Chapter 13: The One with the Monkey
The week before Christmas had its own particular energy in New York — the city fully committed now, no hedging, the decorations that had been going up since Halloween finally justified by the calendar.
Snow had come and gone twice already, leaving the streets with that specific December quality: wet and bright, the slush at the curb doing battle with the cold, the lights on every storefront doing their best work against the early dark.
Ethan drove over to Monica's with the radio on, the heater running, the city scrolling past the windows like it was showing off. He'd been in a good mood for three days running, which was either the season or the script or the fact that he'd slept eight hours two nights in a row, which was, for a PhD student in the final stretch, practically decadent.
The script was done. Or done enough — the kind of done where you could show it to people and have a conversation about it, which was different from the kind of done where it went to a production company, but it was the first kind and that was real.
He'd been calling it Predestination in his head for weeks, because that was what it was — the time-loop story, the one where the causality folded back on itself in ways that were philosophically dizzying and scientifically coherent, where the protagonist turned out to be every character simultaneously, where the ending was also the beginning in a way that wasn't cheap.
It was the tightest, most self-contained of the ideas he'd been circling, and it had the virtue of being producible on a reasonable budget — no alien civilizations, no special effects that required technology that didn't exist yet, just a smart story that trusted its audience.
He knocked twice and pushed open Monica's door.
The apartment had been decorated with the commitment Monica brought to everything she cared about — the tree was in the corner doing its full Christmas tree thing, the lights were the white kind that looked like snow, the smell of something good was already coming from the kitchen even though it was two in the afternoon.
"The script," Monica said, before he'd gotten his coat off. "How is it?"
"Done," Ethan said.
"Done done, or—"
"Done enough to exist as a thing," Ethan said. "Done enough to show people."
Monica clapped her hands once, which was her version of a standing ovation. "Tell me everything."
"The premise is—" He paused, because the premise was genuinely difficult to explain without either giving too much away or making it sound ridiculous. "Okay. The male lead and the female lead are the same person."
Monica stared at him. "What?"
"Time loops," Ethan said. "It's a time travel story where the causality folds back on itself. The protagonist causes their own existence. The ending is the beginning."
Monica sat down on the couch with the expression of someone genuinely working through something. "That's either very clever or very—"
"It's very clever," Ethan said pleasantly. "I've checked."
Joey emerged from the kitchen holding a Christmas cookie in each hand, which he was eating simultaneously in the particular Joey way that suggested he'd been sampling Monica's prep work for some time. He heard the last thirty seconds of the conversation and his expression went through recognition, confusion, and delight in quick succession.
"A movie," he said. "You finished the script."
"First draft," Ethan said.
"Is there a role for me." This was not a question.
"There's a role for you," Ethan confirmed.
Joey raised both cookie hands above his head. "I'm going to be in a movie," he said, to the room at large, and then to Monica, and then to Chandler who had appeared from the hallway, and then slightly in the direction of the window, in case the city wanted to know.
"You haven't read the script," Chandler said.
"I don't need to read the script," Joey said. "Ethan said there's a role for me. That's enough."
"That's a lot of professional trust to extend on the basis of one conversation," Ethan said.
"You've never steered me wrong," Joey said.
Ethan thought about the advice he'd given Joey about the butt double job and decided not to revisit it.
The door opened.
Ross came in.
There was a monkey on his shoulder.
The monkey was small, brown, alert-eyed, and was looking around Monica's apartment with the focused curiosity of someone arriving somewhere new and taking inventory. It had its small hands resting on Ross's collar with the comfortable proprietary air of a creature that had already decided this arrangement worked for it.
Everyone in the room stopped.
The monkey looked at everyone.
Everyone looked at the monkey.
"Ross," Monica said, very carefully.
"His name is Marcel," Ross said, with the expression of a man who had been waiting for this moment and was enjoying it slightly more than the situation warranted. "He's a white-headed capuchin. My colleague Bethany rescued him from a research reassignment situation, and she couldn't keep him, and I—" He shrugged, which disturbed Marcel slightly, who adjusted his grip. "He needed somewhere to go."
