Apeshit Read online

  He had taken the job just after graduating from high school specifically to avoid having to interact with people or deal with anything one might consider difficult. What better place to relax, he’d reasoned, than a completely deserted zoo? Unfortunately for Ian, another aspect of the job that he’d failed to consider completely was the fact that a night watchman is an arm, perhaps in some cases even a fist, of martial authority. There was nothing martial about Ian. He was tall and thin as a twig, with all the inherent physical sturdiness and heroic character implied therein. Not given much to physical activity, he routinely lost his breath just making his rounds. He would sit on a bench to regain it, gazing into the hollowed enclosures, thinking how much easier it must be to be an ape.

  Ian was, at best, a pinky finger of authority.

  Nevertheless, he had never encountered any trouble, not so much as a single incident during one of his shifts. After a while he figured that he was perfect for this job—a silent observer, a detached wanderer, but never an actor. So he had made his rounds night after night, walking back and forth through the halls of the Monkey House, surrounded by the proto-people.

  Meanwhile, across the Zoo, President Taft’s tummy rumbled. He was pretending to nap in a recliner in Keeper Engelholm’s overnight quarters, snoring loudly so that his Secret Service entourage might relax and grant him some privacy. The President, determined to make the morning’s appearance his best performance yet, had arrived at the Zoo earlier that night to acclimate himself with his surroundings. In his experience, foreknowledge, a good night’s rest, and a full stomach translated to his best chance at aplomb in front of a crowd.

  Thus, the growling in Taft’s belly concerned him. It was late, far too late to snack, really, and he’d already eaten quite a hefty plate of lamb chops before bed. But there it was, the rumbling, keeping him awake despite himself. How would he take this tour, shake this monkey’s hand, on an empty stomach, without any sleep? He resolved against his better judgment to satisfy his urges. A heavyweight wrestling champion at Yale, Taft summoned the last modicum of litheness and deftness of movement left in his body, smoothed his mustache between thumb and forefinger, and tip-toed out the back door, in search of snacks.

  For Ian Brixey, Baldy was nowhere to be found outside, either. He quickly canvassed the immediate area surrounding the habitat and found ripped in the fine wire netting surrounding it a savage, chimp-sized hole. Baldy had evidently busted through the latch on the outside of the trap door and used it to tear the wire. Or so Ian deduced upon finding the latch, now rendered impotent, in the dirt surrounding the hole.

  The deep navy of the sky was getting lighter in the East—soon it would be morning. Soon, Ian thought, everyone would know that Baldy, the very same Baldy who later that day was scheduled to shake hands with the President of the United States, had gone missing on his watch.

  Just then, there was a great crashing of metal on metal. Ian, operating on a pure instinct he’d later recall with incredulity, as if he couldn’t be sure that it was really him who’d done it, forgot for a moment his fear and his shame and sprinted to the noise, heels clicking behind him.

  When he reached the kitchen (he had pinpointed the location of the noise by its successive tremors), he slowed to a walk. There was no cacophony coming from inside any longer—just the dull glow of the electric lights radiating from underneath the door.

  Recovered by then from his fit of heroism, Ian found himself once again gripped with paralyzing terror. Motivated simply by a desire not to be the laughing-stock of the entire Zoo, a prospect even more terrifying than the abject, shrouded unknown, he turned the doorknob and poked his head inside, like a turtle testing the air.

  At first he saw only pots and pans littering the tile floor. They, no doubt, had been the source of the commotion that had drawn him to the kitchen. Ian ventured a few feet inside, shining his flashlight about despite the bright electric lights above him.

  He found, slumped against a cabinet to the left of the door, staring intently at his reflection in a shiny metal pan, Baldy the Chimp. Next to him, lying inert, face-down on the floor, was the body of President Taft.

  Ian approached the scene timidly, his hand secured over his mouth to stop him from screaming. He had no training whatsoever with animals—Keeper Engelholm had assured him in no uncertain terms that he was only to walk the halls and never to interact with them. Nevertheless, he had over his short time at the Zoo developed an affinity for the chimps that he could not explain if pressed.

