The signs continued to multiply. And the next day Mr. Sato brought his cronies in for the grand tour. The group of elderly men came armed with paper cups of coffee and newspapers. I knew I'd have to empty the trash when they left. And every single damn one of them put coins into the cashier's tray.
I followed the slow-moving tour. The signs for the pigeons and squirrels elicited some chuckles and polite remarks, but when they discovered the feral cat “exhibit,” a debate erupted among the old men.
“There are no animals here! Just food dishes!” One man yelled in the overly loud way of the partially deaf. “You have to give the cats a safe place where they can be seen! How about Lion Hill?” The other old men laughed. Max made a show of taking out his notepad and scribbling.
“And you should have a dog exhibit!” Another one shouted. “The city won't do anything about all those strays in the park. You should put them in the old hyena yard!”
I didn't like the way this was going, but before I could say anything, Mr. Sato got a flash of inspiration.
“I know!” he said. “We should play chess here. You can make an exhibit about chess players! What do you say boys?” He turned to his gang of seniors who all nodded in delight.
“That’s brilliant!” Max said.
“Hey now!” I interrupted. “The cats are one thing, but we can’t have stray dogs here. It's dangerous, and we absolutely aren't going to put old men in cages!”
“No. Not cages. In our natural environment: the food court! You can even paint our tracks!” Mr. Sato pointed down at his feet.
I crossed my arms. “There's no money for it.”
Mr. Sato pulled out more coins from his pocket. “You can't stop change,” he said.
So I let them carry on with their crazy plans and quietly cashed my second overly fat check. I started cruising the want-ads even though I knew there wasn't much hope. I could already imagine my resume, a single line: 25 years as a zoo custodian. There was probably a time when that would be seen as a good thing. Now they'd wonder: Why hadn't I ever changed jobs? Why hadn't I gotten additional training? What would I tell them? I liked it here. Or I had. It was steady, paid decently. There were good benefits.
But maybe the real reason was I didn't like change. No, to be totally honest, change scared the crap out of me. Change only brought pain: Seeing all my friends and colleagues laid off. My son leaving for the army. My wife dying. And me, growing old and getting closer to the big end every day. Change was lousy. But Mr. Sato was right. I couldn't stop it.
Still, the kid's new exhibits bothered me: the nuisance of the old men with white paint on their feet and all the extra work the exhibits created. The worst was the dog exhibit. Max had easily enticed a pack of mangy mutts into the hyena yard with bits of bacon and hamburger, but he refused to fix the fence. “They have to come and go naturally,” he said—as if keeping stray dogs in a zoo was any where near natural.
Luckily, many of the dogs seemed content to remain where there was a regular supply of food, but they could be dangerous. I made sure to move the old tranquilizer gun to the nearest maintenance room by the hyena yard. After some thought, I added a rifle. I locked it all up to be safe as possible, but I felt better knowing it was available. There might not be enough time for tranquilizers.
Weeks went by, and no one outside of the Mr. Sato's cronies noticed the changes in the zoo. I began to hope that the old men would get bored and leave. That Max's internship would run out and things would go back to normal.
Then one of the dogs had puppies. There must be some sort of scent puppies put out that attracts children because whole swarms of the little people seemed to materialize out of thin air. They crowded my empty zoo, and they brought their parents with them.
I only learned of the first article when Mr. Sato pushed a newspaper under my nose. The headline read “The Zoo of the Real: A park past its prime embraces the avant-garde.” There was a picture of Mr. Sato contemplating a chess move, a zoo exhibit sign in the foreground.
“I look good don't I?” he said.
I grabbed the paper from him. Inside there were photos of pigeons, chipmunks, swallows, and the puppies, of course. Even old Ike had a photo. The caption said that “the traditional zoo animal now seemed out of step with the new hip zoo.” Max was described as a “rising star in a new generation of social scientists.” The reporter appeared to have fallen in love with the damn kid:
According to Mejora, the new zoo is a reflection of our modern condition. “In some sense, we are all living in cages,” Mejora said. “All of us are under surveillance, not just terrorists and criminals, all of us. The zoo of the real gives us a chance to take a different look at the world we live in now.”