"He needed somewhere to go," Chandler repeated slowly, "and your answer was: my apartment."
"It's a good apartment for a monkey," Ross said.
"How would you—" Chandler stopped. "How do you know what's a good apartment for a monkey?"
"Square footage, natural light, minimal breakable objects at lower elevations," Ross said, with the confidence of a man who had done research. "Mine checks out."
Marcel had gotten over the initial survey and was now looking at Joey with an expression of specific interest. Joey was looking back with an expression of equal specific interest.
"Hey buddy," Joey said softly.
Marcel tilted his head.
"Hey," Joey said again.
They regarded each other for a moment with the focused attention of two beings who had decided they were going to get along.
"Joey and the monkey are going to be friends," Phoebe said, with the certainty of someone who had perceived this correctly.
"Marcel," Ross said. "His name is Marcel."
"Joey and Marcel are going to be friends," Phoebe revised.
Monica had retreated to the kitchen to process her feelings about the monkey through the medium of food preparation, which was her standard approach to strong emotions. She leaned out from the doorway periodically to ask questions.
"What does he eat?"
"Fruit, mostly," Ross said. "Vegetables. Some protein. He's not picky."
"Does he eat Christmas cookies?"
"Monica, please don't give my monkey Christmas cookies."
"I wasn't going to give him Christmas cookies," Monica said, in the tone of someone who had been about to give him Christmas cookies. "I was just asking."
"He has specific dietary needs," Ross said.
"Everyone has specific dietary needs," Monica said. "That's why I ask."
Ethan watched Marcel navigate his way from Ross's shoulder to the back of the couch, moving with the fluid confidence of a creature comfortable in three dimensions, and felt the particular low-level delight of something unexpected being better than anticipated.
"What does he do?" Rachel asked, sitting at the careful distance of someone who was interested but hadn't fully committed to being interested.
"What do you mean, what does he do?" Ross said.
"Like — is he trained? Can he do things?"
"He's not a circus animal, Rachel."
"I didn't say circus, I said things."
"He's very intelligent," Ross said, with the pride of a man who had owned something for approximately four days and was already deeply invested. "He understands tone. He responds to his name. He can open certain containers."
"What kind of containers?" Chandler asked.
"Simple ones," Ross said. "Jars, mostly."
"So he's better at domestic tasks than Joey," Chandler said.
"Hey," Joey said, and then: "That's fair."
The conversation eventually found its way, as conversations in this apartment always did, to the holidays.
"Christmas and New Year," Monica said, coming out of the kitchen with a plate of things that smelled excellent. "What's everyone doing?"
The group went around.
Phoebe had her grandmother for Christmas Day, and New Year's she was open — there was a street performance thing she was considering, a midnight set in the Village, but nothing confirmed.
Rachel was doing Christmas with her parents, which was still in the cautious-rebuilding phase but was progressing — her father had called twice that week, which was twice more than the month before. New Year's was open.
Ross had Carol and Susan for Christmas dinner, which he reported with the slightly-too-neutral expression of a man who had made peace with something and was actively maintaining that peace.
"Susan's making the dessert," Ross said.
"Is she a good baker?" Ethan asked.
"She's an excellent baker," Ross said, in a tone that suggested he resented this fact.
Joey was going to Queens for Christmas, the flu poster situation having resolved sufficiently that a return was possible. New Year's he was hoping for — he made a gesture that communicated someone to spend it with without specifying further.
Chandler said he was fine for both and offered no additional information.
Everyone looked at Ethan.
"Julia's filming through January," he said. "Vancouver, then they move to a location in Oregon. So—" He made a small gesture. "I'm here."
Chandler sat up slightly. "Okay. Then here's what I'm thinking. New Year's — all of us. No going out, no separate plans, nobody trying to find someone to kiss at midnight. Just us. Dinner here, stay until the ball drops, done."
"That sounds like giving up," Joey said.
"That sounds like choosing well," Phoebe said.
"It sounds like both," Ethan said. "Which is usually the right call."
Joey opened his mouth to object further, and Ethan put a hand briefly on his shoulder.
"Joey," Ethan said. "Think about last Thanksgiving. The plans that didn't work out. The balloon dog."
