by Bill Olver
of everlasting rodents.
Loony doctors poke and prod their rat collection.
Just what the average household needs…
radioactive vermin.
Some try their insanity out on rabbits.
So cute and cuddly now has the strength of ten men.
Be first on your block
with a fur coat that stops bullets.
But chimps, that’s a different story.
We’re talking simian, higher primates,
brains in the range of 282-500 cc,
upright walk, able to carry objects in hands,
use tools and symbols…
we don’t bother with guinea pigs or rats or rabbits…
we work on men exclusively.
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HAM’S POEM
by John Grey
When I think of all the chimps
that have never known a world
outside of rainforest canopy,
whose instinct tells them
the slow brown Congo river
is the outer boundary of all life—
not a one of them
has trained for months
at an air-force base,
pulled levers
in response to flashing blue lights,
been punished with electric shocks
or rewarded with banana pellets—
they only know communities,
alpha male, dominant female,
a hierarchal order that
defines their place within it—
no shiny white laboratories,
merely nests in tree forks,
no gathering of the best and brightest,
just parents and siblings huddling close—
yes, when I think of the chimps
that live and die and familiar jungle,
that live off the fruits,
swing from the vines,
cackle together in that great primate chorus—
not a space mission
between the lot of them,
no project Mercury,
no Cape Canaveral blast-off,
no sub-orbital flight,
no splash down in the Atlantic ocean—
when I think of those chimps,
which is often,
I have a hard time
thinking of me.
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John Grey (Meanwhile, Back at the Lab; Ham’s Poem) has been published recently in the Echolocation, Santa Fe Poetry Review, Caveat Lector, Clark Street Review, GW Review and the Potomac Review.
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AN ODE TO HAM
by James Frederick William Rowe
Intrepid gallant of the genus Pan
You were tasked to pierce the heavens high
Filling your charge with such dash and élan
Your hands were first to wave the world goodbye!
And when you returned to the atmosphere
The commander was first to shake your hand
In honour of the dangers you withstood!
Triumph is yours, astrochimp without fear
Without whom our rockets would ne’er be manned
You turned our space-flight dreams from should to would!
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WONDERLAND BY NIGHT
by Sarah Hilary
I was with Johnson on his last day on earth. We were in Bernard’s Surf, slurping oysters and beer. Bert Kaempfert was playing on the radio. Johnson was hitting on a brunette with a tired face who wasn’t impressed by his stories. He was saying how he was in the Space Program. She didn’t believe him, of course. This was early ’61; hardly anyone was talking about the Program.
Johnson didn’t like long silences. When he got to a gap in the conversation, he had to stuff it full of words, like a mobster packing pool balls into a sock. When the brunette began to yawn, he switched to something like the truth: “I train monkeys.”
For “train”, read torture.
It was Johnson who set the voltage, deciding how many watts were too many, how much was enough to make the chimps dance.
The chimps hated Johnson. You could see it in their faces. I wasn’t much in love with him myself. A little man that fate had made a demagogue, a small-minded monster. You don’t believe me, ask the chimps. Ask Minnie.
That’s Minnie, with the wise eyes, sad.
I saw a picture of Edith Piaf once. She had the same eyes, all of her soul in there.
Minnie is Ham’s understudy. She’s the only female in the Program. Ham’s on his way to being famous, our first astrochimp. Minnie’s destined for an Air Force chimp-breeding project. I know, ain’t we the heroes of the Western World? Darwin would’ve loved us.
Minnie’s going make a great mom, though. Best I’ve ever seen. You ask me, she’s going to be here long after the rest of us are gone.
I sometimes sit and look her, and I think, “You’ve travelled further than anyone. Further than Ham.” She looks back at me and I feel bad for being all serious, so I say, “You’re far out, Min. That’s all I’m saying. Far out.”
All this time, training for space travel, but never leaving home. Never getting to see where her mate ends up, what’s out there, all those miles away.
I said this to Johnson once. He just laughed and upped the voltage. “Dance for Uncle Sam, you little banana-crapping bastards.”
Minnie hates to see Ham hurt. She shakes her fists at Johnson whenever the guy gets close. He’ll stand in front of her cage, cracking nuts in the hard palms of his hands and tossing them up into his mouth. I sometimes have trouble figuring out who’s the monkey, her or him.
Minnie’s the only female who can’t walk away from Johnson. He spends hours talking to her, never anything nice. I remember this one time he talked to her about Laika, the Russian space dog. He pulled a chair close to her cage and sat, feet up. He had small feet, and wore sneakers in the lab.
Minnie turned her back on him, but it didn’t put Johnson off.
“Laika was a stray. Mongrel bitch, part husky. We called her Muttnik.”
The chimps were getting fretful, the way they always did around Johnson. He wasn’t bothered, kept running off his mouth. “She got all hot and stressed up there, in space.”
Johnson made a noise like rain hitting big leaves, a sizzling sound that scared Minnie into her corner. “Hot dog.” He kicked at her cage. “Fries.”
“Cut it out,” I told him.
