Planet of the Apes

by Jim Beard

  I can’t say that I have ever mixed too well at parties, which makes me a bit of an outlier in my business. I think it comes from starting off as a writer, alone in a cage. If I’d been part of a team writing for the variety shows, it would have been different. But I was desperate, and more than willing to put on a—jeez, I almost said “monkey suit”—to mingle.

  I don’t know where they came up with everyone there. Zoo patrons, for sure—it was Dixon and Stevie, after all, who identified what Cornelius and Zira were. Then there were the damnedest people. I met some woman from Fur and Feather magazine. I was surprised to learn it was about pets. A reporter from a hunting magazine—who thought he’d be a good idea to invite?

  I decided the best way to deal with it was to glom onto Stevie like a barnacle. If she wanted to get rid of me, she’d have to introduce me to the apes. That finally happened.

  First, the television shots of them really don’t do them justice. I’ve seen high-class prosthetic work, and nothing anyone in the trade can do could remotely duplicate the look of these two. It was all the more reason we had to get them.

  Unfortunately, my encounter with Zira—Madam Zira, the others were calling her—was brief. Once I told her what I did for a living, Zira sort of sniffed at me and wandered off to order a drink. It sort of proves what I’ve always said about the quality of television that someone could land in a rocketship and learn to hate TV and everything associated with it in a matter of days.

  When she came back, “grape-juice-plus” in hand, I lit a cigarette and offered her one. Another bad move. “I have seen these instruments,” Zira said, turning it over. “So curious.”

  “Want me to show you how it works?”

  “I do not. One’s mouth is a poor place for fire.” She handed it back to me and ambled away. I could guess with a hairy face, smoking might be a bad idea.

  With any kind of face, really. But I digress.

  I had much better luck with Cornelius, who looked better in his suit than I did in mine. “I’m a television producer,” I said, hoping it wasn’t the kiss of death this time.

  “Ah, yes. You make the television boxes?” Cornelius asked.

  “No, I produce the teleplays you see on them. You have seen some of our programs? Adventures? Dramas?”

  “Indeed. One can learn a lot watching television.” He was seriously engaged. “I also found a lot of places on the screen that looked like home—Westerns, Lewis called them.”

  “We have plenty of those shows. But not so many as before.”

  “I liked seeing the horses,” Cornelius said. “We have them in our time. I was curious to see what they looked like in this day and age, but there were none in the zoo.”

  “Oh, there wouldn’t be,” Stevie said. “They’re common, trained as work animals. You’d find horses on a farm or a ranch.” After a moment, she looked at me and perked up. “Weren’t you buying a ranch back when I was on set, Gary?”

  A light went on. “Yes, yes. I have it.” It was the one thing my ex left me: that, and my German Shepherd, who I called Settlement as often as I called him Buster. “It’s a great ranch, Cornelius—with plenty of horses. Yes, definitely horses.” I turned the charm on the big ape. “Wonderful animals. If you’d like to see them, I can give you a tour whenever you’d like.”

  Cornelius brightened. “I’d like that.”

  “Great! How about tomorrow?”

  Stevie started to put up an objection to that—they’d had a pretty busy schedule. But I really sold Cornelius on visiting. Zira took a pass—she was supposed to give a speech for some ladies’ group soon, and wanted time to rehearse. I left that night happy, even though Stevie hadn’t seemed interested in me in the least.

  I was also in a hurry. I had about twelve hours to find a place that rented horses and would send them out to a ranch that had none.

  * * *

  We had wonderful weather the next day when I drove Cornelius and Stevie out to my place. Cornelius confessed to remaining edgy about vehicles, yet he seemed to revel in the convertible ride down the Ventura Freeway.

  Once we got to the ranch, Buster ran out and charged Cornelius. I’d forgotten to lock him up; I was terrified of how he and the ape would react to one another. But the dog gave the visitor a good sniff, and Cornelius smiled broadly and scratched his head. You can’t think badly of any alien race that likes dogs.

