Simon Rich - Spoiled Brats - Stories

I heard some rustling in the trees around us. Dozens of chimps were balanced on high branches, watching Fitzbaum skeptically.

“Here, chimpy, chimpy,” my old friend said, dragging the plastic box out of his truck. “Who wants to win a treat?”

My father snorted again.

“How hard could it be?”

“Extremely hard,” I told him. “That test requires memory, dexterity, and problem-solving skills.”

My father flicked his paw dismissively.

“Any monkey can push around some levers.”

“Oh yeah?” I said. “Then why don’t you try it?”

My mother climbed between us, but I kept on going, pointing aggressively at his face.

“If the test is so easy, why don’t you climb inside the box and show me how it’s done?”

My father looked around. The entire tribe was watching at this point.

“Fine,” he said, grinning widely so the other chimps could see. “No sweat.”

My mother squirmed as he leaped out of the branches and landed with a thud beside the box. Uncle Mike cheered and the other chimps joined in. My father wasn’t the leader of our tribe, but he was a respected elder. I wondered if he knew what he was risking.

“I’ll be back in a second,” he called out confidently. “With many bananas!”

The tribe clapped and hooted as he climbed into the clear plastic cube.

From the moment the lights started flashing, it was obvious my father was outmatched. He tried to put on a brave face as he randomly poked the levers. But, within a couple of minutes, his frustration grew obvious. He let out a roar, grabbed a random lever, and pulled it as hard as he could. I smiled to myself as he yanked uselessly on it, his broad shoulders shaking with frustration. Eventually, he had no choice but to give up.

“Thing’s broken,” he muttered, avoiding eye contact with the crowd. I couldn’t help but gloat as he started to climb out of the box.

“Not so easy, huh?” I said. He didn’t respond. It was around this time I realized he was stuck.

“What’s happening?” he asked, his consternation giving way to terror. “What’s happening? ”

I climbed down to a lower branch to get a better view. My father’s stomach was wedged between two levers. His breaths were fast and shallow. Fitzbaum watched impassively from his truck, jotting down notes in his field binder.

A crack of thunder sounded, and the tribe quickly dispersed. My father watched with fear as his friends and brothers fled.

“How could you do this to him?” my mother shouted at me over the sound of pouring rain.

“I didn’t do anything!” I shouted back. “He’s the one who wanted to try the box!”

“He’s old!” she screamed. “Can’t you see that? He’s old. ”

Professor Fitzbaum cursed at the rain, hopped into his truck, and drove out of sight. My father sat shivering in the cramped plastic cube. The water was up to his ankles and rising.

“Do something!” my mother yelled at me.

I hopped off the tree and galloped across the clearing.

“Dad!” I shouted. “If you suck in your stomach, I can pull you out!”

“Go away!” he screamed. “I don’t need your help! Get out of here!”

The rain intensified, and my father started whimpering. The water was past his knees. I looked at my mother. She was jumping up and down in a panic.

I reached for my dad’s paw, but he swatted me away. His eyes were wild, his movements frenzied. He was totally disoriented. The water was almost at his waist by the time I figured out a plan.

“Dad!” I shouted over the sound of falling branches. “I’m hungry.”

He didn’t respond, but he finally stopped thrashing.

“I’m hungry,” I repeated. “I never ate dinner.” I took a cautious step toward him. “I wish there were grubs I could eat.”

My father’s breathing slowed.

“There are grubs everywhere,” he said.

I poked at the muddy ground, feigning confusion.

“I’m not good at it,” I said over the sound of howling wind. “I need help from an expert — someone who knows about grubs and about shit.”

My father’s expression brightened.

“I can help,” he said.

“Really? You wouldn’t mind?”

“Nah,” he said, his posture straightening slightly. “It’s no big deal.”

“Great! Suck in your stomach, and I’ll pull you out.”

“What?”

“So you can help me.”

“Oh.”

He sucked in his gut and I heaved on his arm, dragging him out of the box. He immediately thrust his paw into the ground.

“The trick is to reach down to the bottom. See?”

He pulled out a grub and handed it to me.

“Thanks,” I said. I forced a smile and shoved the wriggling creature into my mouth. “Mmm. Delicious.”

“Want another?” he said.

“Um… sure.”

He reached back into the mud and pulled out a whole handful. I swallowed them as quickly as I could.

“You’re good at hunting grubs,” I told him. “I’m really impressed.”

“I guess I’m okay at it,” he murmured.

He beat his chest a couple of times. At some point, it had stopped raining.

“Come on,” he said. “I’ll groom you.”

“You don’t have to groom me.”

He ignored my protests and squatted down behind me. I looked up and saw my mother looking down at me from a tree. She scrunched up her face as if trying to remember something. Then she thrust out her left paw and raised it briefly to her lips.

“Hmm.”

“What?”

“Not sure about qat. ”

Jeremy looked up from the board with shock. His father had never questioned any of his words before. The old man’s lead was usually so big that he let Jeremy put down anything he wanted — proper nouns, abbreviations, even the occasional swear word.

“It’s a type of plant,” Jeremy said. “I learned it on Words with Friends.”

“What’s that?”

“It’s an app.”

“Hmm,” his father said.

Jeremy folded his arms and smirked. “You’re welcome to challenge it.”

His father picked at a loose wooden button on his cardigan.

“That’s all right,” he said, flicking his wrist. “I’ll let you have it.”

Jeremy grinned. His dad only had five tiles left and they were obviously doozies. He couldn’t remember a game ever being this close. He’d come within ten points once, during college. But his father had just had his gallbladder removed and was woozy from a host of strong narcotics.

“Are we allowing foreign words?” his father asked.

Jeremy raised his eyebrows. Foreign words were never allowed. His dad was the one who’d taught him that rule.

“Of course not,” he said.

“Hmm,” his father said. “Then I guess… I’ll pass.”

They both glanced at the score pad. “Dad” was still ahead, 252–239. But “Jerm” was about to end the game.

“ ‘Ta,’ ” he said proudly.

“What?”

“ ‘Ta,’ ” Jeremy said. “T-A. Like goodbye. ”

He slid his final tile into place, a T before the A in qat. He’d set it up and things had played out perfectly.

“Challenge,” his father said.

Jeremy laughed. “Seriously?”

“Challenge,” his father repeated, his voice gruff with frustration.

Jeremy shook his head in disbelief. They’d both been using ta for years.

“Okay, fine.”

He cracked open the Scrabble dictionary and showed his father ta.

“Here’s qat, too,” he said, flipping back a few pages.

His father scratched his scalp. He was still up eleven points, but they hadn’t yet accounted for his remaining letters.