I should’ve done something, but I didn’t. As Johnson kept reminding me, I don’t have shit for authority in this place.
It’s my job to keep the cages clean, feed Minnie and the others, change the straw they sleep on. Johnson paid me less attention than he paid the chimps.
He was training the chimps to perform basic tasks, like pushing a lever within five seconds of seeing a flashing blue light. If they failed to push it in time, they got an electric shock to the soles of their feet. It was what we had to do, but Johnson needn’t have got such a kick out of it.
Once Minnie went into the chimp-breeding program, Johnson would take her babies away, one by one. Make them dance. She knew it. Call it premonition, call it female intuition. Maybe just call it the smell of Ham’s feet, burning. That was all the clue she needed, to what Johnson was going to do.
He’d have made her watch it, too. When he attached the electrodes, adjusted the voltage. She knew how much was too much, when the twitching turned to jolting and the jolting to screeching.
In Bernard’s Surf, Bert Kaempfert was playing on the radio: Wonderland by Night.
“I train monkeys.” Johnson scratched himself with a pool cue.
“Get outta here,” the brunette told him. When he didn’t, she got up and walked away.
Johnson went back to the lab. He often slept there; we both did.
I liked the quiet, and the way the windows stuffed with stars, like the whole
world was lit up. Like we were the distant galaxy and out there—out there was where it was all happening. Exploration, discovery, unity—you name it.
Anyway, that was it.
Johnson’s last night on earth.
The next morning they asked me, “Was he depressed?”
“He never mentioned it.”
“Must’ve been,” they said, “to take that way out.”
“I guess.”
“What a way to go.”
They didn’t like the smell, wrinkling their noses.
Johnson, fried.
I said, “Can I get back to the chimps?”
Minnie was very quiet, holding the bars of her cage.
To look at it, you’d have thought the cage was locked.
I caught her eye as I re-fastened the latch. Bright eyes, like the brunette in the bar. Too bright to be fooled by Johnson. All her soul in there, shining out.
I thought, They’ll keep this quiet, you won’t see this on the news.
I was right. It was like Johnson never existed.
Expunged, is the word. I looked it up.
Years later, when she passed away, they laid Minnie to rest with Ham at the International Space Hall of Fame in Alamogordo, New Mexico.
Unofficially, Johnson was cremated. They shot his remains into space, on a shuttle that never made it back. He’s burning there still, a star that’s taking centuries to die. A dim, dancing speck in the night’s sky.
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Sarah Hilary (Wonderland by Night) lives in the Southwest of England, where she writes quirky copy for a well-loved travel publisher. She’s also worked as a bookseller, and with the Royal Navy. An award-winning short story writer, Sarah won the Cheshire Prize for Literature in 2012. Her debut novel, Someone Else’s Skin, will be published in February 2014 by Headline in the UK and Penguin in the US.
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MAC AND STEVE
by Terry Alexander
“Right this way Mr. Cooper. Mr. Smithson has been expecting you.” The butler was an odd duck, bald on top with bushy hair around his ears and the thickest eyebrows possible on a human being. They looked like two fuzzy caterpillars took up residence on his forehead. “May I take your pet while the two of you discuss business?”
“This is McBride. He’s my partner, not a pet.” Steve pulled a peanut from his jacket pocket and passed it to the monkey riding on his shoulder. “Mac is a black-headed Spider Monkey. They’re one of the most intelligent members of the ape family.” Quick hands took the offered treat. Mac cracked the legume open and quickly devoured the delicacy.
“If you say so, Sir.” The butler quickened his pace, leading Steve to a white door at the far side of the room.
“Tell me, Sunshine, do you have a name?” Steve smoothed his hair over the top of his left ear, hiding the upper portion. Years ago in a bar fight in Chile, an unhappy customer bit the upper third away.
“King, James King.” He nodded slightly, keeping his eyes glued on Mac.
Mac whinnied like a horse and made some complicated hand signals. A smile crossed Steve’s face, he nodded. “Yeah, you’re right.”
“Did that creature communicate with you?” King’s eyes bulged, mouth hanging open. “What did he say?” He recovered his wits quickly.
“He said you’re a nervous man, and you haven’t been around monkeys before.” Steve passed into the large den. A lone man sat behind the desk; a green shaded gambler’s lamp illuminated the shiny surface.
“Mr. Cooper, I was hoping you’d accept my invitation.” Lucius Smithson jumped to his feet. He limped around the desk, his right hand extended in greeting. “I see you’ve brought your associate. Please sit down. Would you care for a drink?”
“Naw, I’m good, thanks.” Steve collapsed in the overstuffed chair facing the desk. Mac climbed from his shoulder to sit on the chair arm. He turned to Steve, his digits flashing a message.
“Mac said you have a nice place. He’d like to see it in the summer when the fruit trees are bearing.”
“Bring him back at harvest, by all means.” A wheezing breath passed Smithson’s lips. “I want to hire you, Mr. Cooper.”
“Is this about the Drummond murder?” Steve pulled a second peanut from his pocket and offered it to Mac. “According to the papers he worked for you. His murder’s still a mystery. The man’s alone in a storage barn. No windows, no one around, and somebody blasted him.”
