Let’s begin with a simple question: Have you ever heard of a man named Frank Buck? My hunch is that you haven’t.

Aside from a small zoo in Gainesville, Texas that bears his name, Frank Buck is mostly forgotten today. But in the years prior to his death at the age of 66 in 1950, “Bring ’em back alive!” Buck was probably the most famous collector of wild animals in the world. He was a best-selling author, a movie star with Clark Gable good looks, and a renowned jungle explorer.

His obituary in the March 26, 1950 edition of the New York Times stated, “He once estimated that in nearly thirty-three years he had captured more than 100,000 birds of every variety, more than fifty elephants, scores of pythons, sixty-five tigers, and also hundreds of other wild animals, all tracked down in the far corners of the earth.”

Buck was a masterful storyteller, so it’s almost certain that he has fudged those numbers upward from their true values. Add to that the fact that critics have suggested that Buck acted more as an animal broker than someone personally capturing the creatures himself. Even so, there’s no denying that he was the leading source of wild animals for zoos and circuses throughout the United States during the first half of the twentieth century.

So famous was Frank Buck during his lifetime that he was asked to set up an exhibition at the 1933 Chicago World’s Fair. Officially called “Frank Buck’s Jungle Camp,” it was a supposed recreation of a camp that Frank and his assistants used to collect animals in Asia. Stocked with animals collected from all over the world, the exhibit proved to be a phenomenal success.

It is estimated that more than two million people visited the Jungle Camp, but as the close of the fair approached in 1934, Frank Buck faced a unique problem: what to do with all the wild animals. One can’t simply box them all up and store them in a warehouse.

In March of 1935, several months after the close of the fair, the solution was announced. A permanent Jungle Camp would be built in Massapequa, New York. It would be located on a 20-acre parcel that sat just south of both Sunrise Highway and the Long Island Railroad. Construction began immediately, and the park opened just in time for the 1935 summer season.

One of the most popular exhibits at the new zoo was its Monkey Mountain, which was a tall, artificial rock formation that jutted high into the air. Stocked with hundreds of rhesus monkeys, a water-filled moat kept the animals confined to the island. For further security, an 8-foot (2.44 m) tall wall encircled the entire exhibit. While the monkeys could easily enter and exit the water from the mountain, there was no way for them to leap high enough out of the water to clear the wall.

Estimates of the number of monkeys housed in the exhibit varied widely. Some claimed there were as many as 570, though Frank Buck’s business partner and park manager, T.A. Loveland, gave a more conservative count. According to him, 200 monkeys had stayed through the winter of 1934-35, another 200 arrived early in July 1935 (400 in total, plus any offspring produced), and an additional 200 were expected in September. (It’s worth noting that this wasn’t meant to be a permanent home for such a large number of monkeys—many of the zoo’s animals were eventually relocated to other facilities across the country.)

Of course, confining such a large number of monkeys into a small area is messy business, and someone has to clean it up.

One of the men assigned to the task was park employee Charles Selner. A little after 11 AM on Wednesday, August 21, 1935, Selner laid a sturdy plank between the protective wall and the shoreline of Monkey Mountain. Armed with a bucket and cleaning supplies, he carefully climbed onto the makeshift bridge and crossed over the nearly stagnant water below. Once on the other side, he began the painstaking job of scrubbing the many nooks and crannies of the manmade mountain.

Selner had no idea he’d just made a critical mistake. He was so focused on the work that he was doing that he was doing that he forgot to remove the plank that connected Monkey Mountain to the outer wall—effectively giving the monkeys a direct path to freedom.

And they didn’t hesitate. Like a nonstop parade, monkey after monkey scrambled across the plank and bolted from the enclosure. Several minutes passed before Selner realized what had happened, but by then it was too late. He yanked the plank away to stop any more escapes, but it was estimated that as many as 173 monkeys had already made their getaway.

Naturally, every great escape needs a ringleader—and in this case, it was a monkey named Al Capone. He earned the nickname thanks to his habit of always snatching the best food during feeding time.

Mrs. Arthur Soper of Brentwood, a park visitor, was the first to notice the monkeys were on the loose. She alerted a young woman collecting admissions, who immediately dropped what she was doing and raised the alarm.

