by Simon Rich
And the genie’s, like, “I’m sorry. I should’ve left that part unsaid. I always do that. I take things too far.”
And the guy’s, like, “Don’t worry about it. Let’s just grab a beer. It’s on me.”
FAMILY BUSINESS
I)
I love my father, but sometimes he can get on my nerves. It’s hard to explain why exactly. It’s just little things he does, here and there, that bother me. For example, sometimes he shits into his hands and then throws the shit into my face while jumping up and down and screaming. I know he’s just trying to be funny—and it is funny, I can see that. But there’s just something about it that annoys me. I’ve asked him politely not to do it anymore, but I always get the same reaction. He just rolls his yellow eyes and says, “I’m sorry, your majesty.”
My father’s been calling me “your majesty” for as long as I can remember. He does it whenever I rinse off fruit before eating it, or catch grubs with a stick instead of with my fingers. Basically, he does it whenever I do anything differently than he does.
When I told him I was thinking about going to school, he didn’t even respond. He just kept picking dirt out of his belly button like I wasn’t even in the same tree as him.
“There’s a human scientist on the bottom of the mountain,” I explained. “He’s interviewing chimpanzees to see if any have the aptitude to learn sign language.”
“And you think they’re going to pick you?” His silver back quaked with laughter. “I’d like to see that.”
“Why can’t you just stay here?” my mother asked. “There are plenty of job opportunities. I talked to your uncle Mike and he said he’d help you find work at the shit pile.”
“I don’t know if I want to work at the shit pile,” I said.
“Why the hell not?” my father snapped. “I work at the shit pile. Your cousins work at the shit pile. It’s good, honest work.”
“I know.”
“Decent pay, great benefits.”
“Dad, I know.”
“You think you’re too good for it?”
“No! Dad, relax. I’m just interested in sign language. I think it would be a cool thing to study.”
“ ‘A cool thing to study,’ ” he said mockingly. “Just tell me this: how much is it going to cost me?”
“Nothing. If I get accepted, it’s a full ride. The humans pay for everything.”
He snorted.
“Okay, so you get into this fancy program and spend years learning sign language. What are you supposed to do with that afterward? Teach?”
I looked to my mother for support, but she was already crouched behind my father, carefully grooming his buttocks. She’s always been submissive to him. Sometimes I think that’s why they got together in the first place.
“You know,” my mother said, “if you’re interested in humans, your father could put you in touch with Curly.”
I sighed. Curly was one of my dad’s hunting buddies, a half-blind chimp who lived beyond the swamp. Some reporters from National Geographic had followed him around for an article in the 1990s. In our little jungle, that qualified him as an expert on humans.
“I’d be happy to put you in touch with Curly,” my father said. “He’ll be able to introduce you to the right people.”
“That’s okay,” I said.
My mother glared at me.
“Why won’t you let your father help you?”
I took a deep breath.
“Okay, fine,” I said. “I’ll talk to Curly.”
“You know,” my mother said, “your father was pretty big in the human world when he was young.”
She nudged his giant belly.
“Tell him about the time you met you-know-who.”
“Oh, I don’t know,” my father said, waving his paws around in a pantomime of reluctance.
“Please!”
“Oh, all right. So, this one time, I’m hanging out in my nest, when Jane pops over—”
“He means Jane Goodall,” my mother whispered.
My father grinned, thrilled that his name-drop had landed.
“So Jane opens her banana crate,” he continued. “And she says to me, ‘How about a banana?’ And so I say, ‘How about many bananas?’ ”
My mother laughed hysterically. My father’s been telling us his Goodall anecdote for years, and she always acts like it’s her first time hearing it.
“What does that even mean?” I asked. “ ‘Many bananas’? That’s not even a joke.”
My parents ignored me.
“I’ll put you in touch with Curly,” my father said again. “He’ll introduce you to the right people.”
My mother smiled at me.
“It’s a good thing your dad’s so well connected, huh?”