My hands trembled. “That,” I said stabbing the paper with my finger. “is dangerous talk. Homeland Security is probably already opening his file, tapping his phone, reading his emails—and yours too, Mr. Sato.”
“Relax,” said Mr. Sato. “It's just some harmless fun.”
“Fun? The kid is obviously young and stupid, but you're older than me. You're supposed to be smarter, wiser. Don't your people have a saying: 'the nail that sticks out gets hammered down'?”
Mr. Sato frowned. “My people? I'm American. Maybe my great-great-grandfather was from Japan, but I never heard of that saying. And it's a stupid one if you ask me.”
I decided that Mr. Sato had lost his mind. And over the next few days, it seemed the whole damn world was right there with him. The zoo began to live up to its name, crowds of people braved public exposure to gawk at the puppies and laugh at Max's so-called exhibits. Some people even started watching the old men play chess.
Perhaps the media was tired of reporting on the terrorist bombings and continual war on terror. Whatever the reason, they pounced on the zoo story. Max appeared on all the local TV stations. His “zoo of the real” even made the national news, twice. I was asked for interviews dozens of times but refused all of them. I took to hiding in my office.
To make matters worse, Max put up donation boxes outside every exhibit and the coins and small bills started to add up. I was forced to make a budget and open a zoo account, ironically enough things that an interim zoo director would do.
The food cart vendors started infiltrating the zoo. They provided the children with ammunition. Soon the pigeons and the ducks (Max had refilled the old seal-pond for them) were being peppered with popcorn and peanuts. I put up “no feeding” signs everywhere, but there was no stopping the teenagers from launching half-eaten hot dogs into the hyena yard to see the stray dogs scrapple over them.
Even old Ike started to see some of the action, though since the polar bear was half-blind it often took him a long time to locate a thrown hot dog. The old bear still had good hearing and a strong sense of smell. He would wear himself out standing on his hind legs, waving a paw in the direction of any savory smell wafting on the air. Then he'd pause to listen for the soft pat of a hot dog bun hitting the cement.
Some homeless bums took advantage of the chaos to put up their own exhibit. They hopped the petting zoo’s low fence and marked up a few cardboard signs with such nonsense as “Homo sapiens drunkus” and “Please feed the humans.” On my orders, Max tried to talk them into leaving, but instead, he ended up erecting another one of his blasted signs, detailing the plight of the homeless. Then there was another round of media reports.
I kept my head down best I could. I took special care to avoid the people wielding notepads, cameras and microphones, but somehow my picture got in the paper. I was in profile with a broom, looking into the distance. The caption read: “Long time zoo custodian Franklin Tyler worries that the zoo’s new-found popularity will make it a tempting target for terrorists.” It was exactly what I thought, but I sure as hell couldn’t remember telling any reporter that. For crying out loud, didn’t they realize that by putting it in the paper only made it more certain to happen? One columnist even had the gall to predict the resurgence of all social a
ctivities including protests.
I tried to warn the kid, but he was already working on his next press release. In this one, he was touting of all things rats and mice and bugs that ate trash. Refuse engineers, he called them.
“These press releases are like a call to bring on the bombs,” I said.
“Relax, Franco,” Max said. “You're too paranoid, but who can blame you? That’s how they want you to be. Hah!” The kid pointed at the air as if stabbing one of his bright ideas. “Maybe we should put you on display: Frankenstein, the modern fearful man.”
“I have a family to consider,” I said. “I don’t have any fancy pink sheets to protect me. I can’t afford to go to the hospital or jail! All for your stupid exhibit game!”
“Stupid game? I think it’s you that doesn’t get it: This is all a game: the terrorists, the war, the whole thing. I’m just pointing it out.”
“Working, fighting for something you believe in—for the safety and freedom of your country, that’s not a game!” I took a deep breath. There was no use in shouting. “Besides terrorists or no terrorists, it ain’t going to last. It’s a trend, your ‘zoo of the real,’ a fad. It will be over when the next thing comes along.”
