by T. C. Boyle
At some point he heard the DOGS again and not long after that he heard the voices coming for him. He would have been angry, would have been enraged, but the COLD weakened him, and he closed his eyes and burrowed into the nest he’d made of the brittle dead reeds that barely gave back his own warmth and waited for them. They would use the stinger on him – or the dart that would suddenly appear in the flesh of his chest or belly or arms – and he would be helpless. They would take him back to the CAGE, which he saw now in his mind, the CAGE without blankets or toys or TV – or her. It was BAD, very BAD. But it was warm, warmer than this hostile, forbidding place that stung him in his every pore and turned his breath to clouds. He wanted to give up. Wanted to stand on his two legs and wave his arms over his head till they stung him and darted him and took him back. That was what he wanted, that was what he resolved, but when he heard them call his name, call SAM, he didn’t stir.
J. FRED MUGGS
Carson was a tease – or at least the woman insulating him was. Renee Flowers. She walked as if she had a lamp post strapped to her spine and wore enough mascara to paint a mural, which didn’t exactly inspire confidence in Guy. She spoke in looping run-on sentences and used the adjective ‘super’ as punctuation, pumping you up and putting you off at the same time so you never really knew where you stood. And the thing was, she’d called him, not the other way around. She’d seen him on To Tell the Truth (super) and had found the KCOY feature super-interesting, and yes, Johnny often did animal segments (the audience loved them), but then Sam – That was his name, right, Sam? – was so much more than that. Wasn’t he? And how did he see Sam fitting in on the show, because this wasn’t exactly an animal act – or was it?
He talked to her twice on the phone over the course of a six-month period as winter gave way to spring and spring to summer, and then, when he’d just about given up hope, she invited him for an interview at the studio in Burbank. Which necessitated a three-hour drive down the coast from Santa Maria with Aimee for company – and to mind Sam, who loved nothing more than riding in the car but had never been on a trip even half as long as this. He and Sam had had to fly to New York for To Tell the Truth, but Sam had been sedated for that – there was no other option. This time he’d be conscious the whole way, and it was anybody’s guess how he’d react. Would Aimee be able to keep him entertained with his toys and the pile of magazines she brought along? Would he doze off ? Lean back in the seat and watch the countryside roll by, entranced by the flicker of his own face reflected in the window? It was an experiment – Sam was going to have to learn to travel if they were going to get the message out to the public – but he was bored and restless right from the start, except when he was baring his teeth and making threatening gestures at the other drivers who couldn’t resist pulling up alongside to wave and shout till they got his attention.
By the time they did get to Burbank, he was in one of his moods, jittery and hyperactive and ready to go off on a tear the moment they pulled into the parking lot. They’d stopped twice, once at a rest stop and then at a fast-food place in Woodland Hills, where they tried to placate him with a vanilla shake, cheeseburger and fries, most of which he threw up by the time they reached Tarzana, an irony that wasn’t lost on Guy since the town had been named for Edgar Rice Burroughs’ signature character, the man raised by apes. And how did the ape raised by man reaffirm that ancestral, albeit fictional, bond? By puking in the man’s car.
It was late June. A hundred and three degrees. The car reeked. Sam was a heartbeat away from throwing a tantrum and it didn’t make it any easier that the minute they flung open the door and led him out on to the pavement every human being within 200 yards came flocking to get a look at him. What is that – is it a monkey? A gorilla? Does it bite? One boy in a Dodgers cap came running right at them as if he were chasing a batted ball, and Sam made a snatch for him – if Guy hadn’t seen it coming and jerked back on the lead at the last minute, they would have had a situation on their hands. Which would have meant no Carson, would have meant the police and animal control and another lawsuit, like the one the lawyer Elise had hired was threatening them with. Cars glittered by. The palms faded into smog. He coaxed Sam up the walk and into the building with the towering NBC logo out front.
