by Sara Gruen
----
Isabel was about to go back to the hotel when the buzzing began. At first she thought it was in her head--she was overwhelmed by the crowd and felt nauseated, as if she'd had too much sun. But when other people's heads started turning and the yapping mouths lost track of where they were mid-rant, she realized the noise was external. The buzz soon became a thwackity-thwackity with a vibration so deep Isabel felt it through her entire body. Black-suited security guards wearing noise-reduction headsets herded the crowd backward and erected sawhorse barriers along a portion of the wall. A helicopter appeared, dangling a large and ungainly object that twirled at the end of its cables. Isabel glanced up at it, squinting into the blindingly bright New Mexico sky--there was wood, rope webbing, and yellow plastic tubing, all of it spinning and swaying. The helicopter hovered directly over Ape House and slowly lowered the play structure behind the walls of the courtyard. The cables were detached and retracted, and the helicopter swooped away.
The people around the house, most of whom had crouched and covered their ears, were momentarily silent. They rose one by one, shielding their eyes with their hands. After the helicopter disappeared from sight, anchors once again began earnestly addressing cameramen, and protesters, as though roused from sleep, resumed poking their boards and flags into the air. A few people gathered around laptops and BlackBerries, trying to figure out via the Internet what they had just witnessed.
Isabel decided they had the right idea. She would learn far more from watching what was being broadcast from within Ape House than by standing outside it.
----
The hotel bar was crowded and the restaurant empty, which Isabel attributed to the fact that the former was playing Ape House on the overhead televisions and the latter was not.
She spotted the last available stool between two burly men, and slid onto it. Both men nursed beers while keeping their eyes on the television, where the apes cavorted on their new play structure in the courtyard. Mbongo walked out with an erection and two oranges. Bonzi approached, rubbed her hips up against him, and left with both pieces of fruit.
"I dropped them off in there," said the man on Isabel's right.
She couldn't tell who he was talking to, as he continued to face forward. His cheeks were ruddy to the point of discoloration, the base of his nose surrounded by plum-colored veins.
When no one else responded, Isabel said, "Who? The apes?"
"Yep," he said. He looked down at his kielbasa-like fingers. "Drove 'em right in on my forklift. Put up a real fuss, they did. Could've had the delivery job too, but my wife--that's Ray's sister--she don't like the whole idea. Says she won't have it on our TV at home, so I have to come here to watch."
"Oh, really?" said Isabel. "She doesn't approve?"
"It's because of all the other stuff Ray helps out with." He glanced over quickly, his potatoey face looking unexpectedly boyish and bashful. He lowered his voice to a whisper. "Porn. He works on movies with Ken Faulks. He doesn't do, you know, that, but he helps out on the sets. Does special effects--dry ice, pyrotechnics, that kind of stuff."
Isabel leaned in closer, feeling immensely grateful that she had put on a pretty hat that morning. She smiled with demurely closed lips, because although she had her teeth in, that was only by virtue of having accidentally fallen asleep with them in place.
19
The day of the job interview, John was shaved, showered, and drinking coffee at the counter with his tie thrown over his shoulder before Amanda appeared.
She was in her robe with a towel turban on her head. She padded over and got herself a cup of coffee, her very aura subdued.
John set his coffee down and went over to her. "Hey," he said, rubbing her lower back. "You okay?"
She nodded. "Yeah." Then she put her mug on the counter and shuddered. "Actually, no. I'm terrified. I can't stand the thought of getting needles in my face. What if I move and make him slip?"
"So don't get it done. You don't need to. That guy is a complete idiot."
"Even if he is, he's also the executive producer." She took a deep breath. "No. I'll be okay. Everyone says it's not that bad." She kissed John quickly, distractedly, and picked up her coffee. "Good luck with the interview."
"Thanks," he said, and watched helplessly as she disappeared into the hall.