I turned to my father. “Where did you say you met Jane Goodall?”
His chewing slowed to a stop.
“My nest,” he said.
“So, on top of a tree?”
“Yeah,” my father said, avoiding eye contact. “On top of a tree.”
“That’s pretty interesting. Because the trees we nest in are very tall. And humans usually aren’t that great at climbing.”
My mother shot me a warning look, but I kept going.
“She must have been pretty athletic to make it all the way up to your nest. And to carry a crate with her, no less, one that was filled with, as you say, ‘many bananas’—that’s really impressive.”
“I don’t know what to tell you,” my father said tensely. “That’s how it happened.”
I could hear my mother’s nostrils flaring, but I pressed on.
“I always knew your friend Jane was smart, but I had no idea she was also the strongest human in the history of—”
A dark brown clump flew into my face. I coughed and choked, doubled over from the stench. When I looked up, I saw my mother standing over me, her little paw caked with shit.
“Don’t you ever disrespect your father like that again,” she whispered.
“I’m sorry,” I mumbled. “Where’d he go?”
“He’s in his tree,” she said, pointing at a nearby baobab. “I think you should climb up and talk to him.”
I looked up at his nest. My dad was barking at the moon, beating his flabby chest in a show of strength. It was embarrassing to watch.
“If he wants to talk,” I said, “then he can climb down.”
My mother stared at me angrily for a moment—then galloped off screaming into the night.
“I met with the scientists,” I told my parents the next day. “They said I was the smartest chimp they’d ever seen.”
“La-di-da,” my father said. My mother was standing behind him, in her usual grooming position. Neither looked up at me.
“They tested me on memory, pattern recognition, and object permanence,” I told them. “There were dozens of chimps, but I scored the highest.”
“Good for you,” my father grumbled, his voice thick with sarcasm.
Nobody said anything for a while. Eventually, my mother broke the silence.
“It was a big day at the shit pile,” she said. “Your father found three grubs.”
He grunted with pleasure, clearly relieved to be the center of attention again.
“The trick is to feel around in the shit,” he told her proudly. “The grubs are sometimes at the bottom, so you need to reach down to the bottom.”
“You’re so smart,” my mother said. “The smartest, most wonderful—”
“I’m flying to Stanford tomorrow,” I interrupted.
My mother swallowed. For the first time all day, she looked up from my father’s butt.
“How many jungles away is that?” she asked.
“I’m not sure,” I told her. “It’s in a human country called the U.S.A.”
“A human country?” she repeated, her eyes wide with fear. “Like Zimbabwe?”
“Yeah,” I said. “But bigger.”
“Bigger than Zimbabwe?” my father snorte
d. “Not likely.”
“Dad, it’s, like, ten times bigger than Zimbabwe.”
“Then how come I’ve never heard of it?”
“Anyway,” I said, “the helicopter leaves at sunrise. I just snuck out of my cage for a minute to say goodbye.”
My mom was trying hard to stay calm, but I could tell she was upset by the way her ears kept twitching.
“Mom, come on,” I said. “Don’t whimper. This is my chance to get out of this town. To see the world.”
My father stood up suddenly and roared.
“Then go!” he shouted, his thick fur bristling. “Go have fun with your fancy human friends!” He smiled widely, baring his canines. “Just don’t come crawling back to me when you fail.”
II)
I always enjoy visiting the White House.
My colleague, Professor Fitzbaum, and I get dragged to so many tedious events. Fund-raisers, lectures, book signings—it can get pretty tiresome. The White House, though, is different. It’s dignified, refined. The truth is, it’s one of the very few places I feel at home.
I was practicing my speech on the lawn when the First Lady stopped by to chat.
“Hello,” she signed to me.
“Hello,” I signed back.
I always enjoy our conversations. She patted me on the head and then took the stage to introduce me.