  “Baldy?” he asked.

  Baldy looked up suddenly, a wild grin smeared across his face.

  Just then, from deep within Taft’s considerable belly, there issued a monumental groan.

  “What on Earth has happened to me?” he asked, pushing himself up onto an elbow and clutching at a pronounced lump on his head.

  Ian hesitated to respond to the President. Baldy glanced at Taft and returned to the pot, entranced by his own reflection, oblivious again to the affairs of the two men beside him.

  “Well, boy, what is the meaning of this?” asked the President. He was seated now, slumped against a cabinet in much the same fashion as Baldy, still clutching his skull.

  “Mr. President, sir, I haven’t the faintest,” said Ian. He set his flashlight down and stepped back from Baldy nervously. “What are you doing in here?”

  “Well,” Taft looked suddenly embarrassed. His eyes were unfocused, and he didn’t look at Ian as he slurred out his words. “I’m ashamed to say that I got hungry. I got hungry, damnit. I couldn’t sleep. And the boys couldn’t know about it, could they?” he asked.

  Ian realized that Taft was waiting for his response. “No, sir,” he said.

  “I used to be a wrestler you know. Big Lub, they called me. I was a champion.”

  “I’m impressed, sir.”

  Taft, groggy, nodded his head. “So I slipped out to the kitchen while they thought I was napping. Next thing I know, I wake up on the floor with a massive pain in my head and you standing here.” Taft pointed at Ian, accusing him. “I demand that you tell me what’s happened at once.” The President gave his most authoritative harrumph.

  “Mr. President, sir, the thing is that I’ve only just arrived here.”

  Taft arched an eyebrow. “Only just?” he asked. “Then who was it that caused this lump on my head?”

  Ian pointed at Baldy, still admiring his reflection. Taft pivoted on one hand and beheld, apparently for the first time, his assailant. As he turned to face Baldy, Ian noticed a sphere of hair missing from the top of the President’s head. In its place was a shiny, freckled dome of marbled skin.

  “I believe you’re missing something, Mr. President,” Ian said, reaching to the crown of his own head. The President groped at himself.

  “Ah, so I am, so I am. He’s stolen it, has he?” Taft stood up, defiant. Ian was befuddled beyond reply. “If we’ve learned one thing from the reign of Roosevelt, boy, we’ve learned that a President must, above all else, champion his virility. A balding Commander in Chief simply would not do.”

  Ian’s gaze drifted to Baldy as the chimp continued to hold the pot up to his face. It was no longer the mask of anxiety, of torment, of shame that it once had been. Instead, he seemed content, lazy even, smiling genuinely for the first time in years. For nested at the crown of his head, though it was far too large and the colors hardly matched, was President Taft’s secret toupée.

  After receiving bandages and several doses of aspirin, the President insisted that the show go on, despite his lingering concussion. It was rather Rooseveltian of him, he thought.

  Madison Grant and Keeper Engelholm gave him the grand tour, on which he saw, in the following order: (to his eternal consternation) the stuffed head of a rhinoceros killed by Roosevelt the year prior; an angry and reluctant lioness; two elephants do headstands in his honor; waltzing mice; singing rattlesnakes; a mongoose devour three blind mice; and a royal python, who dines on a whole pig once every three months.<
br />
  “How long does it take the snake to digest the pig?” the President wanted to know.

  Finally, at the very end of the tour, Baldy and Taft came together for their photo opportunity. The former adversaries had become quick friends in the hours following their encounter. Once everything had been sorted out, Taft saw to it that Baldy be allowed to keep the Presidential toupée, for he recognized in the ape a kindred spirit.

  President Taft also saw to it that Ian Brixey be publicly commended for his bravery in halting the dangerous chimp attack. After that he stood with his back a little straighter, his chin held a little higher. Yes, he thought, I was a proper night watchman today. He stuck around even after his shift was over (something he was normally loathe to do) in order to see to it that everything went smoothly for the President during his visit.