Once they got inside, where the security guards made their monkey jokes and a whole new clutch of people came pressing in as if they were magnetised, Aimee took Sam into the ladies’ room to clean him up, while he was left to sign for their visitors’ passes and try to work up a smile to present to Renee Flowers, though his shirt was sweated through and he was so tense he was on the verge of vomiting himself. He took a drink from the fountain in the hall, bent over the pressurised stream of chilled water like any other ape, no cup necessary, no straws, just lips, then settled into a chair in the anteroom of the office they’d been directed to and tried to calm himself by assaying a crossword puzzle in one of the magazines laid out crisply on a low table as if this were a dentist’s waiting room. Which it might as well have been. If he’d expected glamour, movie stars – or at least TV stars – he was disappointed. Everything was quiet, orderly, comfortably uncomfortable.
He went over in his head what he was going to say to Renee Flowers, then dismissed it all. Better to be spontaneous. Besides which, he wasn’t the one on trial here – Sam was. Everything depended on Sam. Any sign of recalcitrance or rebelliousness – any trouble – and you could kiss the whole deal goodbye. The thought gave him a headache, and yet would that be so tragic? Ultimately? He was an academic, after all, a psychologist, not a TV personality – and there were plenty of people, both inside the department and across the field generally, who would condemn him for what he was doing, who would accuse him of trivialising the project, of using it, of using Sam, for his own aggrandisement no matter the outcome. They were right, of course, at least partially, but it didn’t matter – he wanted this. Badly.
The good news was that whatever she’d done, Aimee had managed to calm Sam down, and when the two of them came through the door fifteen minutes later, hand in hand, he could see from Sam’s expression and body language that he was good to go. She’d cleaned him up and dressed him in the clothes she’d selected for him – a miniature suit with a checked shirt and glossy red tie and a pair of Converse high-tops she’d found in the kids’ section at the local Foot Locker, also in red. He looked jaunty and casual and almost human – which was the point, exactly the point. If we could conceal our nakedness beneath blue jeans, skirts, blouses and Hawaiian luau shirts and go about constructing the world in our own image, then why couldn’t another species do it too? Or at least participate? We could reason, we could talk, and so could chimps – as he and Sam were going to demonstrate for Renee Flowers and her boss and everybody else in America.
‘Wow, he looks great,’ he said, dropping the magazine he’d been skimming and rising out of the grip of the hard plastic chair. ‘Like the reincarnation of J. Fred Muggs himself – and right here at NBC too. Which is only appropriate, right?’ The other people in the room – a pair of secretaries and a couple in their forties who might have been comedians or maybe an actress and her agent – broke into smiles. It was an automatic response, like sympathetic yawning – dressed-up apes were simulacra of ourselves, and that was endearing in some way, funny even, which was why circuses and sideshows had been tricking them out and putting them through their paces since the first chimps were captured in the African jungle and brought back to Europe 300 years ago. He bent forward, conscious of everyone’s eyes on him, and held out his hand to Sam for a high-five, which Sam gave him, grinning.
‘He’s so cute,’ one of the secretaries said. ‘Just like a little man.’
‘Precious,’ the other one said.
Sam folded back his upper lip in a grin that showed off his teeth, which were clean and even and didn’t yet feature the weaponised canines adults developed, then walked upright across the room to take a seat in the chair nearest the door leading to Renee Flowers’ inn
er sanctum, as if he knew what he’d come for. Aimee, who had hold of his lead, sank into the seat beside him and crossed her legs. Her bare legs. She’d changed into a skirt and heels and a clinging blouse, all in the same shade of cream, very proper, very adult, very sexy. He eased into the seat beside her and took her hand. ‘You look great too,’ he said.
She ducked her head. Blushed. ‘Thanks,’ she murmured.
‘Does he have a name?’ the man with the woman who might have been an actress wanted to know. He was slack-bodied, with puffy eyes and a long feral jaw, and he wore a bow tie, of all things. Maybe he was a comedian, after all. He had to be. Who else would wear a bow tie?
‘You hear that?’ Guy asked, looking past her to where Sam sat slouched in the chair, dangling his legs and attempting, with mixed results, to retie the laces of his sneakers. ‘Do you want to tell this gentleman what your name is?’
If he’d been hyper before, now Sam was all business. He couldn’t have known what was going on here, not in any deeper sense, but all the same he seemed to appreciate the uniqueness of the situation, of the office in the tall building and the strangers here in the room with them. He signed, HELLO, I AM SAM, and Guy spoke it aloud along with him.
