Monkey See, Monkey Poo

5th grade field trips were always the best and this one was certain to be as memorable as any other I could recall in my distant childhood. Now in my 60’s and facing numerous medical issues, I felt it was finally time to open the flood gates of buried emotions, and share with everyone the graphic details and acts of heroism I witnessed on this special day that has become so dear to my heart.

It was 1975, Gerald Ford was the president and the radio airwaves were filled with the soft melodies of bands such as; Bread, Chicago, Todd Rundgren, and Captain and Tennille. Despite the highly protested and disillusionment of the Vietnam War, the country still maintained an aura of innocence, while hitch-hiking was still considered a trusted venture in lieu of the many Serial Killers that would materialize throughout the 70’s and 80’s.

Our teacher Mrs. Pennington had announced on Monday morning that the newly authorized field trip was scheduled for the upcoming Friday, and we were all going to enjoy a full day at the newly renovated San Diego Zoo. Her announcement was received by a jubilant roar from a raucous herd of 10 year olds, who had no clue as to the whereabouts of San Diego. We didn’t have Google Maps in those days at our beckon finger tips. So when she announced it was a 2-hour bus ride from Los Angeles, it added even more excitement and anticipation to the long week ahead of us.

As a young boy, the opportunity to actually witness live animals such as lions, gorillas, and bears was something that sparked a slew of heated recess and lunchtime debates as to which animal or animals would provide the most bang for the buck. Typically, the girls expressed a desire for the more cuddly type of incarcerated critters, and the boys were more geared towards anything with fangs and claws that could mangle a human at will. I could only hope that this trip would live up to all the hype, and surely it was destined to raise the bar far beyond my wildest dreams.

It was a unique and impressionable time in my life and merely 6 years since Neil Armstrong had set foot on the moon and uttered those historic words “One small step for man, and one giant leap for holy shit what the hell is that?”

Certainly, Nasa officials altered the original broadcast, but over the years it was confirmed that indeed these were Armstrong’s actual words as he descended the ladder from the Lunar Module in front of the eyes of the entire world. Upon arriving back to earth, the CIA sternly advised him to maintain his secrecy as to whatever it was he witnessed on his historic journey. Lucky for him, it wasn’t the same fatal message they sent to Marilyn Monroe for seeing and knowing a bit too much for her own good.

Overall, these were simpler times and most kids rode their Schwinn and Huffy bicycles around the neighborhood streets as carefree as the wind. Reruns of the coolest sitcoms ruled the airwaves after school and you could easily get your daily fix of Gilligan’s Island, The Munsters, and The Brady Bunch.

It was also the year that a young Steven Spielberg became a household name after the mega blockbuster “Jaws” was released to massive crowds and kept beachgoers constantly on a reluctant edge. Hell, for a while there, I was even afraid to take a shower.

Finally, Friday morning arrived and we had anxiously boarded 3 school buses filled to capacity with a rambunctious group of students, faculty members, and a handful of volunteer parent chaperons. We departed at exactly 7:00 am and I clearly recall my mother warning me not to wear it, but I snuck it out of my closet anyway and changed into my Los Angeles Dodgers “Steve Garvey” jersey on the bus after our caravan had made its way onto the southbound onramp of the interstate 5 freeway. Steve Garvey was my favorite childhood player and knowing we were going to be in San Diego Padre territory for the day, offered up the perfect opportunity to represent the good old Dodger Blue.

Despite the early morning traffic we arrived at 9 o'clock right on the money. Before exiting the bus, we were given brief but detailed instructions as to where and when we would rejoin our classmates for lunch and basic rules as to how we should conduct ourselves on the facility including proper etiquette when interacting with the animals.

Our teacher Mrs. Pennington was adamant about the fact that we were the only class in our school district to be selected to visit the Zoo, and I’m sure she wanted to make sure we would represent ourselves with a touch of class as we were truly a reflection of her efforts to groom us as young responsible individuals. We loved Mrs. Pennington, and would do pretty much anything she asked, but as soon as the instructions were dolled out, we quickly broke off into small groups and began traversing the expansive park grounds with a true anticipation of each and every experience we would encounter.