----
John pushed the door to the building open with his hip, clutching the corrugated cardboard sleeve of the double-shot grande skinny latte. He stepped into the lobby and stopped to absorb it, his preconceived notions shattered. Apparently somebody bought the Weekly Times. Lots of somebodies.
The reception area was high-ceilinged and airy, graced with red leather sectionals arranged in semicircles. Glass-topped cherrywood tables displayed perfect fans of the most recent issues of the Weekly Times. Square candles in sugared glass glowed on either end of a glass-topped reception desk, and a large slate waterfall burbled peacefully against the end wall. Above it was a super-size magazine logo.
John breathed the scented air deeply, trying to shift his attitude. He'd suffered humiliation at the hands of a barista only minutes before, having mangled the wording of his order. His mind had been on Amanda and her face full of needles, and he'd stuttered something that, while inelegant, had apparently been functional, since he'd ended up with the correct beverage. When the barista gave John his change, she also gave him a pitying smile and reminded him that it was actually called a double-shot grande skinny latte.
John approached the reception desk. The polished young woman behind it looked up. "May I help you?" she said, smiling without showing teeth. Her skin was flawless and entirely smooth. John wondered if he was looking at evidence of Restylane. A little apple-plump about the cheeks, a pillowy je ne sais quoi about the upper lip.
"Uh, yes. I have an appointment with Topher McFadden at ten." John set the latte on the counter. The woman's eyes followed it. A dribble of coffee pooled at its base. He snatched it up again, leaving a ring.
"Your name?"
"John Thigpen."
"Thigpen?"
"Yes. Thigpen."
"I'll let him know," the woman said in the reverent hush of a librarian. "Please have a seat."
"Thanks," said John, lowering his own voice accordingly.
He set his briefcase on the floor and perched uncomfortably on a red furniture arrangement. After a moment, he dug a tissue from his pocket, folded it, and used it as a coaster for the latte so he wouldn't besmirch the beveled glass.
The receptionist looked into his eyes and flicked her perfectly manicured fingers against her shoulder. John knitted his brows. She repeated the gesture. John glanced down and found his tie still tossed safely over his shoulder. He flushed and smoothed it against the front of his shirt. No wonder the barista had thought he was a bumpkin.
The receptionist took a phone call, and John trained his eyes on the door to the street and the legs that paraded beyond its vast panes--the starched creases, the sheer stockings, the teetering stilettos. The combat boots, oxbloods, and running shoes. Waddling legs, strutting legs, purposeful legs--furry legs that lifted so a stream of urine could hit the corner of the stone before the leash above yet another set of legs gave a firm tug.
John's heart was pounding.
On the table beside him was an array of glossy magazine phantasmagoria--tousled hair extensions, bubble dresses, and impossibly high heels with red soles. White veneers peeked between lips that looked like platypus bills. Surgically enhanced faces balanced on necks as skinny as stems.
DIET OR SURGERY? shrieked the headlines.
THE FEUD GETS NASTY!
CAUGHT!
HOLLYWOOD NANNIES TELL ALL!
BOOB JOBS GONE BAD!
John glanced up and found the receptionist flirting with a FedEx man. He picked up one of the magazines.
A morbidly obese blond-bouffanted drag queen named Madam Butterfly offered quips on the worst of the week's red-carpet disasters. Tiny starlets hid behind Sputnik-s
ized sunglasses, and pencil-thin women gazed mournfully over their shoulders at phalanxes of cameras.
John had one leg straddled over the other, completely absorbed, when someone called his name.
----
The newsroom was enormous, with waist-high cubicle walls that allowed for no privacy but nearly equal access to natural daylight. Monitors streaming news stations hung overhead, and young, thin, well-coiffed people rushed through the aisles with armloads of paper, proofs, and photographs.
As John entered a corner office with floor-to-ceiling glass panes, Topher McFadden stood to greet him. He was expensively and colorfully dressed, in an apple-green shirt and periwinkle silk tie, a combination that should not have worked but did. His glasses and shoes were chunky and square. He was fit and tanned, with a thatch of blond hair, and could have been anywhere from twenty-five to forty-five. John hoped he was closer to forty-five, given the obvious differences in their situations. They shook hands.