‘Smart monkey,’ the man said. ‘Is he going to be on the show?’
‘That’s the hope.’
‘Chimp,’ Aimee said. ‘He’s a chimp, not a monkey.’
He could see that the man was trying to formulate a response, wheels turning, the inevitable monkey joke on his lips, but then the door pulled open and Renee Flowers, in a business suit and with her hair pulled back in a tight bun, was ushering them into her office.
There was a desk, there were chairs, a bank of windows with shades drawn against the sun. It could have been a faculty office, except that it was three times bigger and the walls were decorated with framed photos of The Tonight Show, Johnny mugging for the camera or grinning at one celebrity or another, most of whom Guy didn’t recognise, aside from Bob Hope and who was that – Diane Keaton?
‘So,’ Renee Flowers said, clasping her hands in front of her, ‘this is him, huh?’ And then added, ‘Super.’
They’d paused just inside the door, Sam standing upright between him and Aimee and grasping their hands for balance. Sam looked Renee Flowers right in the face, aware that whatever was going on, he was the focus of it and no doubt calculating that some sort of treat would be forthcoming, the way it usually was when he was in any building other than home, whether it be at the university, the supermarket or even the gas station or hardware store.
A long moment ticked by, Renee Flowers gazing down at Sam and Sam up at her, before she said, ‘Oh, forgive me, I’m so carried away here – I haven’t even introduced myself. I’m Renee.’
In order to take her hand, he had to drop Sam’s, but Sam wouldn’t let go – more chimp humour? – so he wound up offering his left hand. Awkwardly. Renee didn’t seem to mind or even notice. She just shook her head, gazing back down at Sam and smiling. ‘He’s really something, isn’t he? If he got any cuter you’d have to get in line and pay the cute tax, wouldn’t you? Super,’ she said, ‘really super,’ then turned to Aimee with an expectant look. ‘Hi,’ she said, ‘I’m Renee.’
‘My assistant,’ he put in. ‘Aimee Villard.’ Aimee gave her a tentative smile, then dropped her eyes to Sam, who still had hold of her hand.
‘A pleasure to meet you, Aimee,’ Renee Flowers said. ‘You’re very pretty, do you know that?’ And, then, to him: ‘Will she be part of the act? Or no, I’m sorry, forgive me – it’s not an act, of course not. What I mean is, will she be on camera with you?’
‘What do you think, Aimee – want to go on the show with me and Sam?’
She shook her head. Barbara would have jumped at the chance and so would Elise – before the accident, anyway. And Melanie, Melanie had always wanted to share the spotlight, jealous of him and resentful too, since to her mind she was the one who bore the outsized burden of raising Sam while he reaped all the rewards. Not Aimee, though – Aimee would rather wear a crown of thorns and walk barefooted all the way back to Santa Maria than have somebody point a camera at her.
‘But let’s have a seat and get acquainted, OK?’ Smiling broadly, smiling till her teeth shone under the glare of the overhead lights, Renee indicated the three plush seats arrayed in front of the desk with a sweep of one hand. She might have booked animal acts before, but the animals had never showed up in her office dressed in suit and tie. Or at least that was what he was guessing.
Sam didn’t hesitate. He let go of their hands and bounded into the near seat, looking up expectantly at Renee Flowers as she edged her buttocks up on her desk, and Guy and Aimee took the seats on either side of him. ‘And can I get you anything?’ Renee asked. ‘Coffee, tea, soft drinks?’ She leaned forward then, hovering over Sam. ‘And what about you, Sam – would you like something to drink?’
This was a test, of course – Renee Flowers wasn’t Carson’s gatekeeper for nothing. Did this chimp, this animal, understand spoken English at its most rudimentary, as even a dog or parrot would? Was Sam legitimate? Was Guy himself ?
Sam looked straight at her and signed, DRINK, then poked his right index finger into his left arm, as if it were a needle, the sign for COKE. Then he grinned and signed, PLEASE.
‘What did he say? Did he just say something?’
Guy gave her a smile. ‘He said, “May I have a Coke, please?”’
‘Really? Did you catch that, Aimee?’ She waited a beat till Aimee affirmed it with a nod, then said, ‘Amazing, truly amazing. He really understands, doesn’t he? Does he know what I’m saying now? Is it OK? Can I go on?’