“Not if I keep coming up with new and better ideas,”Max said. “And I think you just gave me a good one.”
“Just great. While you sit here with your ‘ideas,’ I'll go feed the dogs something besides the crappy junk food. Someone has to do some real work in this fake zoo!”
But as I headed toward the dog exhibit, shrieks of terror erupted from the other side of the zoo. This is it, I thought. Somebody bombed the zoo. For some reason, I hurried in the direction of the screaming instead of away from it. I wasn't trying to be a hero. Like it or not, I knew I was the only employee at the zoo.
I fought against the tide of people running away from whatever'd happened. My fears were confirmed in the shocked faces flying past me. I prepared myself to see something horrible: dead and injured people, limbs and lives lost, blood everywhere, but there was nothing. As the runners thinned out, I saw that a small crowd of people were pressed up against something, straining forward as if trying to get a closer look. I suddenly realized where I was: the bear pit.
I pushed my way through the crowd to the rail. Then I saw some blood. The dogs were in the pit, probably came after Ike's hot dogs, and the old polar bear had gone crazy. Two dogs were already lying motionless on the fake rock floor. As I watched, the bear grabbed a third dog in mid-leap with his jaws and neatly ripped out the dog's throat. The crowd gasped in appreciative horror.
Still, I knew who was going to win this fight. The bear’s white fur was already splotched with red where a few dogs had managed to get in a bite when he was dealing with another. The motley group of mutts were already circling around the the polar bear like a seasoned pack of wolves
It wasn’t fair, I thought angrily as I hurried to the maintenance room. I had played by the rules, mostly. I'd kept my head down. But I couldn’t let that fight go on, no matter what it cost. I walked back to the railing and fired the rifle into the air. Several people screamed, but they didn’t scatter. The dogs were only slightly smarter. A few of them took off at the sound, but five or six stood their ground, eyes locked on the old bear.
I ought to take every one of those mongrels out. They had started it after all. I lowered the gun. Time started to slow down. I shouted for people to get back. I took aim. Somewhere in the distance, I heard Max yell. But it was too late for any discussion. The boy would have to learn the cost of his paradigm shift the hard way. Mr. Sato was right. You can't fight change. You can't keep your head down, hide in your cave, and hope it will pass you by. Change will find you anyway and rip you apart. Still I couldn't help wishing I'd fought it harder.
I pulled the trigger. Old Ike slumped and fell sideways into the bright blue pool. The bear sunk like a stone, a purple plume of blood rising in his wake.
####
Visit Sara Zaske at sara.zaske.wordpress.com or follow @sarazaske on Twitter.
Free sample of The First:
I should have never gone to the new girl’s house. The walls didn't need to melt, and the ground didn't have to disappear under my feet to know that I should have stayed far away from Violet Starkey.
Violet was weird.
She looked like one of those abducted kids who'd recently escaped from a locked basement. She was super small and skinny, all elbows and knees, and even though it’s sunny some 200 plus days a year in Oakland, California, Violet was pale as a zombie. From the state of her hair, she must have been terrified of a brush. And her clothes? They looked like they'd been bought twenty years ago, and I don't mean they're retro.
The strangest part was she hardly ever spoke, not even to the other losers in our class. If you asked her a direct question, she just stared at you from behind her mega-thick glasses. Even the teachers didn’t know what to do with her, and the rest of us, we ignored her. It was simply social suicide to hang out with someone like Violet.
But I couldn’t stay away. My dad always says I'm like a monkey and when I see something interesting I have to find out more, no matter how stupid or dangerous.
I wasn’t at all interested in Violet until that day we played volleyball in gym. Ms. H did a bad job of dividing up the teams, again. Angie, that's my used-to-be best friend, said Ms. H does it on purpose because she likes to watch the humiliation. This time, though it wasn't a perfect mismatch. Angie and I were somehow mixed up with the weaklings on the green shirt team, and our friends, Mattie and Emily, were on the much better red shirts. In fact, five of the six girls on the red shirts played JV volleyball. The sixth was Violet.
