Issue #14/95, July 20 - August 3, 2000  

Gorilla Journalism

A Call to Arms

By Matt Taibbi

11:52 a.m. Leningradsky Prospekt. A trolleybus drifts by a young man and woman on the sitting on the edge of a concrete gate. Above them hangs a signs that reads, "Medical Examinations." The man wears a gorilla suit; the two synchronize watches.

"Give me four minutes," I said to bored eXile assistant Megan. "At eleven-fifty-six, say."

"Four minutes, right," she yawned.

I walked into the tiny run-down concrete cottage belonging to the sign. There was a nurse in the reception window. Behind her, slithering back and forth in the hallways, flowed an overweightish herd of Russian nurse.

At the sight of me they all stopped and did a double take. One of them half-dropped her clipboard, catching it against her enormous industrial-bra-wrapped bosom. One of them, honest to God, shouted "Eeeek!"

"Hello," I said, steeping inside. "I'd like to get an psychological exam. For fitness in carrying a weapon. I understand you do that here."

"We don't do psych exams!" blurted out the nurse at the reception desk.

"What do you do?" I asked.

"Medical exams!" she shouted.

"For what?" I asked.

"For drivers' licenses and licenses to carry a firearm!" she shrieked.

"Well," I said. "I'd like do carry a weapon. A big weapon. So let's do it."

They paused. "No way," said the head nurse. Sitting, she looked about two-foot eight, with the face of a slightly trembling Kathy Bates. "We can't examine you like that."

"Why not?" I said. "I'm healthy."

Another nurse, taller, slightly thinner, blonde and with calmer, friendlier face-probably the mother of two nice grown children who don't call often enough-stepped out of the hallway and smiled. "The question isn't whether or not you're healthy. It's just... why are you wearing that suit?"

I paused. "What suit?"

"That suit," she snapped, not playing along. She pointed. "What, did you want to scare us? What's your problem?"

"No," I said, shrugging. "It's just... well, it was a little chilly this morning, you understand. Heh heh."

I smiled under the gorilla-mask, but even I could see that in this environment, my answer was not going to succeed on the level of masculine charm. An ugly silence started to fill the room. "So, anyway," I repeated, clapping my costume mittens. "How about that exam?

"You'd better go to the drunk-tank first," snorted the sitting nurse.

I leaned over. "Why?" I said, offended. "I'm not drunk. Here, you can smell my breath," I said.

"That's not necessary!" she shouted, rearing back. Her hand twitched in the direction of the telephone—I could see the situation was about to deteriorate. Meanwhile the other nurses had summoned the remaining medical personnel—all women—into the cramped corridor to observe the scene. I could hear whispers in the background... Finally the nicer nurse stepped forward again.

"Look," she said. "We just can't take you seriously like that. You come in a costume, we can't even see your face... I mean, do you even have any documents on you?"

I shrugged. "Yeah, sure, I've got documents. I've got a whole buncha documents," I said, looking at my watch: eleven fifty-six. "I'll just get them now..."

"Because this just isn't done," she said. "You know, you come in here..."

Just then a cell phone inside the blue duffelbag I was carrying rang. I waved off the speech-giving nurse.

"Hang on," I said. "I've got a call."

The nurses started in amazement as I ruffled through my bag-tough to do without fingers (my costume is a bit on the cheap side, with the hands just hairy black mittens)-and pulled out the phone. Turning slightly away from the crowd in the manner of a serious businessman, I clicked on the phone and put it to my gorilla-head. The mask was inefficiently-designed for cell phone use and my protruding jaws had to be a nearly a foot from the receiver.

"Da?" I said. "Da ya na medosmotr. Sam znayesh, dela..."

I went on, in Russian.

"So what's going on? What are those guys at Novolipetsk saying? Uh huh...uh huh... Listen, you tell that bastard that I'm not offering any more than ten million. Uh huh...uh huh..."

On the other end of the line I could hear Megan laughing ever-so-slightly. "Blah, blah," she said, recovering her boredom.

"So you tell them," I said, raising my voice, "that if they don't stop fucking around, I'm going to send out a gruppa rebyat to take care of them. You got that?"

"Uh-huh," Megan said.

I asked Megan what time it was. Not ready for a real question, she hesistated, then told me. "Fine," I said. "Meet me at the National Hotel at one," I shouted, adding, "And dress nicely."

I clicked the phone off, slowly put it back in my back, and turned back to face the nurses. A demonstration of the word "agape" more exactly representative than this row of stunned, unhappy faces would hardly be conceivable. "So, are we going to do this, or what?" I said.

"No!" said the first, sitting, nurse.

The taller nurse, shaking her head, looked me over. "I just don't see how we can do it," she said to another nurse. "How can we examine his arms, his legs?" he she said, still shaking her head.

"In the examination room," I leered, "I'll take it all off."

"Young man," said the first nurse. "I really don't understand what it is you're doing here. You really want a license to carry a gun?"

"It's a dangerous world," I said. "A man in a gorilla suit isn't safe in this town without a handgun."

"Okay, okay," said the second nurse. "We'll get you your exam. But first you've got to go to your local polyclinic and take a narcological exam."

"And a psychiatric exam," chimed in a third, heretofore silent, nurse.

"And where can I do that?" I asked.

"Just go to the polyclinic where you're registered," the tall, nice nurse answered. "They'll tell you."

"But I'm not registered," I said. "I'm a foreigner. I have an Antiguan passport."

"All the more," she said. "Just go to the hospital where you're registered. It's not expensive. About 100 rubles."

"And then I can come back?" I asked.

"Sure," she said. "But without the gorilla suit. You're scaring people."

"Now get out of here before we call the police!" shouted the first nurse.

"Galya, take it easy," said the second nurse.

But I could see Galya meant it. I did the math; being picked up by the Russian police in this situation did not seem like an appetizing prospect. I turned and headed for the door. But on the way out, I spun around and nodded in the direction of the tall nurse.

"Do you get a lot of applicants for gun licenses?" I asked.

She shrugged. "Yeah, they come in," she said.

"What kind of people?" I asked.

She shrugged again. "Different kinds," she sighed.

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