"Have a seat," said Topher McFadden, gesturing toward a couch. He retreated behind his desk.
John sat and toppled downward into the buttery leather. He struggled to the front--no small feat while balancing a hot drink, as it involved a fair bit of scootching and an unfortunate chair fart. He balanced carefully on the edge. The differences in furniture rendered him almost two feet shorter than his interviewer.
"Uh, here," said John, stretching forth to set the skinny ultra double-freaking la-ti-dah on the desk.
Topher McFadden grabbed the coffee. He located the drink hole and sucked long and hard.
"So. Brass tacks," he said, reaching for John's resume. "I see you interned for Ken Faulks. Were you friendly?"
"He's Ken Faulks," John explained, although he perked up at the mention of Faulks's name.
"Huh," said McFadden. He swung his feet up onto his desk and made a steeple with his fingers. "Have you seen his new project? With those monkeys in that house in New Mexico? It's huge, unprecedented. And it's going to get bigger. I want someone out there, someone with an edge."
John's heart skipped a beat. He caught his breath. He tried to hold back, but before he knew it, he was rambling.
"That was my story at the Inky. Never mind just interning with Faulks at the Gazette, which I did, of course--I've also met the apes. I was in the language lab literally hours before it got bombed."
"Really?" said McFadden. He shifted slightly, changed the angle of his head, examining John more closely.
"Really. I know the history of those apes. I know their names. I know the work they were doing--hell, I talked with them. I talked with them--a two-way conversation. And the scientist who got hurt. And I worked for Faulks. I'm good. I'm hungry. I want my story back, and I'm the best person for it. I'll do anything to get it. You won't be sorry."
Topher McFadden looked at John long and hard. His fingers were once again undulating like a jellyfish. "So why did you leave the Inquirer again?"
John stared and tried not to grind his teeth. "Let's just say a colleague there threw me under the bus, and I had very strong reasons for wanting to be here."
"Your wife?"
"Yes. My wife."
McFadden smiled and swung his feet down from his desk.
"Well then. Looks like the Inky's loss is our gain. How soon can you leave for Lizard?"
----
John's cell phone rang while he was pulling out of the parking garage. It was Amanda.
"Did you get the job?" she said.
"You're a goddess! A genius!" he said, propping the phone between his ear and his shoulder so he could pay the attendant.
"I am?"
"Yes! I'm back on the ape story!"
She shrieked, so loudly he nearly dropped the phone. "Oh my God! Honey! I'm so happy for you!"
"Did you get your face done?"
"Yes, but never mind that. Tell me about the assignment."
"It means I have to go to New Mexico almost immediately, but I'm--"
"Oh, shit," Amanda said, cutting him off. "That's Sean on call-waiting. Sorry, babe. I have to take it. Which reminds me, we're going to a party tonight. See you soon. Pick up champagne!"
----
John went home with champagne in hand and found a note from Amanda on the fridge explaining that she would be at a series of appointments in preparation for the party and didn't know how long she'd be out. She asked him to be ready by eight and signed it with exes and ohs.
She walked through the door at five minutes to the hour, took one look at John, and said, "You're not wearing that, are you?"
Her hair was swept up in a pile of loose blond curls of the kind achieved by hard work, hot rollers, and hairpins. Her perfect toenails peeked out of open-toed high-heeled shoes whose crimson soles sent a warning chill up John's spine (he had seen celebrities teetering on similarly red-soled shoes earlier in the day in an issue of the Weekly Times). Her body was encased in a black knit sheath dress that went over only one shoulder.
She blinked expectantly. He remembered her question.
"I was planning to, yes," he said, looking down at himself. He was still in his interview garb, minus the tie.
"I'm in Christian Louboutins," she said by way of explanation. John had no idea what that meant.
"You want me to put my tie back on?" he asked.