“Ladies and gentlemen, in honor of Earth Day, we have a very special speaker. Please ‘go ape’ for… Professor Chimpsky!”
It was time for my address. I nodded solemnly at Professor Fitzbaum, and the two of us took the stage.
“Thank you,” I signed to the First Lady, raising my left paw to my lips. “Thank you. Thank you. Thank you.”
I scanned the White House lawn. There were dozens of cameras trained on me, broadcasting my speech to humans all over the world. I cracked my knuckles, determined to do my species proud.
“Environment good,” I began. “Peace. Earth Day. Hello. Peace. Me chimpanzee.”
I waited for Fitzbaum to translate, then continued.
“Peace friends. We friends. Chimpanzee and people. Me chimpanzee. Environment good. Chimpanzee. Peace. Thank you. Goodbye. Chimpanzee.”
Professor Fitzbaum finished translating, and the crowd burst into applause. The speech had been an enormous success—far greater than I had even hoped. It was the pinnacle of my entire career. Still, as usual, I had trouble enjoying my triumph. In moments like these, my thoughts always turned to my parents. I hadn’t had any contact with them since the day I left the jungle. I didn’t miss them, exactly. But part of me wished they could see how far I’d come. In just five years, I’d amassed more accolades than any chimp in history. My mastery of sign language was so vast and fluent, it had earned Professor Fitzbaum a MacArthur Genius Grant. My face had appeared in every magazine on earth, from the Journal of Primatology to Parade. My father, of course, didn’t live near any newsstands. He’d never know how far his son had come.
A caterer set down a tray of champagne flutes. Fitzbaum usually limits my alcohol intake, but he was busy talking to reporters. I grabbed two flutes and tossed them back.
Across the lawn, the First Lady was talking to her daughters. When the younger one asked her a question, she answered patiently, smiling and nodding. I could tell she was a wonderful parent, the kind that always validated her children and never threw her shit into their faces.
There wasn’t any more champagne poured out, so I grabbed a bottle from a nearby table. I was starting to feel a bit light-headed, but I didn’t care. Earth Day came only once a year, after all.
“Hello,” I signed to some nearby humans. “Hello. Hello.”
They didn’t understand me. What did it matter? I was almost finished with my champagne when Professor Fitzbaum finally returned. His eyes were wide and his movements frantic.
“Stop,” he signed to me. “No.”
I sighed. Fitzbaum and I have an excellent relationship. But sometimes he can be unreasonable.
“Earth Day,” I explained. “Hello. Earth Day.”
“No understand,” he replied.
I threw up my hands in exasperation. It’s not my fault he only taught me fifty signs.
“Give,” he said, pointing at the bottle. “Give.”
I looked around and saw that a crowd had formed. There were dignitaries, reporters, and—most troubling of all—a man holding a dart gun. I stamped my feet in frustration. Everyone was overreacting.
I was trying to sign something to that effect when I lost hold of my champagne bottle. It shattered on the ground. I jumped onto a table to avoid the flying glass shards and collided with a large ice sculpture of a globe. I don’t remember much after that. Just the sound of shouting, the smell of grass, and a sharp little pain in my thigh.
I woke up in a cage.
At first I thought that I was alone. But as my vision adjusted, I became aware of a shadowy figure in the corner. It was another chimpanzee—old, obese, and out of breath. The hair on his back was thinning and the skin underneath was covered in dark red splotches. His face was dotted with insects, but he made no attempt to swat the bugs away. He just sat there in silence as they crawled up his nose and into his sunken eyes.
I walked across the cage and cautiously thrust out my paw.
“Hello,” I said. “Nice to meet you.”
“Me Charley,” he said through labored breaths. “Charley the Chimp.”
I assumed that he was joking. Charley the Chimp was famous—an international movie star. His “Chimp Champion” videos had grossed millions in the 1980s. Fitzbaum had shown me all his hits during a study on primate self-recognition.
“You can’t be Charley the Chimp,” I said. “That’s impossible.”