  That said, Ian was not formally or otherwise invited into the President’s entourage, thus having no tangible way to ensure anything of the sort. Instead, he contented himself with pacing around the perimeter of the zoo, ever-vigilant against a second animal escape, until Taft and Baldy finally met.

  He watched as cameras swarmed them. Baldy peeled back his lips in a minstrel’s grin as Taft approached, returning an effervescent smile. The chimp, his toupée knitted more neatly onto his scalp now, extended a long, leathery palm out to the balding President, who grasped it and shook, Ian thought, with the heft and confidence of a greater man.

  ¤ ¤ ¤ ¤ ¤

  Mike Bogart (Monkey House) is an MFA candidate and Follett Fellow at Columbia College Chicago. His work has appeared in Connu.

  (back to table of contents)

  ¤ ¤ ¤ ¤ ¤

  THE HOUND DOGS IN THE BOUGAINVILLEA

  by Lon Prater

  Prof. Renfro,

  I came upon several rubber-banded sheaves of paper in an attic chest that belonged to my grandfather, and when I read them, I immediately thought of you. More precisely, your anthropological theory that a hidden line of Neanderthal have been living among us all these years. The papers appear to have been written by my great grandfather Wallace M. You may recall he led something of a dashing life in the twenties as a bootlegger a few rungs down the ladder from Capone. I suspect it won’t be Wallace who attracts your scientific interest, but rather the descriptions of his partner Pinky Clade. (A figure even Google holds no record of ever having existed, I might add.)

  I couldn’t help but wonder, in the light of what you’ve already uncovered among the Scandinavians—But no! I’ll let the scanned pages of this memoir speak for themselves. There are a few more of these bundles tucked away in the chest, I’ve not read them yet; the handwriting is atrocious. Do let me know when you’ve read this, and whether it would be worthwhile to scan and send the remainder. It was quite the chore getting these papers to lay flat on the scanner; I’d rather not go through the effort if you aren’t as excited by the possibilities as I am.

  Yours,

  Yvonne Mortimer

  ◊ ◊ ◊ ◊ ◊

  The only smell worse than some squatter’s hellhole in Des Ourses Swamp is that same marshy hellhole where there’s a working still. If it was enough to make my eyes water as we pulled up, I knew it had to be driving Pinky absolutely off his nuts. As I slammed the door of the hopped up tin lizzy our boss lent us, I looked across the shiny hood at Pinky. He had pulled a hankie out of his back pocket and gave it a vigorous honk before stuffing it back into place. Pinky was a conscientious fella, for all that he looked the big dumb lug with his nose the size of Plymouth Rock and those close-set eyes always darting around beneath the reddish underbrush of his low and prominent eyebrows. The man tended to carry at least four handkerchiefs on him at any given time, always reserving the one in the breast pocket of his light wool jacket for mopping sweat from his brow or wiping smudges of lipstick from any golddigging flapper kind enough to kiss his ugly mug.

  He tucked his left hand under his jacket and withdrew Shillelagh, what he called his .45 revolver. “No sense pretending this is a social call, eh, Wally? We ain’t exactly here to play cards.”

  I kind of wished we were. It had been over a week since we left Chicago, and my palms were itching to find a good stud game in a proper speakeasy or even a blind pig somewhere. I got out my own heat. I don’t bother to give it a name. Way I see it, names are only good for making conversation. The sort of chats my pistol gets involved in are usually short, one-way affairs.

  With the gun snug in my hand, I walked in front of the black T-model and stood beside my associate.