Guy nodded. ‘Yeah, sure.’
‘So Sam, do you like Coke?’
Sam bobbed his fist up and down. YES, emphatically YES.
The look on Renee Flowers’ face told him everything he needed to know. It was the look that softens women’s faces when they’re in the presence of toddlers, puppies, kittens, an instinctive look, a mothering look. They were home free now. He was sure of it.
‘What do you like better, Sam,’ she said, leaning closer and clipping her words as if she were addressing a child, which, in a sense, she was, ‘Coke or 7Up?’
Sam, his legs drawn up in the chair and folded in the lotus position, the tie a shining jewel at his throat, never hesitated. BOTH, he signed. YOU GIVE ME BOTH. PLEASE.
They took the coast highway on the way back, even though it would add time to the trip. Traffic was crawling on the 101 anyway (no surprise there) and the heat was killing, especially since the car’s air-conditioner seemed to be operating at half-efficiency, so Guy decided to get off at Topanga and wind his way down to the coast, where at least it would be cooler even if the traffic was no better. They stopped at a McDonald’s in Malibu, all three of them in a celebratory mood, and Sam got the same meal he’d vomited up earlier – vanilla shake, cheeseburger, fries – and kept it down this time. He was back to T-shirt and overalls now, the suit neatly folded and packed away in Aimee’s bag against the next time he’d need it, which Guy fervently hoped would be soon, very soon, but as well as it had gone, in the end, Renee Flowers had made no promises. Once Sam had got his Coke and 7Up – in separate glasses, with ice, which he drank alternately, sip by sip – the conversation had wound down, as if the test had been passed and it was time to move on to the next phase.
Problem was, there wasn’t a next phase. Or not that Guy could see. After Renee had given them a long, repetitive description of Johnny’s responses to the various animals that had appeared on the show, from boa constrictors to a pair of least weasels, one of which had climbed up on his shoulder and pissed down the back of his shirt, Guy said, ‘Yeah, Johnny’s hilarious, he really is. That deadpan look he gives the camera? Which is why I think he’s going to have a great time with Sam – who’s not going to have any accidents on camera, guaranteed. The two of them can just converse, like with any of your other guests – with me there
to translate, that’s all. Because that’s the idea, the science behind this, the whole rationale for primate language studies – Sam can talk. And we can talk to him.’ He paused, glanced round the room, expecting Johnny himself to appear at any moment, and why not? He imagined him sitting behind a two-way mirror – that mirror, there, in back of Renee Flowers’ desk – awaiting his cue.
‘He wouldn’t be here now, would he? I mean just to meet Sam? For a minute?’ He was going to add, ‘Since we drove all the way down here,’ but thought better of it because of the look Renee Flowers was giving him. Her grin, which had held steady since they’d walked in the door, faded. She said, ‘But Johnny never meets his guests beforehand – not even the celebrities,’ and left it at that. She’d call him, she promised as she showed them out the door. As soon as she could get the fall schedule worked out. Promise. OK?
‘OK,’ he’d said.
‘Super,’ she’d said.
Sam fell asleep shortly after he’d finished his meal, balled up the bag it had come in and flung it out the window in the way of any child thrilled by the sucking power of air in violent motion, and while Guy didn’t like it (anything with the potential of attracting police attention was a disaster in the making), there wasn’t much he could do about it since he was driving and Sam had got the window down before Aimee could stop him. But now Sam was asleep, the air was cool and moist, and once they got beyond Zuma Beach the ocean began to open up before them like a movie screen. Aimee had been in back with Sam till he closed his eyes and dropped off, and now she climbed over the console to settle into the seat beside him. She fooled with the radio a minute – ‘There’s like this new song, “My Sharona”, and I can’t get it out of my head?’ – but the reception was notoriously spotty on this stretch, and after five minutes of listening to white noise interspersed with sporadic snatches of guitar, she flicked it off. They’d been talking about how well it had gone and how much it would mean, as far as attention for the programme, if this actually panned out, and he really thought it was about 99 per cent there, didn’t she?, when she turned to him and asked, ‘Who’s J. Fred Muggs?’