Early morning. The man decides to get a jump on the day. He puts
on a gorilla suit. It leaves a bad taste in his mouth, like napalm
on a hand-grenade pin.
He slips a man suit over the gorilla suit. The man feels unsure, so, over the man suit comes another gorilla suit—disgust, then a man suit, rejection, a gorilla suit, man suit, gorilla suit, man suit, gorilla suit, man, gorilla, man, gorilla…on and on until sunset.
The man takes the time to view himself in a mirror. The bulk of the suits has turned him into a butterball’s nightmare. He’s neither a handsome man, or a good-looking bananabuster. The man’s gone too far in the right direction.
He takes a gorilla suit off, feels no change, pulls off a man suit, no change, gorilla suit, man suit, gorilla suit, man suit, gorilla, man, gorilla, man…on and on through the evening.
Later, there’s a slight change for the better, like the woman who has the long good cry after her lover leaves then notices she’s lost weight.
The man wants to get to the heart of this feeling. More gorilla, more man suits peel away. He looks in the mirror. For a gorilla he’s sickly, for a man, puny.
The man breaks down and cries. He’s gone too far in the right direction.
Harry Greenberg is one of the editors of Some. He works at the Print Center is Brooklyn. (Spring 1975)