Simon Rich - Spoiled Brats - Stories

“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 snorted. “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.”

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.”