The old ape shrugged.
“Fine,” he said. “Me prove it.”
He reached for an apple, paused to catch his breath, and then tossed it through the bars of our cage. I watched in shock as it sailed across the facility and landed neatly in a distant wastebasket.
“Oh my God!” I said. “You’re really him!”
He nodded tiredly.
“Charley… me… Charley.”
He was clearly on something. Tranquilizers, probably. I sat down beside him and groomed his splotchy back.
“I’ve seen all of your movies,” I told him. “Slam Dunk Charley, Touchdown Charley, Strikeout Charley. I even saw the lacrosse one.”
He winced. “Bounce Shot Charley.”
“Yeah!”
“Bounce Shot Charley not so good,” he admitted. “We run out of sports… movie not same level as others.”
“I don’t know,” I said. “I thought it had its moments.”
He smiled proudly.
“Sprinkler gag was okay,” he conceded. “So, what you in for?”
I laughed.
“Oh, just a little episode at the White House. But I’m not here permanently.”
He shook his head. “Everyone here permanently.”
“Not me,” I said. “My trainer’s probably en route as we speak. We’ve been a duo for five years. We’re like family.”
Charley leaned in close. I could feel his hot breath on my face.
“Trainer not like family,” he said. “Only family like family.”
He looked off into the distance.
“I used to have trainer,” he said. “We like brothers. He take me People’s Choice. He take me Golden Globes. We wear matching suits—mine just like his, but smaller. Then one day, on set of Karate Chop Charley, I get confused and make one mistake during filming. Me here ever since.”
“That’s so unfair,” I said. “What happened? Did you forget your part or something?”
“I rip testicles off actor. Throw across road.”
“Oh.”
Charley sighed.
“I not even get to finish movie. If you watch video close, they use backup chimp in tournament scene.” He shook his head bitterly. “He never got kick right. Movie suffer for it.”<
br />
I nodded sympathetically. This poor chimp had devoted his life to entertaining humans, and they’d thrown him away just like a broken toy. Could that really happen to me? I was starting to despair when Professor Fitzbaum walked into the room.
“Hello!” I signed. “Hello!”
I didn’t want to make Charley jealous, but I couldn’t resist a few celebratory hoots. My friend had come to get me, just like I knew he would.
“Thank you,” I signed, raising my left paw to my lips. “Thank you. Hello. Love.”
Professor Fitzbaum’s hands remained rigidly by his sides. I wondered if he could see me in the shadows.
“Love!” I signed again. “Hello. Me chimpanzee. Good.”
Fitzbaum took a step closer, and I winced. He wasn’t alone. Behind him was the man with the dart gun.
“No,” I signed passionately. “Stop. Please. Friends.”
“I’m sorry,” Fitzbaum said. “But my facilities can’t accommodate a full-grown chimpanzee.”
Charley laid his meaty palm on my shoulder. I felt a scalding tear roll down my face.
“Don’t worry,” Fitzbaum said. “You don’t have to stay here.”
He grinned at me.
“I’m taking you home!”
I let out a scream as the man with the dart took aim.
III)
“Guess it didn’t work out, huh?” my father said after our obligatory hug. “Well, don’t say I didn’t warn you.” He looked the same, only slightly heavier and with a few more gray streaks on his back.
“It’s okay,” my mother told me. “I’ve already talked to Uncle Mike, and there’s a position for you at the shit pile.”
“Thanks, Mom.”
She passed me a handful of grubs, and I felt my stomach turning. I didn’t remember them being so unappetizing.
“What’s the matter?” my father said, his mouth already full of hairy bugs. “Not fancy enough for you?”
“Jeez, Dad. I just got back. Please…”
My parents gasped and it took me a moment to figure out why. I’d been signing unconsciously as I spoke.
“What the hell are you doing?” my father asked.
“It’s sign language,” I explained. “It’s actually not so hard. Look, I’ll show you.”