Why Ms. H put her with the jocks I’ll never know. Violet was so small. And jump? You would think she was rooted to the ground. That’s the funny thing. I mean the thing that I noticed.
It happened because Angie and I tried to make a real game of it. Two good players can hold a side in volleyball, sort of, but you have to push a lot of the dead weight out of the way. Angie and I were running around like crazy trying to keep our side alive. We quickly learned to aim at Violet because everyone else on her side was too good. Violet would just put her arms out and wait for the ball, which would fly right by her.
We were doing pretty well with this strategy until I managed to arc the ball right in front of the net, a feat which required giving Melissa Chang a bit of a nudge. Angie leaped over Niki Martinez to get the spike.
It was beautiful in a way. Everything slowed down. Angie hung in mid-air, in perfect position, her arm hiked back. She turned slightly looking for Violet. And then Wham! Angie let go, sending the ball straight for her head. At first, I thought Violet would duck, or at least cover her head with her arms in that cowardly way non-athletic kids always do. But Violet just stood there and took the ball full in the face.
All of us sucked in our breath. I think we expected screaming or full-on knock out, but Violet didn’t even fall down. She barely moved. The ball bounced off her forehead and went straight up into the air.
Everyone was looking at Violet’s face or the ball. I was the only one who looked at her feet. After the ball hit, she'd rocked back on her heels with her toes pointed in the air. She should have fallen, but her sneakers somehow remained attached to the floor. There were these long, white strings on the bottom of her shoes. My first thought was that she had wads of chewing gum on her soles. Before I could get a really good look, her feet came back down. I looked up and met Violet’s black eyes.
I was so creeped out that I didn't notice Emily dink the ball lightly over the net. It dropped right in front of me. Finally, Ms. H blew her whistle. “That’s game!” she shouted. “Violet, is it? Let’s get some ice for that face.”
“Sorry about that,” Angie yelled in the direction of Violet's back. The other girls headed toward the locker room, talking and laughing about Angie's slam.
“Way to go dreamy!” Angie punched my shoulder. “We
almost had them. What were you thinking about? Mike Garcia?” I ignored her. I was concentrating on Violet’s feet as she walked across the gym. The soles of her sneakers looked flat, normal. I followed.
“What’s up with Cassie?” I heard Mattie ask behind me.
I knew they wouldn’t understand, but I had to find out what was going on. Violet sat down on the bench and accepted the ice pack Ms. H offered her. She dutifully held it to her forehead, even though there wasn’t a hint of color anywhere on her face.
“Let me see your shoes,” I demanded, when I reached the spot where Violet was sitting. She blinked at me, but raised a foot, offering it for my inspection. I felt like a shoe salesman as I hunkered down and rubbed my hand along the bottom of her sneaker. I don’t know what I expected, perhaps grooves where something popped out like those roller-shoes, but there was nothing, not even a piece of gum. “I don’t get it,” I said, wiping my hands on my gym shorts. “How did you do that?”
Violet stared silently at me like she always does when someone talks to her. This time, though, something flickered in her eyes. She shrugged.
“You know what I’m talking about.” I felt my voice rise in irritation. I quickly lowered it. “There was something on your feet attached to the floor.”
When Violet opened her mouth, her voice sounded creaky like it hadn’t been used in a long time. “Do you want to come to my house for a play date? You could sleep over.”
Laughter erupted behind me. My friends had heard. No one asks a 15-year-old girl over for a play date. That's little kid stuff. I stood up and crossed my arms. “Why would I want to do that?”
Violet's lips curved slightly, the first smile I'd ever seen on her face. “Because you want to know.”
She had me, and she knew it. Violet put down the ice pack and stood up. She was so short she barely came to my shoulder. “See you after school on Friday,” she said. I knew my friends had probably overheard, but I nodded anyway, slightly.
When I turned around, Angie, Mattie, and Emily were staring at me with open mouths. “You are not going to that freak’s house!” Angie said.
“Yeah right,” I replied. It only sounded sarcastic, so technically it wasn’t a lie.
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