"I'm bleaching my mustache," she said. "Not sure I can do it after my appointment tomorrow, and apparently it's another of my many flaws."
A few days ago one of Amanda's new bosses--the one who had called her "refreshingly different"--had given her the name of a dermatologist and suggested in a tone Amanda interpreted as an order that she get injections of Restylane, a popular face plumper, along with Botox and some sort of laser treatment to get rid of her freckles. John couldn't fathom why a writer needed to look like a movie star, but it seemed to be true: recently there had been a scandal involving a nineteen-year-old scriptwriting ingenue who was feted and celebrated until she was discovered to be thirty-five, at which point she could no longer find work. Although Amanda's latest round of transformations were clearly traceable to this one specific idiot's mutterings about the Hollywood "type," in his heart, John blamed Uncle Ab. If only the scotch-addled old man had kept his yap shut at the wedding--
"I mean what's up in general," said John.
"Oh," said Amanda, rising to her feet. "You should probably look at the fridge."
"Why?" said John, staring at the television. The genital-rubbing apes had gone their separate ways and were relegated back to the bottom left corner. One was now wearing a bucket on her head. In another square, an ape lay on a beanbag chair with his legs crossed, casually flipping through a magazine.
Arroogah! Arroogah! The Klaxon horn sounded as a different square enlarged and slid to the center of the screen. A male walking upright presented his long, pointy erection to another ape.
"I just think you should," Amanda said, disappearing into the bathroom. John sighed, dragged a hand down his face, and went to the kitchen. The last thing he needed to deal with was a broken refrigerator.
As he opened its door to investigate, a neon pink Post-it note came unstuck and fluttered to the ground. He stooped to pick it up. He stared at it for a moment and then called into the hallway. "Amanda?"
The bathroom door opened and Amanda sailed out. She had changed out of her drawstring pants and was wrapped in a fuzzy white robe, her upper lip scrubbed pink. She passed between John and the refrigerator and reached inside for a beer.
"Yes?" she said, handing him the bottle.
He twisted the cap off and handed it back to her. "What did the Times want?"
"A job interview, I assume," she said, and broke into a wide grin.
John stared at her for a moment, then whooped in joy.
----
"Pendleton Group. How may I direct your call?"
John's brow furrowed. He glanced down at the Post-it note, which was stuck along the length of his forefinger. The Los Angeles Times was owned by the Tribune Company. Everybody knew that.
"Topher McFadden, please," he said, reading the name from the Post-it. John had not heard of him; he must be an editorial assistant, or a new addition.
"Which division?"
"The Times. Editorial," John said.
"One moment, please." There was a click, followed by waterfall noises and birdsong. It cut off abruptly after several seconds.
"Yes?" said a languorous male voice.
John propped the phone between his ear and shoulder and set about detangling the coils of the cord. "Hello. This is John Thigpen. You left a message for me earlier today?"
"Oh, yes. So I did. I have your resume here." The sound of paper rustling. "Pretty impressive. Internship, and then eight years at the New York Gazette. A year plus at The Philadelphia Inquirer. Some freelance work for The New York Times."
"Thank you."
"So what brings you to the City of Angels?"
"My wife is co-writing a series for NBC."
"What's it about?"
"Single women navigating the jungle of urban relationships."
"Like Sex and the City."
"It's similar. I guess."
"So she's ripping it off. Like Cashmere Mafia, or Lipstick Jungle."
John swallowed loudly. "Not at all. It's got its own ... twists."
"Sure it does," said Topher McFadden. "So, do you want to come in tomorrow? Maybe at ten?"
"That would be great," said John.
"Good. Bring a double-shot grande skinny latte. Two sugars."
"Would you like a dusting of Madagascar cinnamon with that?" said John, smiling at his own little joke.
This was followed by a devastating, cricket-filled silence. John's smile reversed itself. Either the man had never watched Frasier or he had no sense of humor. John's instincts leaned toward the latter.
"Do you know where we are?" McFadden finally said.
"Yes. Of course. You're on West First."
"Huh? We're what?" A pause, and then, "Wait--are you shitting me? With Simon Bell at the helm? You think they're hiring? You're shitting me, aren't you?"
