Me, Them, and The Beige Ones
Fiction
Cal Murphy
They love it when I beat my chest and lick my armpit for their amusement. I find it horribly demeaning, but doing so at least gives me a basis on which to speak with them. Oh, he knows, he knows, they say, though the extent to which I know would surprise them. It would surely take a mighty toll on their small heads. I have enough short black hair on my body, and enough body itself, to disqualify me from participating in their conversation as a rational being, a fellow. They don’t think I know, but I think I have come to understand most of their words now. I have come to learn that ‘orangutans throw their shit’ and that the ‘lemurs are just so cute.’ The way they imitate the chimpanzees makes me think they may just belong here, in my home. ‘Exhibit,’ as I gather. From here, I’ve vowed to reach some grounding of mutuality in their perception, and now I endlessly attempt to inform them of how they might do better by me. It becomes so remarkably frustrating when I place the task of finding common ground in the hands of those who come here, who clearly bear no inclination to do such a thing in return. This isn’t always the case, but it is undoubtedly the norm.
I’m coming to understand who they are, where I am, quite a bit better, fleshing out the particulars in phases. I know I was somewhere before I was here, but that does not matter, I do not remember, and it is not a part of this place, I’m sure. When I got here, I firstly came to know that I was contained. On my first day I got as high as I could and looked around in all directions and saw trees of more sorts than I could recognize and in forms more polished than those which I was familiar with; on the ground in halves so they can walk over the river, contorted in their shape so they can rest, precise in rotundity and rising far further up than any in my home. When I tried to go examine them, I found myself blocked by a certain clear perimeter. I was then terribly upset and when Betsy came to see me with fruits in hand I tried to tell her that I could not come and go as she could. This was, of course, before I understood that she didn’t mean for me to.
The moment I began my speech Betsy jolted as though pierced by an unexpected bramble. Her brow furrowed, and she said something, like they all seem to, and she left me very confused, disappearing through the same space from which she came. An unsettling cut into my home rock gives way to a brightly lit cabin underground on their arrival, surrendered to their guidance twice a day and pleasantly still besides that. I would have followed Betsy then, but she shut the space very quickly that day. The next day I tried again, but more quickly, because I knew she may not understand that I wanted to leave. She screamed and shut the space, and from then on, Betsy never came back to my home. I hadn’t the faintest of how to call her back then, but I realized after I had stayed a while, and I generally started to understand the things they said in front of me. Over this time, I also came to understand why the beige ones still feed me so cautiously. Once I understood that they call me ‘Coconut,’ I began to understand much more.
“Coconut is losing weight,” stated, once, the beige one with a furry lip and red cap.
“I’m not surprised. People go in to feed her less often now, less caringly, since she freaked out on Betsy. And she still has all those mini-freak-outs,” answered his partner, another beige one; tall, crossing his big, patterned arms.
“Do you think it’s a concern to her welfare?” He hesitated; he seemed to ask only in formality, as a pesky afterthought.
“I think we ought to find a plan to feed her right without putting anyone in danger.” This tone was stern, certainly, but not binding.
“Of every zoo in the United States, of course we’re the ones who get the misanthropic herbivores. That’s just my luck.” With this, the beige one shook his head, glanced at me once more, agitated, and walked off. I know their agitation; I’ve seen it before, in them, in my own kind, and it can be similarly known in each. Each kind, which I say because we don’t seem to be the same kind, and then our relationship is not quite kind. But that’s how I really started getting my read on them. We’re much more alike than they admit, even the ones who spend nearly as much time here as I, who I’d want to think know their worth of our happenings.
The beige ones are the only people here frequently. They come in when the morning sky flushes in warm hues, and they leave shortly after dark. They’re the only ones who, even for a second, come through that rock space to give me food. I don’t know how long ago they had that conversation, but it wasn’t a day I could place in recency. Some time before the days I remember in full. Since then, they have been throwing in more figs, bananas, and guava, and I’m not stuck with my bamboo anymore. I got awfully bored of the bamboo. Sometimes the small ones come by with their own treats and press them up to the clear partition. They want to share, and so do I, and I press myself against the glass to communicate such a thing. Never once have I gotten to try their treats, and when they walk off, they look sad; I don’t think I do so well at showing them that we agree.