  Then it was onto the horses, out in the stable I never used. The tracks from the rental haulers were still fresh on the ground in front of the building. All I can say is thank God Stevie was there to make sense of the mountain of tack stuff I’d had sent over. If it had been up to me to saddle one of those things, Cornelius would have been waiting long enough to catch up with his own century.

  The ride was as good as any I’ve ever been on, which is to say, a nervous dance with imminent death by a four-legged monster. What made it better was being able to watch Stevie—and listening to Cornelius as he asked questions about every little thing we trotted past. He was real big on history, and how humans used the horses in settling. I was a little embarrassed—I’d written Westerns before but was only able to give the Hollywood version of history. That seemed to satisfy him.

  Seeing my cue, I asked if I could put him in a Western. He was reluctant—and Stevie was downright hostile to the notion. She gave me the evil eye, the one that said she knew exactly what I was up to. I pressed on, offering to show Cornelius all about film and TV technology and how humanity used it to spread its culture. I hit all the right notes—but Stevie was right there nixing anything that involved a lot of work. She knew what rigorous schedules we had on set, and didn’t want the apes any more exhausted than they already were.

  Then it dawned on me. “How about a variety show?”

  “What is that?” Cornelius asked, interested.

  “A revue. A lot of entertainments at once. You could host. You and Zira.”

  He seemed curious, but Stevie stepped in again. “Gary, come on. Cut it out.” She looked at Cornelius. “He’s going to tell you he’s going to make you a star. Oh, and rich.”

  “Ah,” Cornelius said, smiling. “I am afraid I have no use for money.”

  I nearly fell off my horse. But then I caught myself—and had a brainstorm. “Would you do it if it were a fundraiser for the zoo?”

  Cornelius chewed on that. “Yes, yes I would.”

  Stevie was concerned. “Cornelius, you don’t need to do this.”

  “No, you know the place could use improvement—for the animals’ sake. Perhaps you could do something in Doctor Milo’s memory, too.”

  “You’ve got it,” I said—effectively agreeing to donate a huge portion of Lucky Star’s proceeds to the event. I knew Hyler was going to kill me, but it was all about saving our skins at this point. When we got back to the house, Cornelius played with Buster while I rushed into my home office for a basic contract. I’d get three hours of Cornelius and Zira on tape, with an option for more if things went well—and more chances to see Stevie. She wasn’t in a great mood with me when I returned them to the hotel, but I figured I’d have more chances to see her in the future.

  After I got home and sent the horses off in their carriers, my job really began. I’d never written a variety show, but I sure enough knew people who had. The dynamic was pretty simple. The two apes would just have to introduce the acts—and the fun for the viewers would be in seeing their reactions to them. It would be kind of like a command performance. I was pretty sure a lot of music acts would jump at the chance to show off. If you were the Future Apes’ favorite band, that’d make your career.

  And then we’d do a handful of skits with the apes as participants. Variety shows have a long tradition of working with non-entertainer guests: you just have to keep it simple, using your professional performers to provoke reactions. If Bob Hope can make football players funny, we could turn Cornelius into a joke machine.

  Whoops, I guess that was a name. Whoever finds this, please leave Bob
Hope alone. Thank you.

  * * *

  The end of the month neared—and my ulcer grew larger the more I thought about what we were trying to do. “Murderers’ Row” was originally the name of the ’27 Yankees—Babe Ruth, Lou Gehrig, those guys. In 1973, the TV equivalent was a bigoted cab driver, some Korean War doctors, a doll of a single working woman, and a psychologist who stuttered—sorry, stammered—with a great ensemble variety show batting cleanup. It was the rare intersection of shows any writer would’ve been proud to write for with commercial popularity—the night kicked off with the number 1 show and a 30 rating. Even now, years later, I’d say it was the strongest night in history.

  And there I was, Don Quixote with a hairy Sancho Panza, trying to take it on. Well, they say it takes a dreamer to make it in this business. I guess pipe dreams count.

