The One and Only Ivan

People call me the Freeway Gorilla. The Ape at Exit 8. The One and Only Ivan, Mighty Silverback.

The names are mine, but they’re not me. I am Ivan, just Ivan, only Ivan.

The freeway billboard has a drawing of Mack in his clown clothes and Stella on her hind legs and an angry animal with fierce eyes and unkempt hair.

That animal is supposed to be me, but the artist made a mistake. I am never angry.

Anger is precious. A silverback uses anger to maintain order and warn his troop of danger. When my father beat his chest, it was to say, Beware, listen, I am in charge. I am angry to protect you, because that is what I was born to do.

Here in my domain, there is no one to protect.

My life is flashing lights and pointing fingers and uninvited visitors. Inches away, humans flatten their little hands against the wall of glass that separates us.

The glass says you are this and we are that and that is how it will always be.

My visitors are often surprised when they see the TV Mack put in my domain. They seem to find it odd, the sight of a gorilla staring at tiny humans in a box.

Sometimes I wonder, though: Isn’t the way they stare at me, sitting in my tiny box, just as strange?

“You could try remembering a good day,” Stella suggests. “That’s what I do when I can’t sleep.”

Stella remembers every moment since she was born: every scent, every sunset, every slight, every victory.

“You know I can’t remember much,” I say.

“There’s a difference,” Stella says gently, “between ‘can’t remember’ and ‘won’t remember.’”

“That’s true,” I admit. Not remembering can be difficult, but I’ve had a lot of time to work on it.

“Memories are precious,” Stella adds. “They help tell us who we are.”

“A good zoo,” Stella says, “is a large domain. A wild cage. A safe place to be. It has room to roam and humans who don’t hurt.” She pauses, considering her words. “A good zoo is how humans make amends.”

I’ve heard the Jambo story many times. Stella says that humans found it odd that the huge silverback didn’t kill the boy.

Why, I wonder, was that so surprising? The boy was young, scared, alone.

He was, after all, just another great ape.

“The circus trainers chained her to the floor, Ivan. All four feet. Twenty-three hours a day.”

I puzzle over why this would be a good idea. I always try to give humans the benefit of the doubt.

“Why would they do that?” I finally ask.

“To break her spirit,” Stella says. “So she could learn to balance on a pedestal. So she could stand on her hind legs. So a dog could jump on her back while she walked in mindless circles.”

I hear her tired voice and think of all the tricks Stella has learned.

“Why do you love [drawing]?” Ruby asks.

I pause. I’ve never talked to anyone about this before. “When I’m drawing a picture, I feel…quiet inside.”

Ruby frowns. “Quiet is boring.”

“Not always.”

“Bad humans killed my family, and bad humans sent me here. But that day in the hole, it was humans who saved me.” Ruby leans her head on Stella’s shoulder. “Those humans were good.”

“It doesn’t make any sense,” Bob says. “I just don’t understand them. I never will.”

“You’re not alone,” I say, and I turn my gaze back to the racing gray clouds.

But many days I forget what I am supposed to be. Am I a human? Am I a gorilla?

Humans have so many words, more than they truly need.

Still, they have no name for what I am.

“Do you think,” she asks, “that I’ll die in this domain someday, like Aunt Stella?”

Once again I consider lying, but when I look at Ruby, the half-formed words die in my throat. “Not if I can help it,” I say instead.

I feel something tighten in my chest, something dark and hot. “And it’s not a domain,” I add.

I pause, and then I say it. “It’s a cage.”

I stare at the One and Only Ivan, at the faded picture of Stella, and I remember George and Mack on their ladders, adding the picture of Ruby to bring new visitors to the Exit 8 Big Top Mall and Video Arcade.

I remember the story Ruby told, the one where the villagers came to her rescue.

I hear Stella’s kind, wise voice: Humans can surprise you sometimes.

I look at my fingers, coated in red paint the color of blood, and I know how to keep my promise.

Mack turns on my TV. It’s a Western. There’s a human with a big hat and a small gun. He has a shiny star pinned to his chest. That means he is the sheriff and he will be getting rid of all the bad guys.

“If this sells quick, I’m getting you some more of that paint, buddy,” Mack says.

He walks away with my painting. Ruby’s painting. For a moment, I imagine what it would feel like to be that sheriff.

It’s different now, when I paint.

I’m not painting what I see in front of me. A banana. An apple. I’m painting what I see in my head. Things that don’t exist.

At least, not yet.

During the last show of the day, Ruby seems tired. When she stumbles, Mack reaches for the claw-stick.

I tense, waiting for her to strike back.

Ruby doesn’t even flinch. She just keeps plodding along, and after a while, Snickers jumps onto her back.

I’m ready to show Julia what I’ve made.

It has to be Julia. She’s an artist. Surely she’ll look, truly look, at my painting. She won’t notice the smudges and tears. She won’t care if the pieces don’t quite fit together. She’ll see past all of that.

Surely Julia will see what I’ve imagined.

Thump. Thump. Thump.

I bounce off the walls. I screech and bellow. I beat and beat and beat my chest.

Bob hides under Not-Tag, his paws over his ears.

I’m angry, at last.

I have someone to protect.

Mack turns on the TV.

We are on The Early News at Five O’Clock.

Bob says don’t let it go to my head.

There we all are. Mack, Ruby, me. George and Julia. The billboard, the mall, the ring.

And the claw-stick.

She starts to leave, then runs back to my cage. “I almost forgot. This is for you, Ivan.”

She slips a piece of paper into my cage. It’s a drawing of Ruby and me.

We’re eating yogurt raisins. Ruby is playing with another baby elephant, and I’m holding hands with a lovely gorilla.

She has red lips and a flower in her hair.

I look, as I always do in Julia’s pictures, like an elegant fellow, but something is different about this drawing.

In this picture, I am smiling.

“Do you think the other gorillas will like you?” Ruby asks.

“I’m a silverback, Ruby. A leader.” I pull back my shoulders and hold my head high. “They don’t have to like me. They have to respect me.”

Even as I tell her this, I wonder if I can ever command their respect.

I haven’t had much practice being a real gorilla, much less a silverback.

I move toward the young upstart, and he retreats.

Almost as if he believes I’m the silverback I’m pretending to be.

They stand side by side, just the way Stella and Ruby used to. Their trunks entwine. I see something new in Ruby’s eyes, and I know what it is.

It’s joy.

I watch the whole thing, and then Maya plays it again for me, and again. At last she turns off the TV and carries it out of the cage.

I put my hand to the glass. Maya looks over.

Thank you, I try to say with my eyes. Thank you.