Panic ensued. The crowds ran screaming for their lives as the monkeys attacked…

Okay. That never happened.

Within minutes, the entire zoo staff was combing the woods behind Monkey Mountain. They managed to catch two stragglers, but nearly all the others had already vanished.

Nassau County police were quickly notified and joined the search effort. By day’s end, officers had managed to capture two of the escaped monkeys. One was caught when a policeman tossed a piece of canvas over it, while the other was lassoed after being spotted perched on a fence several miles away.

Meanwhile, officials at the Jungle Camp weren’t overly concerned. They considered the monkeys to be mostly harmless and were certain that once things settled down a bit, the animals would settle into the nearby woods and form a colony. At that point, they planned to set traps to recapture them.

Charles Selner, the man who inadvertently allowed the monkeys to escape, jokingly told a reporter, “Monkeys are like lions. I mean Lions like Elk and Rotarians, the kind that hold conventions. They’ll all meet somewhere soon and decide to come back. Or else we’ll capture them.”

The following day, the Brooklyn Times-Union reported that, as a result of his mistake, Selner had “joined the ranks of the unemployed.”

Shortly after their escape, around 50 monkeys sought shelter on the tracks of the Long Island Railroad. Since it was an electrified line, there was concern that many might be electrocuted by the third rail—but fortunately, only a few were harmed.

Before long, a train approached. The monkeys showed no intention of moving, forcing the engineer to bring the train to a stop. The crew managed to clear the tracks, and the train continued on to nearby Seaford after a brief five-minute delay. The railroad later dispatched a crew specifically tasked with keeping the monkeys off the tracks.

And where was Frank Buck—the park’s namesake—during all this chaos? He was aboard a ship returning from Singapore, accompanied by a fresh haul of jungle animals. The press reported that he had approximately 2,000 live animals, the bulk of which were destined for his zoo.

Back at the Jungle Camp, director Loveland announced that anyone who returned a monkey alive would receive a season pass to the zoo. The offer was later increased to a $10 reward, roughly equivalent to $235 today.

For those eager to try their luck, Loveland offered some advice: the best way to catch a monkey, he said, was to toss a coat or blanket over it, then lift it by the shoulders. Failure to do so could result in the monkey biting and scratching its captor.

As police continued the search for the escapees, they also issued a warning to roadside fruit stand operators: keep a close eye on your produce, especially oranges and bananas. If anything went missing overnight, chances were high the monkeys were the culprits.

The zoo remained open throughout the night in case any monkeys were found—or decided to return on their own.

And that’s exactly what some of them did. During the night, around thirty of the escapees scaled the wall surrounding Monkey Island, leapt over the moat, and returned to their enclosure. Because of the darkness, park officials couldn’t determine the exact number that had come back.

The day after the great monkey escape, crowds of curious visitors flooded the road leading to the zoo, forcing four police officers to step in and manage the heavy traffic. If nothing else, it was great PR for the Jungle Camp, with hundreds of people paying the 25-cent admission, nearly $6.00 in today’s money.

By the end of the second day, park officials revised their count: they believed that there were 111 monkeys still on the lam. Two had been brought back by Richard Carpenter and John Kishmetsky, two 14-year-old boys living in North Babylon. They were able to catch the monkeys by throwing their coats over them.

Another six were brought in by iceman John Sacio of Amityville. He spotted them in a tree, so he grabbed a basket of apples and placed them inside his truck. After the monkeys jumped in, he slammed the truck’s door shut and drove them back to the zoo.

A group of about twenty monkeys was spotted high up on a flagpole just outside the entrance to the Jungle Camp. Park employees tried to coax them down with fresh bananas, but that didn’t work. The fire department was then called in, arriving with a hook-and-ladder truck—but it wasn’t quite tall enough to reach the top. Undeterred, three firefighters climbed the ladder and used long bamboo poles to gently prod the monkeys. Instinctively, the monkeys grabbed hold of the halyards, allowing workers to lower them safely to the ground.

