The One and Only Ivan

Julia groans. “If I’m going to be an artist when I grow up, why do I need to know how to spell?”

With a laugh, George heads off.

Poor Julia, I think. Gorillas get by just fine without learning how to spell. All those endless letters, those sticks and circles and zigzags, filling up books and magazines, billboards and candy wrappers.

Words.

Humans love their words.

I leap up. Bob goes flying, straight into my pool.

A word.

“You know how I feel about wet feet!” Bob yells. He scrambles out of the water, shaking each foot in dismay.

I look out my window at the billboard. I can still hear Mack’s voice in my head: “COME TO THE EXIT 8 BIG TOP MALL AND VIDEO ARCADE, HOME OF THE ONE AND ONLY IVAN, MIGHTY SILVERBACK!”

I count to twelve, and then I count again, just to be sure.

H

I lay out sixteen pieces of poster board. Four down, four across.

A perfect square.

“What are you up to?” Bob demands. “I’m guessing it doesn’t involve sleep.”

“It has to do with the billboard.”

“That sign’s a monstrosity. Particularly since I’m not featured.”

I grab my bucket of red paint. “You’re not on the billboard because you’re not in the show,” I point out.

“Technically, I don’t even live here,” Bob says with a sniff. “I am homeless by choice.”

“I know. I’m just saying.”

I study the billboard. Then I make two fat lines, like broom handles. Another fat line connects them.

I stand back. “What do you think?”

“What is it? No, wait: let me guess. A ladder?”

“Not a ladder,” I say. “A letter. At least I think that’s what they’re called. I have to make three more.”

Bob cuddles up next to Not-Tag. “Why?” he asks, yawning.

“Because then I’ll have a word. A very important word.” I dip my fingers into the paint.

“What word?” Bob asks.

“Home.”

Bob closes his eyes. “That’s not so important,” he says quietly.

nervous

All day long I knuckle walk circles around my cage.

I’m so nervous I can’t nap. I can’t even eat.

Well, not very much, anyway.

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.

I watch Ruby trudge sullenly through the four-o’clock show, and I wonder: What will happen if I fail? What if I can’t make Julia understand?

But of course I know the answer. Nothing. Nothing will happen.

Ruby will remain the main attraction at the Exit 8 Big Top Mall and Video Arcade, conveniently located off I-95, with shows at two, four, and seven, 365 days a year, year after year after year.

showing julia

It’s time to show my work.

The mall is silent, except for Thelma the macaw, who is practicing a new phrase: “Uh-oh!”

Julia is finishing her homework. George is sweeping outside. Mack has gone home for the night.

I grab Not-Tag and carefully pull out the folded papers. So many paintings! Page after page. Piece after piece of my giant puzzle.

I pound on my glass, and Julia glances over.

Fingers trembling, I hold up one of my paintings. It’s brown and green, a corner piece.

Julia smiles.

I display another picture, and then another and another and another, each one a tiny part of the whole.

Julia looks confused. “But … what is it?” she asks. She shrugs. “It doesn’t matter. It’s pretty just as it is.”

“Uh-oh,” says Thelma.

No, I think. No.

It does matter.

more paintings

George calls out to Julia. He’s done for the night. “Grab your backpack,” he says. “And hurry. It’s late.”

“Gotta go, Ivan,” Julia says.

Julia doesn’t understand.

I have to find the right pieces. I dig through the pile. They’re here somewhere. I know they are.

I find one, another one, another. I try to hold four of them up against the glass.

“Bob,” I say, “help me. Hurry!”

Bob grabs paintings with his teeth and drags them to me.

One by one, I shove pictures through the window crack. They crumple and tear.

There are too many pieces. My puzzle is too big.

“Careful, Ivan,” Julia says. “Those might be worth millions someday. You never know.” She arranges the paintings into a neat stack. “I suppose Mack’s going to want to sell these in the gift shop.”

She still doesn’t understand.

I shove more out the hole and more and more, all of them, one after another.

“So Ivan’s been painting, has he?” George says as he puts on his coat.

“A lot,” says Julia with a laugh. “A whole lot.”

“You’re not taking all those home with you, are you?” George asks. “I mean, no offense to Ivan, but they’re just blobs.”

Julia thumbs through the towering stack of paintings. “They might not be blobs to Ivan.”

“Let’s leave those by the office,” George suggests. “Mack’ll want to try selling them. Although why anyone would pay forty bucks for a finger painting a two-year-old could do, I don’t know.”

“I like Ivan’s work,” Julia says. “He puts his feelings into them.”

“He puts his hair into them,” George says.

Julia waves good-bye. “Night, Ivan. Night, Bob.”