She shook her head and smiled. Clearly he was hopeless.
"Here, let me look at you," he said, going over and tilting her face up to the light. She turned obligingly.
The contours of her face looked exactly the same to him as they had that morning. "Remind me--what's supposed to be different?"
"I'm a little fuller here," she said, indicating the area between her nose and mouth, "and here." She pointed toward her lips. "He also injected a little bit under my eyes, and my freckles are gone. And in a few days apparently I won't be able to frown."
"How will I know if you're mad at me?"
She laughed. "Oh, you'll know."
"How much did it cost?"
After a slight pause she said, "Eleven hundred dollars."
John blanched. "Eleven hundred dollars?"
"But on the bright side, if I keep it up I'll never get wrinkles," she said quickly. "The muscles will atrophy. And I think we can write it off ... maybe."
At that moment, the doorbell rang.
Amanda turned and ran her eyes over John.
"Look, why don't you just go without me?" John said. "I'm not all that good at schmoozing anyway."
"Are you sure?" she said, swiping her tiny sequined purse from the hall table.
"Yeah," said John, although he was more than a little curious about this world of celebrities his wife was starting to inhabit.
"We'll have the champagne when I get back," she said.
"Okay," he said.
She kissed him good-bye and opened the door long enough to reveal Sean, who appeared to have gone to great effort to look like a greasy and unshaven addict. Sean muttered something to John and raised a hand in greeting as Amanda lurched out on what had to be five-inch heels. The door slammed.
John stared at the back of it for a few seconds.
Eleven hundred dollars?
Eventually he took his laptop to bed to dig up everything he could find on the apes. So far, nobody had succeeded in getting an interview with Ken Faulks, any of the university's board members, or any of the scientists involved in the project. Peter Benton was actively eluding the media, smugly invoking the usual cliches as though he were some kind of celebrity: "No comment," he'd say from behind dark glasses, or lifting his hand to block the camera's lens. As for Isabel Duncan, she appeared to have fallen off the face of the earth. She had never granted an interview, and had never returned to the university. He remembered her cryptic comment about family and hoped that wherever she was, she was okay.
----
Amanda was home three hours later, a dark shadow slipping into the bedroom.
"Party over already?" John said. He was half asleep, his glazed
eyes fixed on the late show. He'd watched Ape House until the bonobos were asleep.
"No!" she spat, hurling her purse against the wall and sending its contents--a lipstick, compact, credit card, and driver's license--flying.
John jumped out of bed. "Whoa. What happened? Are you all right?"
"No, I'm not all right." She threw her shoes overhand into the corner, one after the other.
Bang.
Bang.
The tiny black point of one stiletto left a dent in the drywall.
"Baby?" John said, approaching as though she were a crazed horse. He tentatively reached for her arm. When she didn't strike out, he began to stroke her. "Amanda? Baby? Talk to me. Tell me what happened."
"First of all, we waited an hour in line behind velvet ropes while they let other people past. More important people, I gather. Then it started to rain, and my hair curled until I looked like Medusa and my feet were killing me. Have you ever tried to walk in five-inch heels? Those shoes cost seven hundred and sixty dollars and now they're ruined because I had to stand there in a greasy puddle. And my feet are ruined too."
"Did you say seven hundred and sixty dollars?"
"And then, when we did get in, the place was swarming with goddamned celebutantes like Kim Kardashian and Paris Hilton! Oh, Paris was swanning around like she was born in five-inch heels! What have any of them ever done? Seriously? What contributions have any of them made to culture or life or even entertainment, except maybe racking up DUIs and doing token jail time? At least Kim and Paris have sex tapes to their credit." Amanda shifted into an imitation of Paris Hilton, thrusting her hips forward and shoulders back, arms akimbo, and tilting her head so her hair fell over one eye. "Hello, Mirror! I'm hot!"
John sank down to the edge of the bed. "You saw Paris Hilton's sex tape? When did you see Paris Hilton's sex tape?"