Hot dogs, cotton candy and soda were the first things on the menu as my buddies and I loaded up on sugar and nitrates before scanning the park like a Seal Team 6 Unit on a secret mission. We’d been running loose for nearly 3 hours unsupervised and having the time of our lives until we noticed it was getting close to our lunch break. We’d already seen a whole slew of wild animals and I was still mesmerized by the length of the giraffe’s neck and how they easily plucked vegetation from the highest peaks of the trees. I thought to myself, if I only had a neck like that my mother wouldn’t be able to hide all the good snacks away on the top shelf of our kitchen cupboards.

As it approached 12 noon, we all started making our way back to the designated lunch area, when suddenly, we heard a loud roar and mixture of screams, laughter and shrieks emanating from the north end of the park. It sounded like mild hysteria and definitely piqued our interest as our plans for lunch were quickly diverted in order to investigate what the hell was going on. We quickly made a mad dash in the direction of the chaos, only to be intercepted by our good buddy and perennial class clown, Gilbert Ortiz. He had a crazed look in his eyes and appeared a bit winded from running as he began shouting, “Hang on guys, you’re going the wrong way,” he urged. “The monkeys have gone ape-shit! C’mon, follow me,” he insisted before sprinting away in the direction he had arrived.

Gilbert was by far the fastest kid in our school, but the adrenaline had us all right on his heels as we quickly arrived at the rear of a swarming massive crowd and what appeared to be a scene of pure and total chaos. None of us were taller than 5 foot 5 at the time and we all stretched out our necks and bounced on our tippy-toes to peer over the crowd.

Till this day I still wonder if I hadn’t developed permanent ear damage from the glass shattering screams of at least 50 pre-teen girls all bellowing in unison. The first visible sign of something horribly amiss was the sight of poor Tiffany Johnson, arguably the prettiest girl in our class. She was tall and slender with long blonde hair that hung down to her waist. Her ivory white skin was accentuated by the deepest green eyes I’d ever seen. But at this moment, her natural beauty was being overshadowed as she was being escorted from the area by two visibly shaken parent chaperons. Tears rolled down her face as she sobbed uncontrollably. Upon closer inspection, I noticed a large brown smear on the front of her bright yellow dress and she was reluctantly running her fingers through her typically long flowing mane that was now matted and soiled.

A myriad of thoughts ran through my mind in a few desperate seconds before Gilbert forged his way zig-zagging and circumventing the crowd literally dragging us right to the front of a chain link fence that was separated by a 20-foot deep waterway that encircled the entire chimpanzee habitat. Beyond that was a massive concrete platform and a variety of jungle-like trees and vines that hung from a full enclosure. Ultimately, it looked like a good 40 yards of distance from where we stood and the gang of radical and nervously pacing monkeys.

The area had an unforgiving horrid stench and we quickly found ourselves staring right into the glazed over eyes of about 7 chimps who stood tall and defiant in the face of a crowd that had grown to over 100 strong. There was a sense of pure resentment and angst in the air as the monkeys wasted no time and quickly gathered their own feces, molded it into mini cannon balls and strategically took aim before launching their attack at the astonished and quickly scattering crowd. Some of the monkeys would shit on the concrete on demand and quickly scoop it up for their assaults, and some of the more efficient monkeys opted instead to shit directly into their eagerly awaiting hands to quickly launch their own attacks. The yelps and screams of the crowd continued as the skies were filled with flying monkey turds like Scud Missiles over Iraq during the Desert Storm conflict. It was an overwhelming sight and suddenly, we found ourselves fully submerged into the true horrors of war that had seemingly fallen upon our innocent and impressionable souls.

Essentially, it had become a high-stakes game of Fecal Dodgeball. The field trip chaperons had lost all control of the situation and our teacher Mrs. Pennington had just arrived on the scene and was barking out commands to leave the area and seek cover. “Children, please, please move back and seek shelter,” she begged with her voice nearly cracking in distraught.

It was at that very moment, I witnessed an event that has been seared into my memory some 50 years after the fact as a perfectly executed side-arm toss of hot monkey excrement soared through the air in slow motion and landed directly on the right side of poor Mrs. Pennington’s face. It was a horrific wet thud that splattered in an explosive manner upon impact. Her black rimmed cat-eyed glasses flew one way, and her bright red wig seemed to do a full 360 spin on her head before resting halfway skewed with her bangs hanging down over her left ear.

