Esme - Madison Broboff

HIGH SOCIETY LOSES ALTITUDE

KIM FREDERICK HELLER III

Roberta, George, Paul, and Margaret all find themselves at the same dinner party on a lonely Friday evening surrounded by everyone who is anyone in the city. Their ties are neat, their dresses fine, their shoes polished, their hair spectacular. A live band plays jazz music that hasn’t been groundbreaking in many decades. The function is being held at a mutual friend’s unreasonably large home and the four partygoers make droning small talk in a corner about other mutual friends and each other. The atmosphere is that of all gatherings of highprofile individuals—a feeling that the whole charade may explode at any second if any one person has the stupidity or madness to slip up—but since no one like that was invited, the potential energy remains just that. Roberta, George, Paul, and Margaret love to talk about nothing because to talk about something would mean to risk a shortening of their social stature. They are talking about nothing when they notice the queer, silent gentleman standing near the band with a sandwich halfway in his mouth. “Who is that?” Roberta’s upper lip curls unattractively. Her eyes betray nothing more than disgust, but her mind lights up at the thought of verbal sadistic humor. “Steven Lefkowitz,” answers Paul with characteristic eye-narrowing and brow-furrowing. “The most pitiful millionaire in existence. Made his fortune in computer hardware.” George’s fat face lights up with a derisive grin. “I heard he nearly went bankrupt buying non-profit zoos. Zoos! Can you believe that? Weirdo loves his animals.” The others shake their heads, grimacing as though the business of zoos physically pains them to think about. “Wonder who invited him?” Margaret, who happens to be Paul’s wife, sips her cocktail with all the finesse of an alcoholic. Paul is planning on divorcing Margaret, and silently praises himself every night for making her sign a prenuptial agreement. The four continue to stare at

Lefkowitz like teenaged bullies in a school cafeteria. They make no play at subtlety, relying on the obliviousness of their subject and his nonexistent social status to protect them. Lefkowitz eats his sandwich, glancing furtively around the room at everyone but the unhappy quartet. His glances seem anxious—but not fearful— as though he is anticipating something. Finally, he finishes his sandwich and gives the party of four a deliberate gaze and sheepish smile, strolling across the main room to where they stand, raising a hand in greeting. “Gentlemen,” Lefkowitz nods at Paul and George. “Ladies.” He acknowledges Margaret and Roberta similarly. The group now looks at each other with awkward smiles and wide eyes, as though they have just been caught red-handed scheming a great crime but are prepared to die before admitting to anything, and so look to one another for a cover story. “Nice night.” Paul offers Lefkowitz a tight-lipped smile. “Yes, it was.” No one smiles now. The group of four eye Lefkowitz as a group of hikers would eye a Komodo Dragon were they to come across one on their afternoon stroll. A not-atypical blend of revulsion and fear mars their faces. Lefkowitz begins to grin. “I hear there’s something special planned for the entertainment tonight.” His eyes take on a mischievous appearance, moving from one discontented face to another as he sips a glass of water and adjusts his tie with a free hand. “Well whatever it is, I hope they bring more sandwiches, ‘cause I’m sure hungry.” George laughs nervously, but his chuckles cut off short and he looks away. Not even George, known for his well-acted façade of the jolly fat man, can laugh this encounter into something resembling normalcy. Lefkowitz’s grin morphs into a wide smile. He raises his eyebrows along with the corners of his mouth. “I suspect, if the rumors can be believed, the showing will be downright wild.” The others continue to stare stoically, refusing to let the slightest hint of anything cross their countenances. None of the other attendees have noticed the added tension, preoccupied as they are with their own personal, reputational tensions. It occurs to Roberta, George, Paul, and Margaret that Lefkowitz smiles as though he has the whole world nestled safely in the palms of his hands. Perhaps this is natural for a man as rich as Lefkowitz; but those

