boats and such

The boat was my home as much as any other place; always moving, though here I was more at rest than any other. The work was demanding, but not lasting long, and a monkey comes along as I write this to steal my pen, drink my coffee, and arrest my hands. I can’t even smoke a cigarette without him trying to taste it. Where did he come from? He is a stow-away, and a skilled one at that. As the horn was sounding the boat’s departure, he showed himself, too far away from the dock to throw him back.
A customer thought I was cussing at him, until he saw the monkey sitting under his chair. The boat is his home more than mine, though he has been evicted many times. The engine room is his comfort, as he is my annoyance. I never wanted a child, and I’ll be no mother to this monkey, though I have taught him a few significant things: don’t drink my coffee, and don’t chew the tobacco from my cigarettes, and don’t try to eat my books. This was all taught with a slap, and is occasionally reinforced with one, to which he responds by howling at me indignantly, as if he would scold me.
And after I’ve had enough of teaching him life’s important lessons, I grab him by the tail, and throw him from the boat into the tree to which we are tied where he has his lunch of leaves, and I can be alone again.
Another day as I type this up, he decides to share my lunch, though I know he has just come up from eating with the crew on the bottom deck. An idea comes to me, and I go into the dining room returning with one of last night’s caught caiman taking the duct tape from around his mouth. I take some old fishing line making him a harness the other end of which is tied to my table on the top deck. This quite distresses Nicolau which can be told from his disconcerted grunting, though what it more powerful than his fear of caimans, is his curiosity. If curiosity killed the cat, then the monkey was long dead before they came up with that saying. After awhile he notices that I pull the fishing line to position the caiman between him and myself, and he begins to tug on the fishing line himself to which the caiman responds by running after him. Howling he scurries to the top of the nearest chair where he continues his disconcerted grunting. After 5 minutes he is on the seat of the chair reaching his hand towards the caiman. Retracting and re-extending his arm several times towards the caiman, he pokes the caiman in the eye with the caiman returning a snap and him returning a howl. Having enough, I throw the caiman on top of him and he runs away with his little monkey screeches.
Finally alone, I ponder the river wondering if it knows more of where it’s going than I do. The trees are all half under water, but they don’t drown. The water is oppressive this season, and soon I will be going away with less in my pocket than when I came; almost not worth it. Not quite sure where I’m going until I step on dry land again, and we’ll see if these boots know where they’re going.