"No," said John. "No, I'm afraid I wasn't."
----
John descended the stairs slowly. Amanda had a selection of pots and pans out on the counter and was crushing garlic cloves with the flat side of a knife. A copper pan was on the stove behind her, a generous lump of butter melting within.
She glanced up at John. "Was that the Times?"
"Yes."
She turned to swirl the saucepan with both hands, making sure the bottom was evenly coated. "How did it go?"
"They want an interview." He paused, watching as she tipped the pan from side to side.
"Oh! That's great!"
"The only thing is, it's not the L.A. Times."
Amanda reached for a wooden spoon from a canister on the counter. "What do you mean?"
"It was the Weekly Times," John continued. After a moment he added, "I didn't apply to the Weekly Times. It's a tabloid."
She stopped stirring for a second, and then resumed.
"Amanda?"
"Yes?" she said cautiously. The distribution of butter had suddenly become utterly absorbing.
"Is there something you want to tell me?"
She tapped the spoon against the edge of the pan and set it on the counter.
"How did they get my resume?" John continued.
She closed her eyes for a moment and leaned against the counter. "I might have sent it."
"You might have sent it?"
"Okay. Yes," she said, turning to face him. "One of the producers said he knows an editor at the Times and he said he'd put in a word for you, so I emailed your resume."
John stared with an open mouth.
"What?" she said. "I don't understand why you're angry."
"It's a tabloid! I can't write about stars in rehab and stupid skinny blond girls and who's boinking them."
"I didn't know," she said. Her voice had taken on an edge. "I also thought it was the L.A. Times."
John opened his mouth and then snapped it shut again. He swiped the car keys from the counter.
"John! Wait!" She was suddenly behind him, holding his wrist. "What's going on here? If you don't want the job, don't go to the interview. Nobody's forcing you. I was just trying to help."
"You think I can't get a job by myself? Is that what you think?"
"What is wrong with you?" she said.
Finally, she let go of his wrist. He went back to the garage, coaxed the Jetta's engine to turn over, and screeched down the street, bypassing third gear altogether and leaving the garage door in the mostly-up position.
----
John had no idea where he was going. He headed toward the Santa Monica Freeway with the vague notion of streaming down it until his fury dissipated, but traffic was jammed from the moment he got on the entrance ramp. By then, he was already committed. He had no choice now but to bake in the smog and creep along toward the next exit.
The Weekly Times was the rag that people surreptitiously thumbed through while their groceries crawled along the belt in the checkout lane. John tried to remember if he'd ever seen anyone openly reading it--occasionally in an airport or a hotel, cloaked by anonymity. Maybe at the dentist's, but even then it was only because the alt
ernatives were Forbes or Golf Illustrated.
If he worked for them, that would be the end of his credibility as a reporter. That, or he'd have to fake a hole in his resume when and if they left L.A., which would be almost as bad as admitting he'd been with the Weekly Times.
John blinked rapidly, bringing himself back into the moment. The cars began moving again, requiring him to shift from first gear to second to first again, keeping one foot poised over the clutch. He rolled up the window and turned on the air-conditioning.
His cell phone buzzed against his thigh. He dug it out and flipped it open. Amanda had sent a text:
U THR?
John held his phone up above the steering wheel so he could see the traffic beyond and thumb-typed: NO.
He snapped the phone shut and tossed it onto the passenger seat. He turned his gaze back to the highway, although the traffic wasn't moving. He focused on the thin wisp of blue exhaust coming from the tailpipe of the convertible in front of him.
The phone buzzed again.
Y R U MAD? PLS TALK 2 ME.
He didn't answer, because he didn't have an answer to give.
A horn blared from behind, and John looked up to see a three-car gap in front of him. In the rearview mirror the driver behind him gesticulated wildly. John raised a hand in apology and pulled up.
John glanced at the phone, hoping she would text again and then realized that no, of course she wouldn't, because he was being a complete jerk. It also became entirely clear to him that he was not angry with her. He was terrified. He had been methodical and relentless in his job-hunting, spending two hours a night at it, keeping spreadsheets and notes in three-ring binders. So far, he hadn't gotten so much as a nibble from anywhere he actually wanted to work. And, of course, the very first place he had applied to was the L.A. Times.