Joey thought about it.
"That was actually really good," Joey said.
"Yeah," Ethan said. "This will be too."
Joey considered this for a moment with genuine seriousness. "Okay," he said finally. "But I get to pick the midnight song."
"Absolutely not," Monica said.
"Why not?"
"Because last time you were in charge of music you played the Rocky theme for forty-five minutes."
"That was one time and we were all very motivated by the end of it," Joey said.
"The midnight song is a committee decision," Ethan said. "We'll vote."
"Fine," Joey said. "I'll campaign."
"Please don't campaign," Rachel said.
"I'm going to campaign," Joey said.
Marcel had made his way to the windowsill and was watching the street with the focused attention of a creature for whom windows were a relatively new technology and remained fascinating. The Christmas lights from the building across the street reflected in small points in his eyes.
Ross came to stand beside him, looking out at the same view.
"He likes the lights," Ross said.
"Everybody likes the lights," Ethan said, coming to stand on the other side.
They stood there for a moment, the three of them — two men and one capuchin monkey — looking out at the December city, the snow starting up again in the light from the streetlamps, the sound of Monica's kitchen and everyone else's conversation behind them.
"He's good company," Ross said quietly. "I know it sounds—"
"It doesn't sound like anything," Ethan said. "The apartment was quiet. Now it's less quiet. That's a reasonable solution."
"Monica thinks it's insane."
"Monica will come around," Ethan said. "Give her until she sees him do something she finds cute, which will take approximately one more visit."
Ross looked at Marcel, who had pressed one small hand against the glass to feel the cold through it.
"Yeah," Ross said. "Probably."
Later, after Ross had demonstrated Marcel's ability to retrieve specific objects by name — which was either impressive or concerning depending on your perspective — and Joey had taught Marcel a high-five that Marcel had performed once and then declined to repeat, and Phoebe had written the opening verse of what she announced would be an original Christmas song about primates, Monica brought out the food.
She'd made enough for eight, which was Monica's standard operating procedure, and had included, on a small separate plate at Ross's spot, a careful selection of fruit pieces — no kiwi, because Ross had mentioned the allergy, just sliced apple and a few grapes — with a small card that said Marcel in Monica's handwriting.
Ross looked at the plate. Then at Monica.
"I wasn't going to leave him out," Monica said, with the practical dignity of someone who had made a decision and was not making a thing of it.
Ross looked like he might say something sentimental. Monica pointed the serving spoon at him.
"Don't," she said.
"I wasn't going to say anything," Ross said.
"You were about to get sincere," Monica said. "Save it. Eat."
They ate.
Marcel ate his apple slices with the focused attention of a creature taking the meal seriously, which Ethan found genuinely charming. The conversation went from the script to New Year's to Joey's Days of Our Lives callback — which was progressing, which was real, which Joey was trying not to jinx by talking about too much — to Ross's research, to Rachel's plans for after the holidays, to Phoebe's primate song, which she performed two verses of a cappella and which was better than expected.
By the time the plates were cleared and the lights on the tree were doing their best work in the dark of the early evening, the apartment had that quality it got when everyone was in it and nobody was leaving yet — warm and specific and slightly too full and exactly right.
Marcel was asleep on Ross's lap, one small hand curled around Ross's thumb.
"He trusts you," Phoebe said.
"Yeah," Ross said, looking down at him with the expression of a man who had not expected to feel this way about a capuchin monkey and had arrived there anyway. "I think he does."
Outside, the snow was coming down properly now, the city going quiet under it in the way New York occasionally went quiet — briefly, partially, just enough to notice.
Ethan sat back and looked at the room.
The tree. The monkey. The friends. The script on his hard drive. Julia in Vancouver, probably done for the day now, the time difference making it early evening there too.
He'd call her later. Tell her about Marcel. She'd laugh — the real one.
Good enough, he thought.
More than good enough.
Next: Marcel learns to use the remote. Joey's Days of Our Lives callback becomes an audition becomes a role. The New Year's Eve plan survives contact with Joey's campaigning. Ross tries to teach Marcel to say his name and this does not go as planned.
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