  The fact is, at first it went surprisingly well. The charity aspect meant we had a slew of acts willing to work for free, making my team happy—and the apes were good on their cues right from the first moment. I was worried I might need to bring Buster in to calm the apes down, just like in the jungle pictures—but they were both cool and comfortable. Cornelius even joined in a song at one point. I was over the moon. People would go ape for—no, there I go again. Viewers wouldn’t miss it. The only thing keeping us from a fifty share would be Hexagon’s crappy market penetration, and de Silva figured to fix that with successive reruns.

  There was even talk of getting the apes to do introductory wraparounds on some of our shows in production, turning them into Cornelius Presents or Zira’s Showcase or something like that. By using the apes to conquer Saturday, de Silva was going to show both Madison Avenue and the broadcasting world that Hexagon was for real. And Gary Luckman and Lucky Star would ride the wave.

  Then they missed their run-through.

  The apes had skipped a meeting with me once before, so I wasn’t alarmed; they had a million people pulling at them, trying to get them to endorse this or speak about that. We weren’t planning to tape for a few days, yet: scheduling snafus were par for the course. We had time.

  But I couldn’t reach the apes—and I couldn’t find Dixon or Stevie either. I even sent my gofers to the zoo, where they’d stayed before. Nada.

  Three days went by, and we were going nuts. This time, de Silva was actually worried enough to dial me up himself. From the notes:

  * * *

  MR. DE SILVA: What’s the big idea, Gary? You were supposed to give me a report days ago—and rehearsal footage.

  LUCKMAN: It’s a problem with the apes. They didn’t show.

  MR. DE SILVA: Then give them some bananas. I’m pretty damn sure they’re not in the union. What are they trying to hold you up for?

  LUCKMAN: That’s just it, Frank. I can’t talk to them. They’re not anywhere.

  MR. DE SILVA: What do you mean?

  LUCKMAN: I mean they’re gone. They’ve vanished. AWOL. Lost in the jungle.

  MR. DE SILVA: You’re pulling my leg. Those two are on screen every five minutes, visiting museums and opening shopping malls. Just set up a camera and they’ll flock to it like gnats to a light.

  LUCKMAN: I’m trying to get them in front of a camera, Frank. But the Beverly Wilshire won’t let me see them.

  MR. DE SILVA: Go down and bang on the door, for God’s sake!

  LUCKMAN: I tried that. Don’t you think I’ve tried that? No dice. I sent Hyler over last evening, and he started paying maids until one of them talked. They haven’t made up the suite in days.

  MR. DE SILVA: (Pause.) You think one of them’s sick?

  LUCKMAN: I thought of that. But somebody would have told me.

  MR. DE SILVA: Everything’s riding on this broadcast, Gary. I mean everything. My New York affiliate is looking to go on satellite—it’ll start getting carried in other cities.

  LUCKMAN: Cable?

  MR. DE SILVA: Overnight, we’ll be in cities that don’t have a Hex affiliate. It’s going to save the network—and we’re going to need a lot more original programming.

  LUCKMAN: I can’t believe people will ever pay for TV.

  MR. DE SILVA: You let me worry about that, all right? What I need from you is the show, and—

  LUCKMAN: Hold on a minute, Frank.

  MR. DE SILVA: I’m paying for this call! Don’t put me on hold, you son of a—

  LUCKMAN: It’s the president.

  MR. DE SILVA: What?

  LUCKMAN: Of the United States. Jacob Henry! On TV. Turn it on.

  * * *

  It was the broadcast we all saw, telling us that the apes had moved from the Beverly Wilshire. Citing fatigue, they were heading for a private place after which they would “then be found research employment suited to their high intellectual capacities.” The president’s words, from what was obviously a prepared statement.

  I went berserk. They had a contract!

  We called the government and got nowhere. Stevie and Dixon just gave me the brush-off, though I could tell something else was going on there. The president’s line was the official one, and nobody was straying from it.

  Of course, now I know something else was going on there. The commission had found something out about the apes, and had met in secret session the day of our rehearsal. That explained the no-show. Cornelius and Zira were far too decent to have stood me up; truth is, they had already been moved. But the net effect was the same: they weren’t going to be on our soundstage.