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who have known him can attest that the man usually plays the part of the nervous wreck. They go on like this, staring and saying nothing, for what feels like minutes until the party’s host--a woman named Greta Stevenson-strides over, appearing rather livid. “Steven Lefkowitz!” She practically shouts the name. The jazz music continues, but the adjacent conversations do not. “Who invited you here?” Lefkowitz shrugs and maintains his smile. “No one. I don’t usually attend parties I’m invited to.” Ms. Stevenson, an influential CEO with an unhealthy obsession for order, grows blue in the face at this. “Leave this instant!” Her facial skin begins to resemble a weekold bruise, her eyes threatening to pop out at Lefkowitz’s next transgression. “I was certainly hoping you’d say something like that.” Lefkowitz chuckles. All the party’s guarded conversations have ceased to exist at this point, and the multiracial jazz band’s music belies their own nervous thoughts. One does not wish to upset Greta Stevenson. And no one knows much about Steven Lefkowitz. Lefkowitz pulls his phone from his pants pocket and sends what appears to be a short text. Roberta, George, Paul, and Margaret start for the hall. “Well? We’re waiting!” Greta Stevenson looks ready to strangle the thin neck of Steven Lefkowitz right there in the main room. She breathes far too heavily for the host of a semi-formal event. “Well, wait no longer, Madam Stevenson! The show has just arrived!” With this grand announcement, Lefkowitz runs to the small in-home stage where the band plays and raises his arms to the sky. Everyone is puzzled for a moment— but only a moment. Lefkowitz and his associates are very punctual men; or, rather, very punctual mammals. The doors to the home crash inward with loud bangs, sending a collective jump through the mass of independently wealthy individuals in the main room. The jazz music stops, and with a “Wow!” out of the lead trumpet-player, a portly African-American man, the band and their white suits jump from the stage, for they have just seen a potentially frightening and certainly confusing cast of characters barge into the room: a group of six or seven chimpanzees each riding their very own burro (a small donkey). Shouts of “Oh my!” and wails of “My handbag! He’s got my handbag!” emanate from the throng of the well-dressed and wellmannered as the chimpanzees begin

their reign of terror. The primates seem to have been trained; trained, that is, in non-violent chaos. They do everything short of afflicting bodily harm to any of the party’s attendees, including thievery, disruption of the peace, and destruction of property. Steven Lefkowitz remains on stage with his arms stretched upward, the maniacal smile never leaving his face. The partygoers push their way out of the room as fast as they can possibly manage, but the going is slow as they must navigate both their fellow attendees and the riotous apes. The chimpanzees are nothing if not persistent; they continue, even as the room ever-so-slowly empties itself of warm bodies, to destroy, disrupt, and defile. They do not, however, defecate--they are potty-trained. Handbags are pilfered, nacho cheese is smeared, and booze is spilt. Vintage records and CDs fly through the air like frisbees as the chimpanzees demonstrate their athletic abilities. The burros delight in toppled piles of celery, carrots, and cauliflower, and even one woman’s bright orange wig finds itself among the digested. Within ten long minutes, the party is over, the house is a mess, and the guests’ nights are thoroughly ruined. The partygoers drive home in their subdued, expensive cars, Greta Stevenson stares at the wall with bleu cheese on her dress and ranch dressing on her shoes, and the jazz musicians collect their instruments, taking solace in the fact that they were paid in advance. No one is happy; except, of course, Steven Lefkowitz and his chimps. (Roberta, George, Paul, and Margaret are among the last to arrive home. In their haste to avoid disaster, they nearly found themselves trampled beneath a combination of hoofs and heels.) Greta Stevenson looks at Lefkowitz, who walks now around the room, corralling his chimps and burros with the help of a few animal trainers who must have been outside the house the whole time. “Is this because I fired you?” Her eyes speak of a fury not illustrated in her steady voice. “All those years ago?. I would have thought you’d have gotten over that by now.” Lefkowitz turns and smiles at Greta, his eyes as close to twinkling as eyes can get. “It has nothing to do with that, Greta.” He hands a banana to one of his ape associates. “I just don’t happen to like people like you, or the people you invite to your parties. And I just so happen to love chimpanzees.”

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