Tragically, four of the monkeys were deceased. Two were electrocuted after completing the circuit between the railroad’s third rail and the ground, while the other two were discovered at the base of a power line near Hicksville. Officials from the Long Island Lighting Company attributed a half-hour power outage in Amityville to the monkeys, noting that it was the first time in the company’s history that monkeys had caused such an incident. (It’s likely safe to assume it was also the last time this occurred…)

In the early hours of Friday, August 23rd, Sidney Milo was driving down Seaford Avenue, approximately 2.5 miles (around 4 km) west of the zoo. Suddenly, a large group of monkeys, possibly around 35, appeared right in front of his car. He swerved to avoid hitting them, causing his car to crash into a tree. Although Sidney was unharmed, he unfortunately killed one of the monkeys. He then contacted the zoo, which dispatched a team to the scene. While most of the monkeys escaped into the underbrush, seven were captured.

Around 1 PM the next day, Al Capone, the group’s fearless leader, was finally apprehended. Photos of Capone, complete with a sign displaying his inmate number, were taken, and his mugshot was distributed to the press. However, just like all great criminal masterminds, he managed to escape half an hour later.

That Sunday, the park reported that all but 21 of the escaped monkeys had been accounted for. Meanwhile, L.V. Longbotham of New Haven, Connecticut claimed to have spotted a group of them in the woods. Rather than alerting the zoo, he decided to try capturing them himself. Armed with a bunch of bananas, he managed to lure the monkeys out—but never actually caught any. They simply snatched the bananas and bolted.

And the monkeys didn’t stop at fruit. According to Longbotham, one—possibly Al Capone himself—made off with his hat. He later drove to the zoo to report the incident, and in return, they gave him a brand-new hat.

Monday evening, 40 bunches of bananas were hung on the wire fence surrounding the perimeter of zoo. With 4000 feet of fencing, that meant placing a bunch of bananas every 100 feet (30.48 m).

The next day, the New York Daily News published a humorous letter to the editor. Penned by William Telsey of Brooklyn, it read: “About those monkeys who escaped from the zoo on Long Island — I think we had better get it on record right now, for future generations, that people inhabited Long Island before monkeys did. Otherwise, future scientists will be puzzled to know whether the primates or the humans got there first, and whether we descended from the monkeys or the monkeys from us. Let it be recorded that these escaped monkeys have no connection with the human race.”

That night, park manager Loveland decided to try a new technique. It had been suggested to him by a Montreal man who used it to capture 18 escapees from an amusement park zoo there. It was very simple: get the monkeys drunk by laying out pans filled with bourbon. The next day, three monkeys were found. Two were staggering and taken back to the zoo to recover. Sadly, the third had passed out and died of acute alcoholism. Loveland declared that he would never use that technique again.

By the time Frank Buck returned from his safari adventures on September 4, 1935, all but five of the monkeys had been accounted for. Four females and one male were still missing. That male, of course, was none other than Al Capone.

The reality was that there was little hope of ever capturing them. With the press eventually losing interest in the story, it is unknown if any additional were ever caught. Add to that the fact that officials at the zoo never had an exact count of how many monkeys had escaped, so there could have been more out there.

In the end, the zoo did gangbuster business from the publicity that the monkey escape brought them. Numbers vary, but some newspapers reported that as many as 10,000 people visited the park that summer.

Today, Frank Buck’s Jungle Camp is long gone. If you would like to visit the spot where Monkey Mountain once stood, set your GPS to 5500 Sunrise Highway in Massapequa, NY. What you will find there is a giant paved parking lot and your typical suburban strip mall. If you look carefully enough, right at the entrance to the lot, there is a historical marker that reads, “Frank Buck’s Zoo, Famous ‘Bring’em back alive’, 20 acre jungle camp 1934 to ca. 44. WWII small arms defense factory ca. 45. Grimaldi’s kiddie park petting zoo 1951 to 65.”

My hunch is that most people probably just drive by that sign without ever noticing its existence. The nearby AT&T store and McDonald’s restaurant are far more likely to grab one’s attention.

As for the monkeys? For all you know, they could still be out there somewhere, all descendants of one Al Capone and his four mistresses.

Useless? Useful? I’ll leave that for you to decide.