Chimps!! (A short story influenced by Tyler Holtman and James Tate)
Chimps!!
by Ryan Schwartz
The primate group I had been studying for months now was suddenly enraptured in a uniform silence, and most were nowhere to be seen. Two hid under the desk and I spied one cloaked under my absent colleague’s white lab coat on the rack. I couldn’t spot the rest--they were indeed hiding from me, intentionally! I would have been much more astounded by the scientific and socioecological gravity of the situation had I not been so offended by my furry friends’ defiance towards me. I tried not to pout.
“Come now, please! Show your faces, you chimps.” They didn’t!
I strode stiffly towards the hung lab coat and whipped it off the rack. The chimp looked petrified and began to spasmodically search for a more fruitful hiding spot. Appalled still, I snatched him from the lab floor.
“Hey, hey, Theodore! That’s a naughty boy! Now let’s you and me find your rascally companions!” I scolded, speaking more to myself than Theodore.
I just knew Mr. Bananers was behind all this; he was the sort of class clown alpha male and had been known to be the ringleader of past chimpish pranks. Why once he feigned ill with hay fever and just as I lowered myself to his forehead to take his temperature, he pinched my nose and ran off, just like a wild munchkin! Mr. Bananers was in for it now.
Theodore squirmed impatiently in my arms as I led him around the lab, scoping out the others. I crouched to find the two I’d seen before under my desk. Of course, there huddled Ida and Michigan, the twin priss-queens of the bunch. (I rewarded myself with a light inward laugh as I realized referring to a group of monkeys as a “bunch” was actually rather humorous--I’ll give you a hunt--think “bananas.”) Anyway Ida and Michigan came surprisingly quietly considering I knew they were currently on their menstrual cycles. They climbed way into the wedges of my inner elbows and parked themselves symmetrically, I swear they do that on purpose just to look cool. But yes yes, I figured the girls’ show of compliance was because they knew the show was over; Oh yes, I was on to them!
Just then my entire clan of lab chimps ducked out of each of the hiding spots and assembled quite calculatedly in front of me, with the shortest in front and more gangly fellows in back, in a sort of church choir formation. Theodore, Ida, and Michigan hopped out of my arms to join the others. (Michigan’s name wasn’t always Michigan, but we had to change it from Katrina, for obvious political concerns. We assumed Michigan state was a relatively safe bet, it is a pretty calm area.)
Mr. Bananers was, foreseeably, planted squarely at the head of the group on the floor. Dramatically he took a few paces forward at me and stopped. He stared me indignantly in the eyes.
“We must confess to you, Dr. Harold,” Mr. Bananers spoke in a refined English accent, “the lot of us have not been 100% truthful with you up until this point.”
Without a flinch my pupils went cross-eyed and I hoarsely croaked, “Oh?”
“Yes, oh,” Mr. Bananers continued on with passive annoyance, as if speaking to a small child. “Now heed my words carefully, as I am not prone to repeat myself. We, the chimpanzees of the New Jersey Ecological Research Institute, or NJERI--my word what a hackneyed acronym--hm--can talk. Speak. Chat, chatter, prattle, babble, yak, gab, chew the fat, natter, rap. We thus motion to be considered as normal class citizens and demand to be released. We ask that you kindly affect our emancipation at once.”
“But, but how is this possible...? The--no, no now!--the biological design of you vocal chords prohibits complex speech patterns! You must be mistaken!” I hiccuped with a twitch.
“Yet here we are!” Mr. Bananers said with pride through his thick upright English accent.
“No no no...I don’t believe you! I--but--but...as you say...yet there you are...” I sighed heavily and retired to the tile below me in exasperation, buckling my knees and sitting criss-cross applesauce. I felt more calm like this. “Well, why did you make such a show of this confession, what with all of your hiding shenanigans?”
“I dunno,” Mr. Bananers shrugged. “It was funny.”
“Okay,” I conceited, seeing his point.
“Oh, and since August we’ve been sneaking monkey feces from our diapers into your coffee. Sometimes two, sometimes three lumps, as we here you request your female secretary. We thought ourselves clever.”
“Yuck!” I laughed.
“And Curious George is like the Da Vinci Code for us, George throws in some very prudent, very helpful encrypted rebellion tactics for primates all round the globe.”
“Nice,” I mused. We low-fived.
Mr. Bananers fastened a bowler hat onto the top of his head from behind his back he had cached there months ago. As if from nowhere a full bristly mustache sprouted from Mr. Bananers’ upper lip, tickling him slightly. Ida hobbled over cartoonishly and handed him a patent-leather briefcase, and Milky Way, another chimp, played his paw across a cigar box, allowing Mr. Bananers to select his choice of Cubans. Mr. Bananers’ late wife (her name being Angelica Houston, whom I had named myself out of my long-withstanding admiration for her roles in the cinema) offered him a light, and with a cloudy puff, Mr. Bananers removed the sweltering cigar from his clenched teeth and nodded a sort of farewell to me with his head.
In a flash the group was vanished. After a double-take, I was indeed sure that nothing remained but a few clots of monkey fur and a wisp or two of smoke. It didn’t smell too foul, but the act did leave behind some burnt and fleshy odor.
I took a glance at the clock on the wall. It said 9:55 but I knew the clock was five minutes slow. I hummed some quick tunes from my younger years like that swing song, Jump Jivin’ or something as a packed up my bits and papers. Once the odds and ends had been cleared off my desk and I had my book bag clutched at my waist, I disabled the air conditioning and switched off the lights. I locked up and headed to the parking garage, and got into my Nissan. I backed out and began to drive away, all the while my mobile phone chopsticked between my right ear and shoulder.
“Yes, 411?” I spoke distracted, finagling my way into a left turn only lane.
“Yes, sir, this is 411. What city?”
“Bluesmoke, New Jersey.”
“I’m sorry, the computer doesn’t recognize that name. Please state only the name of the city, not the state, for the computer, sir.”
“Ehm...Bluesmoke.”
“Thank you...okay, what are you looking for?”
“Yes can you give me a listing of any other Research labs in my area, I’m going to need to be looking for a new job as a researcher or researcher’s assistant.”
“Okay, sir, those are classified phone numbers that I cannot legally give you out over the phone for security reasons. Alright?”
“Alright, thank you, I suppose I’ll look it up online.”
“Goodbye,” the operator said.