot water. And gorilla farts. Gorilla farts.

I read that female gorillas mate when they're ten, but she's been with us for longer than that. She’s learned sign language, specifically the words for "furious" and "disappointed in you". Gorilla scares other people too. Some pretend they don't see her, the same way we did. It would be embarrassing to acknowledge her and worse to talk about her. Others point out Gorilla hoping to get a response from us, like telling someone to curb their out-of-control dog or child. That’s like when you’re driving at night and twelve people tell you your headlight is out: yes thank you, that’s why I’m driving to the shop to get it fixed. We would just turn the radio to baseball while Dad chugged on relentlessly as our determined driver. This was the way my family communicated, which was by saying a lot with silence.

Now when Mom’s eyebrows draw upwards, I’m prepared. My brother walks away, so he can start up the car and have the A/C on. We bring Gorilla into the van so they can both cool down. We fan the leaves and lull them into a sleep. Before long, both are snoring.

There's only so much back-scratching one can take though. It's hard having a phone conversation when there's a gorilla hooting in the background. I’m allowed to have gripes, especially after fanning enormous leaves for hours on end. A/C only does so much.

Are there nice moments with Gorilla? Sure. If you count photo opportunities, stories mined from traumatic experiences and such. I value my demons and baggage as much as the next aspiring writer; I would be nowhere without them. But really though, I crave a mother of the tamer kind. There’s got to be a limit to the number of dinner parties with sulking gorillas in corners that a person can be subjected to. Is it so much to ask for, a gorilla-less mother? I guess there’s only one way to find out. I’m learning sign language. Gorilla, if you can read my hands, please go home: “We love Mom. But we don’t love Gorilla.”