Smithson nodded. “Levi Drummond was my foreman for two years. He forgot more about the orchard trade than I’ll ever learn. Someone killed him over a year ago. The police aren’t any closer to closing the case now than they were then. Drummond’s kids deserve some closure.”
“If you don’t mind my saying so, you’re a wealthy man. Why are you dabbling in the orchard trade?”
“Retirement, Mr. Cooper. I’ve left the family business. My son and daughter run Smithson Trucking now.” He paused for a moment. “When I was a kid, I spent the summers with my Grandfather. He owned a peach orchard. It was his dream job. I guess a little of his dream rubbed off on me.”
“If I take the case, it’ll cost you a hundred dollars a day plus expenses.” Steve rose from the chair. Mac climbed up his sleeve and rested on his shoulder.
“That’s kinda steep.” Smithson opened the lap drawer of his desk. He pulled five one hundred dollar bills from a money box. “That should keep you going for a few days. Come back when you need more. Are you familiar with Preston?”
“I worked a case here a few months back.” Steve folded the bills and slid them in his shirt pocket. “Peanuts ain’t cheap, you know.” He walked toward the door. “Where did you pick up your wound?”
“D-Day, Omaha Beach. I was one of the lucky ones, I lived through it.” Smithson nodded. “We all have our wounds, Mr. Cooper. Just like the ones you received in Korea.”
“I’ll be in touch.” Steve’s hand closed on the brass knob. The door opened easily at his touch. “Did Drummond piss anybody off before he was killed?”
“David Russell, but I don’t think he’d do anything like this.”
“You never know, Mr. Smithson. You never know.” The door closed silently behind him.
◊ ◊ ◊ ◊ ◊
“I can’t get over that monkey. The way it signs is just weird.” Blackheart Benny Cavanaugh pulled the Drummond file from his cabinet and tossed it on the battered desk. Benny served as Preston’s coroner. To those that knew him well, he was Blackheart Benny. “That’ll be fifty bucks.”
“My God, that’s highway robbery. You only charged thirty-five last time I was here.” Steve opened the file to a stack of black and white photographs. Different angles of a prone man, a dark stain covered his chest. “And I’ve told you before, Mac’s my partner. He belongs to himself.”
“Inflation hurts everybody. What can I say?” Blackheart smiled. “Drummond was killed with a .32 revolver, close up. Powder burns all over his shirt.” Benny pulled a bag of peanuts from his coat pocket and offered them to Mac. The monkey opened the bag, and devoured one peanut at a time. “Didn’t you tell me your partner found Mac, when the two of you were in Chile? What happened to him?”
“He’s dead.” A frown crossed Steve’s face. “Who found the body?”
“One of the pickers, guy named Richards or Richardson. That should be in the file or don’t you like to read.” Benny took the opposite chair, his elbows resting on the scarred desktop. “Funny thing about that, Drummond walked to the barn about seven that morning. They found him inside thirty minutes later. All the pickers said no one went to the barn but him.”
The monkey tapped Steve’s shoulder, and made a series of hand gestures. Steve nodded.
“What’d he say?” Benny asked.
“He said that whoever killed Drummond was waiting for him in the barn.” He pulled a magnifying glass from his jacket and studied the photographs. “He also said you talk too much.”
“Humph,�
�� Blackheart grunted. He cast a hard look at Mac. The monkey opened his mouth and showed his teeth. “That’s what Captain Martin thinks, but no one left the barn and none of the workers heard a shot.”
“They didn’t find the weapon. I suppose they did a through search.” Steve closed the file with a snap. He reached for his wallet and peeled a fifty from the interior.
“Mansfield led the search. You know how that guy is?” Blackheart stuffed the greenback in his pants pocket.
“Yeah, he’s a regular bull.” Mac hopped to Steve’s shoulder. He crushed the empty bag into a wad and threw it in the trash can. The tiny hands moved like lightning. “Yeah, that’s where we’re going.”
Blackheart shook his head. “Is he really signing, or is this just a big con?”
“What do you think?” Steve checked his hair on the left side, making sure it covered his ear. “You owe me, Benny. There wasn’t anything useful in that file.”
Steve and Mac walked into Justin Smithson’s fruit storage barn an hour later. The sunlight struggled to reach twenty feet inside the structure, leaving the majority of the interior in perpetual gloom. “Climb up to the rafters. See what you can find. I’ll check down here and see if Mansfield’s goons missed anything.”
Mac nodded and leaped to the ceiling runner. His prehensile tail acted as another hand, as the monkey climbed higher. A smile touched Steve’s lips. He closed his eyes for a moment, recalling the police photograph. “The body was there.” His eyes scanned the dirt floor, and walked to a support post near the entrance. Steve studied the floor and the condition of the post, a faint stain discolored the wood a foot above the ground. “I didn’t see that in the picture. It could be anything, doesn’t have to be a blood.”
A loud shriek sounded from the rafters.
“What did you find?” Steve climbed to his feet. His left knee popped audibly.