Simon Rich - Spoiled Brats - Stories

And the bartender’s, like, “Tell me more about that.” And he pours the pianist a tiny glass of whiskey.

And the twelve-inch pianist is, like, “He was a total monster. Beat us all. Told me once I was an accident.”

And the bartender’s, like, “That’s horrible.”

And the twelve-inch pianist shrugs. And he’s, like, “You know what? I’m over it. He always said I wouldn’t amount to anything, because of my height? Well, now look at me. I’m a professional musician!”

And the pianist starts to laugh, but it’s a forced kind of laughter, and you can see the pain behind it. And then he’s, like, “When he was in the hospital, he had one of the nurses call me. I was going to go see him. Bought a plane ticket and everything. But before I could make it back to Tampa…”

And then he starts to cry. And he’s, like, “I just wish I’d had a chance to say goodbye to my old man.”

And all of a sudden there’s this big cloud of smoke — and a beat-up Plymouth Voyager appears!

And the pianist is, like, “I said ‘old man,’ not ‘old van’!”

And everybody laughs. And the pianist is, like, “Your genie’s hard of hearing.”

And the bartender says, “No kidding. You think I wished for a twelve-inch pianist?”

And as soon as the words leave his lips, he regrets them. Because the pianist is, like, “Oh my God. You didn’t really want me.”

And the bartender’s, like, “No, it’s not like that.” You know, trying to backpedal.

And the pianist smiles ruefully and says, “Once an accident, always an accident.” And he drinks all of his whiskey.

And the bartender’s, like, “Kevin, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that.”

And the pianist smashes his whiskey glass against the wall and says, “Well, I didn’t mean that. ”

And the bartender’s, like, “Whoa, calm down.”

And the pianist is, like, “Fuck you!” And he’s really drunk, because he’s only one foot tall and so his tolerance for alcohol is extremely low. And he’s, like, “Fuck you, asshole! Fuck you!”

And he starts throwing punches, but he’s too small to do any real damage, and eventually he just collapses in the bartender’s arms.

And suddenly he has this revelation. And he’s, like, “My God, I’m just like him. I’m just like him.” And he starts weeping.

And the bartender’s, like, “No, you’re not. You’re better than he was.”

And the pianist is, like, “That’s not true. I’m worthless!”

And the bartender grabs the pianist by the shoulders and says, “Dammit, Kevin, listen to me! My life was hell before you entered it. Now I look forward to every day. You’re so talented and kind and you light up this whole bar. Hell, you light up my whole life. If I had a second wish, you know what it would be? It would be for you to realize how beautiful you are.”

And the bartender kisses the pianist on the lips.

So the guy, who’s been watching all this, is surprised, because he didn’t know the bartender was gay. It doesn’t bother him; it just catches him off guard, you know? So he goes to the bathroom, to give them a little privacy. And there’s the genie.

So the guy’s, like, “Hey, genie, you need to get your ears fixed.”

And the genie’s, like, “Who says they’re broken?” And he opens the door, revealing the happy couple, who are kissing and gaining strength from each other.

And the guy’s, like, “Well done.”

And then the genie says, “That bartender’s tiny penis is going to seem huge from the perspective of his one-foot-tall boyfriend.”

And the graphic nature of the comment kind of kills the moment.

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.”

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.