Was writing for the Weekly Times really worse than writing shampoo copy? It would certainly be more secure than a temporary job, assuming they even wanted him. If Amanda was serious about having children--which she appeared to be--they needed an income they could count on.
Another horn sounded. John eased up on the clutch and the Jetta was actually in motion before he looked up and realized that the car in front of him hadn't moved. He slammed on the brakes so violently his engine stalled and his phone dropped to the floor. Against the blaring of horns, he laid his head against the steering wheel, and then reached down to retrieve the phone from the floor pads that were still stained with salt from the streets of Philadelphia.
----
It was past midnight before he cut the engine and coasted into the garage, Garp-style. All the lights were off.
Amanda was asleep in the center of the bed with her arms thrown over her head. The television was on, and an electric guitar ground out a primal soundtrack while bald security guards held two fantastically obese women apart as dry ice wafted around them. Their fists flew, their legs spun like egg beaters. Both were down to their bras and black-wired microphones, although one of them still had the tattered remains of her shirt tucked into the waist of her Tweedle Dee stretch pants. She brandished a wig torn off the head of her rival and shrieked a string of obscenities that were rendered as solid bleeps. The apparent object of dispute was a lanky man slouched in a chair behind them. He sat with knees spread and eyebrows raised in a combination of annoyance and boredom. Look at what I put up with, his expression seemed to say. Jerry Springer arranged his features into a look of unspeakable sadness, shaking his head as the camera panned past.
John switched the television off and undressed in the dark. He sat on the edge of the bed and stared down at Amanda, who was milky-blue in the pale glow of the streetlight. She stirred and opened her eyes.
"Hey," she said, rolling over to make room for him.
"Hey," he replied.
He slipped between the sheets and tucked his knees into the space behind hers. When he draped an arm over her rib cage she took his hand in both of hers and squeezed it beneath her chin.
"I'm sorry," she mumbled. "I shouldn't have sent your resume. I was just trying to help."
"I know," he said. "And I'm sorry I was such an ass. I'm going to go to the interview."
After just a moment, John pressed his nose into her hair. It was smooth and slick, unlike her old hair, but it still smelled like her. He took a deep breath and held it in, taking an olfactory snapshot. He kissed the back of her head and closed his eyes.
18
Five days before, Isabel had spent the night of Ape House's debut glued to the television. It didn't take long for her to figure out the premise. In fact, it took Isabel about as long as it took Bonzi.
After Bonzi had poked lexigrams representing various objects and clearly decided her actions were having no effect, she left the computer. Shortly thereafter, a doorbell rang. Although what Isabel could hear through the TV was a sound effect (like the rest of the soundtrack), something actual had happened within the house because the bonobos gathered in the main room, their heads swiveling suspiciously.
Ding dong!
Sam and Mbongo rushed the front door several times, pounding it with hands and feet before leaping back. Then they kept guard from a dozen feet back. Their hair bristled, making them look larger.
Ding dong!
Sam approached the door and lined an eye up at the peephole. After a moment's scrutiny, he flung the door open and jumped back. Immediately beyond it sat several crates, brimming with the goodies Bonzi had ordered.
A celebratory orgy ensued, set against a canned laugh track. The sex was followed by feasting and mutual grooming.
Isabel watched from her place on the floor until the bonobos formed nests out of their new blankets, surrounded by discarded fruit boxes, milk and juice jugs, candy wrappers, and other detritus. An unbearable ache seized her heart when she realized that Bonzi had gathered exactly six blankets and was folding their edges as she always had. Then she called to Lola, who was investigating the hinges of a kitchen cabinet with a wrench. When Lola looked, Bonzi signed, BABY COME! and Lola bounded over and into the nest to let Bonzi groom her into slumber. Isabel wondered if any of the viewing audience had any idea what they had just witnessed: one of the most exciting discoveries to come from the language lab was that once bonobos acquired human language they passed it on to their babies, communicating with a combination of ASL and their own vocalizations.