She simply froze in place in a state of shock at the unsuspected accuracy of those dirty bastards. The monkeys, fully knowing they had accomplished their mission burst into a jubilant dance of sorts with an uncontrollable frenzy of spinning and flipping motions that clearly displayed their approval. It was reminiscent of the 80’s and 90’s NFL endzone antics that would certainly draw a flag for flagrant celebration. I couldn't actually confirm any High-5’s being exchanged, but I can vouch for what I would consider to be the inception of the victorious Chest-Bump.

These crazy monkeys were frighteningly intelligent and appeared to derive an abnormal amount of entertainment value from each filthy onslaught they mastermind at the perilous and curiosity seeking crowd. Essentially, we were now fully immersed and in the midst of the Chimpanzee Shit-Fest Dodgeball Championships. And like any other group of preteen American boys, we took this shit very seriously! Pun fully intended.

Per the rules of the game, Mrs. Pennington was immediately disqualified and escorted from the warzone and led to a neutral area as my buddies and I continued the game to the ultimate delight of these four-foot tall bow legged bastards. At first, the five of us separated and bobbed and weaved our way through each and every onslaught that these thug-like chimps could amass. But it wasn't long before we suffered our first casualty. It was Mike De Lara, the first baseman on my Little League baseball team who took the first spill on the slippery and foul terrain. The monkeys seeing him in a vulnerable situation descended upon him with a hail of shit that he was unable to avert as he laid motionless on the ground covered in hot steamy monkey dung. Like true Marines, we rushed out to his rescue and pulled him to the sidelines and out of the line of fire.

What seemed like an eternity of hellish battle, went on for about 15 minutes until we regrouped and formed another strategy. It was becoming quite obvious that the chimps although, successful in the initial stages, had now begun to experience intestinal issues in their reloading process. There was a lot of grunting and groaning as their munitions had apparently begun to run dry. Taking full advantage of the lapse in their aggressive attack, the boys and I ventured out and gathered up a half dozen circular trash can lids for protection. We now looked like an organized regiment of Gladiators as we held up our plastic shields and began to approach the very edge of the fence. The monkeys now sensing the tide had turned began to show an intense amount of fear as they broke ranks and scurried about wildly screaming their disapproval. One of my other buddies, Mike Franco, commandeered an abandoned hot dog cart and we began our own attack by launching an arsenal of flying hot dogs and condiments. One after another, with laser-like accuracy, hot dogs and ketchup packets continued over the fence in a full out barrage that the monkeys could not defend. The looks on their faces were priceless as they retreated back into the rocky and green misty confines of their own habitat.

After a few minutes of utter silence, we accepted their disappearance as a full fledged surrender. Now it was our time to dance around in victory amongst a battle field of 3-inch deep monkey shit, shredded hot dogs, and projectile vomit that most of our female classmates had contributed on their way out fleeing the scene in utter disgust.

We simply relished in the moment of victory and looked upon each other with a whole new sense of brotherhood. But sadly the moment would be short lived as a team of fast acting Zoo staff members suddenly appeared with pulsating water hoses in hand and dressed in orange and yellow Hazmat looking jumpsuits. We were angrily asked to disperse and despite our new found battle tested bravery and courage, we fled the area just as quickly as our hairy-assed adversaries had done in their reluctant retreat.

Upon returning home that evening, we were thrilled to see that our little shit-fest melee had garnered enough attention for a 30 second blurb on the evening news. All of us newly decorated warriors had been captured on surveillance CCTV cameras and someone in the Zoo staff had leaked the footage out to the local news channels. Thus, allowing us to basically return home to an unforeseen new celebrity and heroic status. Perhaps, it was our 15 minutes of fame, but in all honesty, it was a badge of honor that lasted a lifetime. I’m still telling the story now nearly 50 years after the incident occurred and sadly, it appears that I am the sole survivor of those 5 soldiers that banded together on that overcast afternoon in San Diego.

Despite what others might say, I abandoned my childhood that afternoon and without hesitance entered the gates of manhood. Let it be known that forever I will stand tall and remain filled with pride as the sole survivor of The Battle of Monkey Ball Ridge.