Nobody in this narrative has a sister named Jan. That's an entirely different story.
For 16 years, I have been a Pearl Jam fan. They followed in the footsteps of my very first love, The Beatles, and my second love, Led Zeppelin. When I was younger, more energized, and had much more of a disposable income from living with mommy and daddy, I used to save as much money as I could working a minimum wage part-time job. I would then proceed to buy as many tickets to Pearl Jam concerts that I could afford, factoring in plane flights and hotels. I was privileged to see 10 amazing concerts over the course of two US tours, one of which was a birthday present; tickets to see Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers, with Pearl Jam opening. My mom went with me, had amazing tufts of blue in her hair at the time, and was a favorite of all who sat near us. As anyone who has been to enough Pearl Jam concerts knows, a special poster is made just for that specific concert, and is sold out so quickly it will make your head spin. Unfortunately, I've only managed to pick up 3 posters during my Pearl Jam concert years, and I will forever be haunted by the mournful voices of the posters I wasn't able to lovingly frame and place in my home, like Scrooge in A Christmas Carol. Except I have 7 poster-ghosts haunting me, not a measly 3 ghosts who only show up at Christmas.
The Monkey Man I am talking about comes from a poster made for the June 6th, 2003 Pearl Jam concert in Las Vegas, Nevada. It was framed with funds from my parents, since I had absolutely no money left over from my expensive as hell summer sojourn. And while it moved into my room with much fanfare, then became extremely comfortable in its surroundings much more quickly than you would imagine, it's never been quite able to fit in with all the other items of my room (and houses) since. So yes, it makes its presence known. And seeing as I don't know how to incorporate it into any decor themes, I have stopped trying to make it fit in and now just celebrate it for its ability to wholeheartedly stand out. The fact that it does stand out, like the proverbial gorilla in the room (ha ha, so punny) will be very important to this story later on.
My grandma Lydia was my dad's mom, and she was an awesome, fiery Italian lady. She was well able to chase us kids down and administer the back-scratcher (very switch-like) to the backs of our legs (to our utter horror and respectful admiration) well into her 70's. In my teens, she had started to struggle with dementia, and by my late teens and early 20's, she was staying at our house 3 nights a week so we could keep an eye on her. While grandma was staying with us, my bedroom was her bedroom. The Las Vegas poster was placed next to some book shelves across from the foot of my bed, forever leering and salivating at you while you were trying to sleep. I thought it was awesome, frankly. So magically uncomfortable. She never said a word to me about the poster, and I honestly never gave it and my grandmother co-existing a single thought.
I was taking a lot of medication at that particular time in my life. My doctor was trying to contain my anxiety and depression just enough for me to get my own handle on my life, but that involved a lot of pills twice a day. I used a blue morning-night weekly pill keeper so I didn't have to drag the whole pharmacy of pill bottles down twice a day. Yes, at that time, I took that many pills. I was young and meek and didn't ask enough questions. I've learned better. But guess who else in the house took enough pills a day to need a morning-night pill keeper, even though it was a different color? My grandma! And can you guess who, in their burgeoning dementia, mixed up who had which pill case? You guessed it! My grandma! The pills of mine she accidentally took (which was found out because when I went to take them, the night compartment for that day had been cleaned out) did not harm her, but did make her rather (ahem) high. So very high, in fact, that she did not know where she was.
Her doctor's emergency line was duly called. We were told, after the doctor had been read the opus that was my medication list, that my grandmother would be just fine but that we should put her to bed so that she could sleep it off. I can remember my dad gently placing one arm across my grandma's back and around her shoulder, the other hand firmly under her forearm to help steady her, a loud-for-my-hard-of-hearing-grandma tone coming from his mouth, "Mom, let's go lay you down, okay?" Her voice quivering with fear and intoxication, she replied, "Son! Where am I? I don't know where I am! What's going on?" My father carefully and patiently ushered his mother through the living room, down the hall, and into my bedroom, telling her she was safe and at his house in his talking-to-grandma-voice. The rest of the family trooped behind the pair very quietly. We were worried, but slightly amused, too. It's not every day you see your grandma so high she doesn't know where she is, after all!
After the herd of us arrived at my doorway, my parents went in to help my grandma to bed, my sister and I hovering around my open door in moral support. Grandma was still so very confused, constantly asking to know where she was, but followed my parents' lead gamely. After she was tucked into bed, she glanced up, and I swear to you, a look of utter and abject relief washed almost painfully over her softly wrinkled face, like a light coming on after you have been living in a dark cave for a week.
"Oh! I know where I am now! I recognize that ugly monkey poster!"
With the knowledge of where she was in the world held firmly in her mind via the face of a leering, salivating Monkey Man, she fell asleep, awakening the next morning confused about her ordeal but feisty as usual.
So I guess, my friends, that this is truly a story of how one horrifyingly ugly Pearl Jam poster saved my grandmother's sanity.
Official Sanity Saver