Isabel didn't move until all the bonobos were asleep. The frenzied soundtrack had been replaced by a synthesized version of the Brahms lullaby with an occasional human snore or whistle tossed in. The cameras zoomed in on the rise and fall of chests, the pucker of a whiskered chin caught on the exhale. Only then did Isabel go to bed herself, leaving the television on. Several times during the night she awoke and sat bolt upright, checking the screen to make sure she hadn't made the whole thing up. But there they were, snoozing in their nests.
The next day, after a CNN broadcast confirmed that the show was airing from Lizard, New Mexico, Isabel was on a plane to El Paso. She rented a car, drove to Lizard, and settled into the Mohegan Moon, a hotel next to the largest casino. With Ape House playing on the flat-screen TV, she gave her sheets a couple of spritzes of Spirit of Ylang Ylang--the hotel had provided a variety of essential oils designed to promote relaxation--and collapsed on the bed, fully dressed.
The feather duvet was soft, and she slipped her arms beneath the pillows. She didn't intend to fall asleep, but at some point she realized that not only was it morning, but also that six hours had passed since she'd last checked the apes.
In the center square of the television, Makena and Bonzi performed a quick genito-genital rub before splitting a banana. Makena was wearing an inside-out fleece shirt and carried a doll in the crook of her arm. She would give birth soon, and Isabel felt a stab of panic: she had no reason to believe that the producers even knew Makena was pregnant. It wasn't the same as looking at a woman in her eighth month; to the untrained eye, a bonobo pregnancy could easily go undetected.
&nbs
p; Isabel rose immediately, and, without bothering to change her clothes, covered her baldness with a pale blue mohair beret. She then asked the concierge for directions to where Ape House was filming.
The place was teeming with protesters, many of whose issues had only tenuous connections with the apes. Certainly animal rights and activist groups were represented, but so were Christian Right protesters, anti-war protesters, Intelligent Design protesters, gay pride groups, Support Our Troops protesters, people on both sides of the abortion fence, and one particularly large and odious family calling themselves the Eastborough Baptist Church, who demanded the deaths of all homosexuals, human or otherwise. Camera crews surfed the perimeter, sampling the groups as though they were dim sum. Isabel caught snippets of the carefully rehearsed sound bites:
"Make love, not war! Be one with your inner bonobo! Harness pleasure for peace, and peace for--"
"--proving yet again that homosexuality is a naturally occurring phenomenon in the animal kingdom, and discrediting the basis of any and all politically and religiously motivated--"
"--maybe you're related to monkeys, but I'm certainly not. The Bible clearly states that man was created in God's image and that we have dominion over all of God's creation, including apes. He put them here on earth for our use and entertainment, whatever form that may--"
"--nothing more than prime-time pornography. This is typical of the kind of so-called 'entertainment' that corrupts the minds and morals of our youth. We pray, O God, for the souls of the sinners and pornographers who willfully expose our nation's children and young people to wanton fornication and senseless acts of--"
"--intelligent, curious, and highly social animals that deserve to be treated with the same dignity and respect we demand for our--"
Isabel made her way through the crowd. When a body shifted, she slipped into the gap, moving forward until she was finally within sight of the building. She stopped and drew her breath, aware that she was within a hundred yards of the bonobos. She felt a sensation like a fist tightening around her heart.
The real Ape House looked nothing like the cartoon drawing. It was a single-story, flat-roofed building with no windows, like a smaller version of the Corston Foundation. Its walls were concrete and uninterrupted except for the front door, which was wide enough for a small vehicle to drive through, an occurrence Isabel observed three times in close succession: everything the bonobos ordered was delivered in crates on the front end of a forklift. The crowd always turned as one, standing on tiptoe and trying to catch sight of the apes, but they never did. The forklift dropped the goods off in an anteroom, which was closed before the apes accessed them through an inside door. Speculation about what the crates contained usually subdued the crowd temporarily, and there was nearly universal laughter when a kiddie pool arrived. But when the front door closed and the forklift retreated, the fight for attention and airtime resumed.