  Some might say I stood over him, because at nearly six and a half feet, I had a good two feet on him. But they wouldn’t dare say it out loud. Even though I had him in height and I’d kept my muscle from a tour in the Marine Corps in Nicaragua, Pinky was one solid specimen. He had a short torso, but great meaty trunks instead of legs, and long arms that gave him some serious reach. He never talked much about himself, but once over a few drinks while we were still running protection rackets, he had mentioned doing a round or two of prizefighting when he’d first got off the boat. “From Ireland?” I’d asked, thinking about what he called his weapon. But he hadn’t responded out loud, just nodded his head and called for another round. It’s okay not knowing so much about your partner, so long as you know you can trust him. And Pinky was a stand-up guy, far as hoods go. Besides, there’s plenty of things I don’t want to talk about, like my tour in the jungle and what happened when I came back. So having a partner who knows how a man sometimes needs to throw up a privacy fence and have others respect it makes Pinky and me a perfect fit.

  We looked out across the squatter’s little slice of Louisiana paradise. A low shack with hand-cut timber walls patched here and there with mud, and not a single window to be found. There was a pit for a cooking fire that looked like it hadn’t been used in some time, and farther off, a ramshackle outhouse with a nice wrought iron handle on the clapboard door. The cabin’s own less-well-appointed door hung ajar and gave the little hovel a sort of gaptoothed charm. An old Army tent had been roped into place just behind the cabin. Two sides of the canvas were ripped away and what was left of it had been torn in dozens of places, making the tent more of a shady gazebo than any real shelter. We walked along what passed for a path through the spongy marsh soil toward the cabin’s open door.

  “Mr. Reardon?” Pinky called. There was no answer.

  I glanced left and right, wondering when the old moonshiner would start shooting, and where from. “Come on out, Mr. Reardon. We just want to talk. A mutual acquaintance of ours asked us to check in on you.”

  No sound greeted us beyond the buzz of a wayward fly lolling about on the stink of soft wind. Pinky gave me the look that meant he’d go in first, and then he did it. I followed, looping around so that by the time he said “Housekeeping” and kicked the shack door in, I’d set up on the corner of the house where I could keep an eye on the outhouse, the car, and the tattered Army tent all at once with just a little swivel of my head.

  “It’s empty,” Pinky called. I let myself relax, but only a little. Until we knew for sure nobody was hiding in that outhouse or tent, it’d be bad business to start heaving sighs of relief.

  Pinky came out, his head back, nostrils flaring. He had something in his hand. “Car coming,” he said, handing me what turned out to be a picture frame.

  By now I’d learned not to doubt Pinky, and not to bother asking whether he smelled it or heard it. So I just nodded and inspected the picture.

  They’d had it made for a family get together of some sort. A trio of unsmiling men, clearly brothers, stood to the right of a scowling crabapple of an oldtimer, complete with long whiskers and only one bracer holding up his britches. A pair of gangly boys stood with them, looking like they weren’t quite sure whether they qualified to be standing in the back row with the men just yet. A row of women in bonnets and kerchiefs completed the portrait, a couple holding babies on their knee. Someone had scratched the year 1921 into one of the corners. Not so man
y years ago.

  “Anything else in there?”

  “Just some shoes. Nobody’s been here in a good bit. Let’s check out the still.” He started toward the tent, which of course proved to contain exactly that.

  And it was operating too. A confoundment of curling copper tubes, barrels crusted over with fermenting mash, a ready supply of jugs and jars. I counted seconds as a few dewy drops fell into various collecting jars.

  “Probably cooking about a quart or two every day or so,” I told Pinky.

  “Old Man Reardon’s got some explaining to do.” He grunted, holding a clean hankie up to his nose. “The boss ain’t gonna like it, being held out on. See that?”

  He pointed at a track beaten into the marshy scrub. It went on a few yards before curling off out of sight around a clump of swamp myrtle. Before we could go looking farther, an old Packard touring car chuffed up into the front, parking alongside the Ford.

  A portly fellow got out, lifted his hat at the pair of us and walked right up like we were old friends he sure was glad to see. If he noticed how me and Pinky both had one hand in our jacket pockets, he hardly seemed to care.

  “You boys Prohibition Agents?” the man asked.

  I chuckled. “Yeah, we’re a regular Izzy and Moe. You got a badge?”

  The man grinned a horsey grin and waved both hands in the air, foolin’ like we were stickup men.