My mom cried when I got the job as valet at the Bored Ape Yacht Club, one of the preeminent social clubs for apes. She hooted and grunted and peeled open one of our finest bananas. “Jenkins,” she said, “you’re going to rub shoulders with some of the finest apes from around the world.” I rolled my eyes. She had a knack for embellishment, and I was only going to be a valet after all.

My first boss, 6056, approached me at the valet stand on a crisp November night. “Come with me,” he grunted. Happy to oblige, and a bit fearful, I put my smoke break sign on the counter top. Aping. Back in 5.

I grew up across the train tracks from GoldApe Snacks where the wealthy apes worked. These apes made bananas by the caseload yield farming in the metaverse. They borrowed against their portfolios, invested in shitcoins, and rode them to the moon. Most employees at GoldApe Snacks had angry eyes, and they were fearless. They were full of ambition, until it broke them.

It takes a special key in your Metamask wallet to get into the bathroom at the Bored Ape Yacht Club, but it’s free to enter the alleyway behind it. Far back, at the edge of the club’s boat slips, where the small cabin cruisers are docked, there is a short stretch of wooden plank. It’s dark and smells of salt, smoke, and ape.

Igor and Spicoli planned most of their spy missions out of the Bored Ape Yacht Club. Once long lost brothers, they were now co-leaders of Directorate Ape, the KGB’s Foreign Operation and Ape Intelligence unit. The yacht club was a natural choice for these communists to set up their spy operations, as only 3% of apes wore Commie hats and spoke Russian. With Igor and Spicoli working from the BAYC, Ape 6056 and his mafia were not the only organized crime group in town.

Royce Edmondz was one of the unlucky apes to hear his birthday picked on public radio way back on December 1, 1962. Just as soon as he felt his life was starting, he was drafted to fight in the Great Ape War. A simple ape from rural Tennessee with a love of horses, he had dreams of staying in his hometown and making it big on the rodeo scene.

It sounded like a tsunami, but the sea was calm. There was a swell and a crashing bang, but at the source of the disturbance was an ape. From a distance, he looked bored like every other ape in 2031.

9361 didn’t start his career as the high-powered supervillain you see today. He started back in 2021 with low-level crimes. He set up bots on marketplaces and made offers on NFTs with USDC. It was deplorable work, but it paid the bills, until OpenSea implemented their product change.

Ella excelled in the sun-kissed Santa Clara Valley. Ethereum was ripping, bonsai trees were growing, and we hadn’t yet learned that AI bots ghost wrote many of the tweets we read. It was well known in Ella’s neighborhood that she was a good girl, and many said she was the best. When she wasn’t down the street marking her favorite fire hydrant, you could find her curled up at the foot of a fire, snoring with her old laced shoes tucked beneath her.

To most at the Bored Ape Yacht Club, a work vest is a symbol of less than. No ape is intentionally rude, but somewhere in the collective ape subconscious there is a distinction between those who socialize at the club and those who work. However, to service apes -- the ones who wear the vests -- there is a different connotation. The work vest represents modest means and hustle. Every ape has a story, and those with work vests have one of perseverance.

It’s funny how much perspective matters but how rarely we ever consider it. Like many of my fellow apes, my entire world revolves around the yacht club. On occasion I come up for air after a long day of docking boats and helping patrons with odd jobs. Sometimes I zoom out to buy the dip or to consider moving to Guam based on the latest whims of the SEC. However, for the most part, my entire identity is tied up in serving as the valet at the Bored Ape Yacht Club.