Dusk on a spring evening, in 1997, in downtown Los Angeles. I stood in the backyard of a multimillion-dollar residence straddling a hilltop overlooking a Los Angeles Dodgers baseball game in progress. Muted freeway noise drifted up the escarpment.
The adjacent garden featured meandering walkways and succulent plants, appropriate for the home’s Mission Revival architecture. The interior reflected world travel, in keeping with the owner’s status as a USC professor of anthropology: ceremonial masks, baskets, textiles and photographs of individuals from other cultures.
A cocktail reception was underway. The guest of honor was Jane Goodall, in town on an annual lecture tour. Wealthy university donors had paid for the privilege to attend.
Slender, narrow-shouldered and sporting her trademark ponytail, Goodall wore black slacks, a print top of subtle design and deck shoes with no socks. In contrast, partygoers were arrayed in near-theatrical costumes of multicultural origin and animal prints with accessories of oversized bracelets, earrings and necklaces of wood, beads and bones.
I, too, wore a costume: a black tailored business suit that telegraphed my role as Goodall’s in-town “media handler.” This got me past the velvet ropes of tonight’s event, but it did not accord me equal rank with the swells. No guests engaged me in conversation, and a disapproving eye looked my way as I slipped an hors d’oeuvre into my mouth. My day was spent driving Goodall around town to a series of media interviews and public appearances. Using the authority of my black suit, I ran interference when engagements went overtime in order to ensure she reached tonight’s party on time.
Jane Goodall spent 30 years observing chimpanzee behavior in the forest of Gombe, Tanzania. I spent 30 years anticipating and advancing the goals of celebrities, elected officials and other individuals of interest to the public. I’d never met anyone quite like Goodall. She possessed a Zen-like countenance and disarming casual manner, yet at the same time she was acutely aware of and in control of her surroundings.
An unnerving aspect of the evening’s reception was the insistent hellhound chorus of the host’s three guard dogs – a pedigreed Dalmatian and two German shepherds – sequestered in a side yard behind chain-link fencing that looked inadequate to contain them.
While most partygoers ignored the animals’ rage, Goodall grew visibly agitated with the situation. Breaking off a conversation with a fawning guest, she walked into the yard and over to the dogs. She stood so close to the enclosure that I expected to see her knocked off balance as the shepherds charged the fence; each of them a hundred pounds of fury. The Dalmatian stood slightly behind the others, loudly vocal, but did not advance.
Goodall didn’t back off but crouched near the gate and spoke softly to the animals. She placed the palm of her right hand against the chain link. The two animals renewed their frenzied assault, hurling themselves bodily against metal again and again. Goodall didn’t flinch.
The situation was a powder keg. In my science-communications career, I have dealt with all manner of volatile situations ranging from earthquakes to bomb threats, but crisis training never included this. I feared for her and whether the next day’s top news story would be about her being mauled.
What seemed an eternity transpired in less than a minute. Goodall stood up and confronted the host in front of the assembled guests.
“You must release the dogs,” she said.
The crowd, as one, involuntarily leaned back.
“I can’t do that,” the professor stammered in protest. “It’s too dangerous!”
Goodall calmly repeated the request. The man again refused, scanning those assembled, looking for allies. None were forthcoming.
The dogs quietly exited their prison, single file, tails wagging. Ignoring the wary guests, they sauntered into the house and systematically inspected the floors for morsels dropped by careless guests. Eventually the dogs relaxed on the Mexican-clay tiles like sphinxes. The guests returned to the living room, and conversations resumed.
At the first opportune moment with Goodall, I asked, “What happened out there?” There was an edge to my voice. Jane Goodall or not, I considered her actions reckless.
“It was obvious,” she said quietly. “The alpha dog, who stood in the back, blamed the other two for the locked gate. That’s why those in front were trying so hard to get out.”
“You knew nothing would happen if they were let out?” I asked, my anger cooling.
“Yes,” she said, with a slight smile on her lips. “I knew.”
Needing some air, I withdrew further into the yard. It was a balmy night, and the darkness felt as comfortable as a shawl.
Then, as if the night hadn’t had enough surprises, I looked up and saw Comet Hale-Bopp. One of the brightest comets seen from Earth in the 20th century, it had been visible to the naked eye for a record 18 months. I had previously observed it in the dark-sky regions of two other states, but I never expected the comet to outshine the bright city lights of Los Angeles.
I scurried into the house, announced my exciting discovery and invited all to come out and share the spectacle.
I led the way, alerting whoever was following to the presence of planters and other obstacles I had become familiar with during prior excursions into the yard. At one point, Goodall called out, “Your shoes!” This in reference to the flashes of light from street lamps that reflected off the metal heels on my black pumps. “It’s just like the white patch on the rump of a Thomson’s gazelle showing the way.”
I took the remark as a compliment.
Arriving in the darkest part of the yard, I turned around and braced myself for what I expected would be a crowd surge. But there stood only Goodall.
Up to this time, I had been an outsider observing Jane Goodall. A comet 120 million miles from Earth instantly changed that dynamic. Standing side by side in silence, we beheld the celestial phenomenon. I heard her sigh.
by Lynne Friedmann