  Frank de Silva was having a coronary, and I was right there with him. But there was still a way to make it all work, I said, and keep the affiliates and advertisers with us. No, we couldn’t deliver a show right away, but the president’s message had given us a card to play. All we had to do was get the apes just for one day in the studio. We could call it their comeback special—or if they were staying in seclusion, their “Postcard from Paradise.” If anything, that would be an even bigger draw. Every TV set in the country would be set to the Hex.

  But that meant I had to find them.

  I dumped all the money I had in petty cash into hiring every private investigator in Southern California. I was in terror that they’d been spirited off to Barbados or somewhere—but the fact that Dixon and Stevie were still around suggested to me they were local.

  I was by no means alone in this: every paparazzo and reporter in America was also on the hoof. The apes were money in the bank for them, a cottage industry. I got more and more aggravated as time went on. What did they think they were up to, stiffing us all? It was 1973, the age of mass media. That Greta Garbo “I vant to be alone” stuff didn’t cut it anymore.

  And… we… had… a… contract!

  * * *

  I can’t tell you how long we waited after that. Time was running out for it to make any difference to Hexagon—and de Silva held me personally responsible. He’d been making ridiculous promises about his Saturday-night coup; he was swiftly losing face with his affiliates and everyone else. One of the trades put his face next to a headline shouting “Hexed! Net Frets Over Ape Tape.” Cornelius and Zira’s departure was referred to as the “Banana Split of 1973.”

  Me, I was dealing with “Luckman’s Luck Runs Out.” There wasn’t anyone to sue: it wasn’t clear Cornelius and Zira even had any legal standing to accept employment. Dixon’s zoo, technically their guardian, didn’t have a dime that hadn’t come from donations or other offers—and with the apes out of the picture, there was nothing left. Cornelius and Zira seemed nice, but they’d slit my throat.

  Finally, we were down to the last moment. No make-good would satisfy Hexagon—and if we wanted to get the show on the air during the sweeps, our only chance was to get the apes to do it live. It was then that a miracle happened. I was pulling into the garage at the Federal Building, trying to see what our options were, when I spotted Dixon and that Hasslein guy leaving together in a big hurry. The two Ape-onaut experts, together? Jackpot!

  I followed them all the way out to a Marine base in San Diego County. Camp 11, it was
called. I thought it was part of Pendleton—hard to tell, it was night. It was a hell of a place to vacation, I thought, but at least it was private.

  I was trying to figure out how to talk my way into the gate when all of a sudden, it’s lights everywhere. A convoy went screaming out. I made for the tall weeds: I’m no action hero; I wasn’t about to try to sneak in. I got back to my car and tried to skulk off.

  For a second, I thought I saw Stevie, of all people, at a roadblock. But then I wound up with high-beams in my face—and guys with guns outside my windows. They hauled me off in the dark.

  The building they took me to could’ve been anywhere. The windows in the car were blacked out so nobody could see in or out—and a smoked panel between the guards and me kept me from seeing much in front of us. We got out in the garage of a building that could have been anywhere in Los Angeles. The MPs marched me to a holding room, where they passed me off to an alphabet soup of officials: FBI, NSA, who knows what else. Nobody would tell me anything.

  I had been cooling my heels for something like twelve hours when they finally arranged for some kind of meeting. It was an empty room but for a table, chairs, and one of those two-way mirrors. There were three guys at the table in Brooks Brothers suits, but only one of them, Jones, talked. My attorney was escorted in—and while they didn’t give me the transcript, he was able to put this together from memory:

  * * *

  AGENT JONES: You understand, Mr. Luckman, you are not under arrest. This is an advisory meeting.

  GARY LUCKMAN: That’s what you said before—but it sure felt like an arrest. This is my lawyer, Mr. Lazarov. Anything you have to say to me, you say to him.

  AGENT JONES: Mr. Luckman, I’m going to come straight to the point. We’re aware of the inquiries you’ve been making into the whereabouts of Cornelius and Zira. Those are going to stop, now.

  LUCKMAN: Like hell they are. I have a contract with the two of them, and a show to produce. And I’m running out of time.

  AGENT JONES: Correction—you are out of time. Your government requires you to suspend all production, effective immediately.

  LUCKMAN: What?