of people; don’t people suck?
If they did ever get out, the carnivores would go straight for the herbivores, the slow ones, the weak ones, killing and eating them and picking at the bones.
About a month ago, I explored the barbed wire fence around the zoo, found a gate up on top, above Africa. A sign said ZOO PERSONNEL ONLY — GATE TO BE LOCKED AT ALL TIMES , and there was a lock on it but it was left open. I took it off, walked through, put it back, found myself in this parking lot full of little tan dune-buggy things the zoo people drive around in. Across the lot were some buildings that smelled like animal shit, with cement floors that had just been hosed down. On the other side were more thick plants and a pathway with another sign: AUTHORIZED ACCESS ONLY.
I made like I belonged and walked right into the zoo, climbed into the big walk-in birdcage with all the people, saw the little kids whining. Then I checked out the whole zoo. I had a pretty good time that day, studying and reading the signs that teach about their natural habitats and diets and endangered species. I saw a two-headed king snake in the reptile house. No one looked at me weird. For the first time in a long time I felt relaxed and normal.
I’d brought some of my money roll with me and bought a frozen banana and caramel corn and a Coke. I ate too fast and got a stomachache, but it didn’t matter; it was like a clear patch of blue sky had opened up in my brain.
Maybe I’ll try to get in today.
Maybe I shouldn’t. I need to make sure I’m not an endangered species.
I can’t stop thinking of that woman, what the guy did to her.
Horrible, horrible, the way he hugged her,
chuck chuck.
Why would anyone want to do that?
Why would God
allow
it?
My stomach starts to kill and I take five deep breaths to quiet it down.
Walking all night my feet didn’t hurt too much, but now they do and my sneakers feel tight. I pull them off; also my socks. I must be growing; the shoes have been getting tighter for a while. They’re old, the ones I came with, and the soles have thin spots, almost worn through.
I’ll give my feet some air, wiggle my toes before I unroll my plastic.
Ahh . . . that feels good.
There’s no water up in Five for bathing. Wouldn’t it be cool to get into the zoo, jump in the sea lion tank and flip around? The sea lions, freaking out, not knowing what’s going on—I have to control myself not to laugh out loud.
I stink from piss. I hate stinking, don’t want to turn into one of those shopping-cart guys; you can smell them a block away.
I always loved to shower, but after Moron moved in, the hot water was always gone. Not because he used it. Mom wanted to smell good for him, so she started taking half an hour in the shower, then putting on perfume spray, the works.
Why would she want to impress him? Why would she want to be with
all
those losers?
I’ve spent a lot of time wondering about that and the only thing I keep coming back to is she doesn’t like herself very much.
I
know
that’s true, because when she breaks something or makes any kind of mistake, like cutting herself shaving her legs, she cusses herself out, calls herself names. I’ve heard her crying at night, drunk or stoned, calling herself names. Not so much since Moron moved in, because he threatens to smack her.
I used to go into the bedroom and sit next to her, touch her hair, say, “What’s the matter, Mom?” But she always moved away from me and said, “Nothing, nothing,” sounding angry, so I stopped trying.
Then one day I realized she was crying about
me.
About having me without planning to, trying to raise me, figuring she wasn’t much good at it.
I was her sadness.
I thought about that for a long time, too, decided my best bet was to learn as much as possible so I could get a good career and be able to take care of myself and her. Also, maybe if she saw I was doing okay, she wouldn’t feel like such a failure.
The sun is up all
If they did ever get out, the carnivores would go straight for the herbivores, the slow ones, the weak ones, killing and eating them and picking at the bones.
About a month ago, I explored the barbed wire fence around the zoo, found a gate up on top, above Africa. A sign said ZOO PERSONNEL ONLY — GATE TO BE LOCKED AT ALL TIMES , and there was a lock on it but it was left open. I took it off, walked through, put it back, found myself in this parking lot full of little tan dune-buggy things the zoo people drive around in. Across the lot were some buildings that smelled like animal shit, with cement floors that had just been hosed down. On the other side were more thick plants and a pathway with another sign: AUTHORIZED ACCESS ONLY.
I made like I belonged and walked right into the zoo, climbed into the big walk-in birdcage with all the people, saw the little kids whining. Then I checked out the whole zoo. I had a pretty good time that day, studying and reading the signs that teach about their natural habitats and diets and endangered species. I saw a two-headed king snake in the reptile house. No one looked at me weird. For the first time in a long time I felt relaxed and normal.
I’d brought some of my money roll with me and bought a frozen banana and caramel corn and a Coke. I ate too fast and got a stomachache, but it didn’t matter; it was like a clear patch of blue sky had opened up in my brain.
Maybe I’ll try to get in today.
Maybe I shouldn’t. I need to make sure I’m not an endangered species.
I can’t stop thinking of that woman, what the guy did to her.
Horrible, horrible, the way he hugged her,
chuck chuck.
Why would anyone want to do that?
Why would God
allow
it?
My stomach starts to kill and I take five deep breaths to quiet it down.
Walking all night my feet didn’t hurt too much, but now they do and my sneakers feel tight. I pull them off; also my socks. I must be growing; the shoes have been getting tighter for a while. They’re old, the ones I came with, and the soles have thin spots, almost worn through.
I’ll give my feet some air, wiggle my toes before I unroll my plastic.
Ahh . . . that feels good.
There’s no water up in Five for bathing. Wouldn’t it be cool to get into the zoo, jump in the sea lion tank and flip around? The sea lions, freaking out, not knowing what’s going on—I have to control myself not to laugh out loud.
I stink from piss. I hate stinking, don’t want to turn into one of those shopping-cart guys; you can smell them a block away.
I always loved to shower, but after Moron moved in, the hot water was always gone. Not because he used it. Mom wanted to smell good for him, so she started taking half an hour in the shower, then putting on perfume spray, the works.
Why would she want to impress him? Why would she want to be with
all
those losers?
I’ve spent a lot of time wondering about that and the only thing I keep coming back to is she doesn’t like herself very much.
I
know
that’s true, because when she breaks something or makes any kind of mistake, like cutting herself shaving her legs, she cusses herself out, calls herself names. I’ve heard her crying at night, drunk or stoned, calling herself names. Not so much since Moron moved in, because he threatens to smack her.
I used to go into the bedroom and sit next to her, touch her hair, say, “What’s the matter, Mom?” But she always moved away from me and said, “Nothing, nothing,” sounding angry, so I stopped trying.
Then one day I realized she was crying about
me.
About having me without planning to, trying to raise me, figuring she wasn’t much good at it.
I was her sadness.
I thought about that for a long time, too, decided my best bet was to learn as much as possible so I could get a good career and be able to take care of myself and her. Also, maybe if she saw I was doing okay, she wouldn’t feel like such a failure.
The sun is up all
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