One day, one of them came who was, naturally, very small, and despite this, I almost assumed he was one of the beige ones from his outfit, but he came by with two others wearing the clothing of oglers. He resembled, in stature, the majority of others who were most keen to meet me. The little one held a bag of fruit half his size and wore a delighted smile, while his company stuck those rectangles, whose use I’ve yet to figure out, to the partition, as though showing off. They paid me no real care, as I could see, so I paid them no mind. This is how it’s to be done. I haven’t yet perfected spoken language. I can understand them, but it seems the opposite is not the case. On this day, I felt satiated and wasn’t sullen, so I undertook a longer day of listening, underway as the three walked up to the ‘exhibit,’ pausing with the guidance of the woman by the little one’s side.
“Bradley, this one is the gorilla, I know you wanted to see him,” remarked the woman. She pointed at me, at my chest, and her face—what I could see of it, save for the portion obstructed by chunky orange glasses—reflected none of the delight of the little one. She emanated amusement and at the same time some disdain, a sense I often get from those with eccentric little ones who seem yet detached from their doings. Her arms crossed and her smile slightened when she turned from the little one to me. The man accompanying them, socially nondescript, made a show leaning down to read—I think—my plaque. They must be his parents.
“Hello Gorilla! Hello Coconut!” Bradley beamed and waved at me, and he pressed his hand onto the partition. I did the same and the modest crowd dispensed the typical ‘ooohs’ and ‘aaaahs’ among hushed comments. “He gave me a high five! He gave me a high five!” he continued, turning towards his big ones as they turned their rectangles to face him, and who were now smiling to match him. Bradley pulled two apples out of the bag and scanned the paved walkway. I think he was looking for beige ones; often times they have questions for the beige ones. He did not see any, turned back and spoke to me again. “I want you to have these,” he said, gesturing to his apples and pushing them closer yet to the partition.
“I want to have them too. I thank you for your kindness, though I’m not sure how you can get them to me. Nobody like you has succeeded so far.” This was my response to the boy as I stood in front of him, and I waited for him to help me come up with a solution—not for very long before the bigger ones seemed highly afraid. They jumped and froze, their brows raised, their mouths opened, their footing shifted, and Bradley just stood there stumped. Other onlookers exhibited perplexed reactions resembling those of the two bigger ones, ranging from gasps to stiffening limbs; one lady shot a hand to her mouth and the other to her chest. Only some other, less little ones seemed enthused at my input. Perhaps I spoke too loudly. Several seconds passed before someone next spoke.
“Does that mean he doesn’t like me?” Bradley cocked his head towards his parents, inquisitively, as though he wanted not to feel hurt.
The woman's lip quivered, and she briefly answered, “it isn’t you, Bradley, gorillas can be very aggressive.”
“They are vegetarian, though,” the man suddenly pointed out, as though he made the discovery himself. “Even if he’s territorial, he knows that his territory is there,” he mused, vaguely gesturing to the partition, “and that we are not food.”
“Well, of course not, did you think I was food?” I smiled at this. I thought it was pure human humor. They did not. They quickly agreed to get going. “If you give it to the beige ones, they can give it to me!” I tried again, but they only hastened their departure. I had witnessed this result enough not to be taken aback by it. I’m just so terribly tired of it. With Bradley’s hand held in one of her own and a reptile-skin clutch in her other, the woman huffily marched away down the path from which they’d appeared. The man trailed loosely behind. Only Bradley had given me a last glance, setting an apple softly down on my plaque. I don’t know what good he thought it would do.
I could recount many such stories, varying in severity, inevitably, from my changes in mood, their changes in age, presentation, and personality, but not one where any of them, at least to my face, showed me that they understood. I’ve begun to think that it’s not I who is a horrendous speaker, but they who are horrendous listeners. It doesn’t matter either way, not for my living, only so that I can forgive myself for their frightening. It seems I’ll stay here always, and I’ll always enjoy myself best when they leave.
At night I see the twinkling stars and their deep blue backdrop, much calmer and more permanent than anything I can see in the daytime here; only as new patterns emerge do I bid the others farewell, farewell till the next chilling sky. Only very recently have I had the joy of seeing the white fall from it, trickling slowly down to blanket the world, setting gently unto itself, on the ground or wherever it may fall, impartial to circumstance, and I have never heard such quiet, never known such peace, even though I was colder than I thought I could ever be. And once it subsided, I have never seen the world so still. This was night, and the stars could be seen too, but only they are permanent, because the next day the white resigned its stillness to them, who knew no bounds for their ogling and speaking.