Going Bananas: A Horror Writer’s Guide to Primate PTSD
What happens when your origin story involves an actual monkey with a drinking problem and anger management issues
There’s a moment in every horror writer’s life when someone inevitably asks, “What made you so twisted?” Usually, this question comes from well-meaning readers who assume we’re channeling some deep, dark psychological wound into our work. They expect tales of Victorian houses with creaky floorboards, or perhaps a formative encounter with a Stephen King novel at an impressionable age.
In my case, the answer is simpler and infinitely more personal: a drunk monkey named Jocko tried to scalp me in Tarzana. (And yes, the irony of the location is not lost on me.)
This origin story has become the unlikely foundation for my latest novel, Macaque Attack, the first installment in my Nature’s Nightmares series. But before we dive into fictional primates wreaking havoc, let’s talk about the very real monkey who gave me both my first bald spot and my most enduring phobia.
The Monkey That Ruined It All
It’s the groovy seventies, and young me and my mom are living in a modest two-bedroom on Avenida Hacienda, in Tarzana (which was named after “Tarzan, the Ape Man” author Edgar Rice Burroughs’ old ranch). My mom’s boyfriend, Ron—a dead ringer for James Garner’s Maverick—has turned our garage into an art studio where he paints Gauguin-inspired nudes with what I can only describe as “geometrically challenging” posteriors.
Enter Jocko, courtesy of my mother’s soft heart and a sob story from a rheumy-eyed lush at a local bar. Because nothing says “responsible pet ownership” like acquiring a primate from a stranger in a parking lot, right?
Now, I need to be clear about something: I love animals. I’ve shared my life with rats, cats, dogs, hamsters, horses, goats, rabbits, ferrets, and even a squirrel. I’m the person who rescues spiders from bathtubs and feels guilty about stepping on ants. But monkeys? Monkeys are where I draw the line, and Jocko is exactly why.
This wasn’t some cuddly Curious George situation. Jocko was a spider monkey or capuchin—the jury’s still out—who arrived at our house with a serious case of attitude and the temperament of a tiny, fur-covered alcoholic going through withdrawal. He worshipped my mother but viewed everyone else as competition for her affections. As such, Ron and I were marked for elimination.
The little terrorist started by trashing Ron’s art studio, turning turpentine and oil paints into his personal vandalism medium. The Huns had nothing on Jocko. But his masterpiece of malevolence was yet to come.
The Grooming from Hell
One day, Jocko decided to “groom” me—a behavior that in the wild represents social bonding. In our living room, it represented something closer to assault with intent to cause permanent hair loss. After sorting through my strands with the dedication of a prospector searching for gold and finding nothing but disappointment, Jocko apparently decided I was holding out on him.
What happened next can only be described as a tiny primate having an epic meltdown. He went, quite literally, ape-shit, tearing out handfuls of my hair with a glaring, malevolent expression that screamed: “I WILL TAKE YOU DOWN, BITCH!” The result was a silver-dollar-sized bald scab that lasted for months—this was years before Rogaine, mind you—and a lifelong wariness of anything that swings from trees.
That was it for Jocko. You hurt Nancy’s kid, you’re history. Mom traded him to “animal trainer to the stars” Ralph Helfer’s ranch for a pair of rabbits who, it turned out, weren’t exactly cuddly either. The first time I tried to snuggle with one, it transformed into what I can only describe as “a Swiss Army knife with fur.” I still have those scars, too.
From Personal Trauma to Universal Terror
Fast-forward to 2024, and I’m watching the newly-released docuseries “Chimp Crazy” with the same horrified fascination most people reserve for car accidents. To me, this wasn’t entertainment; it was validation that my childhood monkey trauma wasn’t just a quirky family story but a legitimate reason to be terrified of our primate cousins.
The series peripherally covered the devastating case of Charla Nash, whose face was literally torn off by a chimpanzee named Travis in 2009. Nash’s story isn’t just heartbreaking, it’s a disconcerting reminder that the line between domesticated and wild is thinner than we’d like to believe, especially when it comes to animals that share 98% of our DNA.
