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Toad: Today, you take the kids to the zoo.
Me: No way. Not gonna do it. Ain’t gonna happen.
But it did.
The entrance and exit to the zoo stand side by side. Hope and despair
poetically paired to mock visitor/victim. Those lucky enough to have
completed their trek across the asphalt jungle push and shove their way
toward the exit; meanwhile we, on the entrance side, trudge onward,
resigned to our fate.
One friendly face from the exit side tries to warn me back, but he is
caught in the stampede of parents surging to the zoo’s exit; he is
trampled. A pity, seeing how close he is to freedom.
“Tickets please,” the gate tender shrieks while tearing stubs apart with
red nailed claws.
“I don’t have any tickets; can I buy them here?” asks the tearful parent in
front of me.
I laugh to myself at this newbie’s request, as the gate tender sends him
out of the two-hour line to buy tickets in another equally long line, tickets
he must return to her for shredding.
I have survived the zoo every summer for six years; I make no such
foolish errors. You have your tickets in your hand, a pocket full of ready
cash, and you slow down for nothing. If a child falls into the alligator pit,
you quickly express your condolences to the family (we are human after
all) and hurry on your way. A zoo is 15 acres of asphalt with 7,000
sweating people staring at sickly, caged creatures under a scorching
mid-day sun.
He who hesitates is lost.
The first exhibit is a lion named Sampson, king of the jungle. Sampson
gums a special diet of blended hot dogs in a bowl of warm milk. He has
trouble with solid foods. Sampson peers out of murky gray eyes through
two-inch thick steel bars at the teeming throng of screeching children.
He is grateful for the bars.
Sampson could not escape a hard nap; a handful of screaming six-year-
olds would make short work of him. I like to think he recognizes me from
previous trips. I wish he were young and healthy so he might stand a
chance if the children got to him; he could at least take a couple down
with him.
We line up again and head to the monkey house. I dread the monkey
house. Most of the year I convince myself what a noble creature man is,
how far he has come; the monkey house destroys illusion. The little
ones climb the bars screeching and hollering in an ear-piercing
cacophony that scares the sh-- out of the monkeys. And the 600-pound
gorilla clutches a truck tire in front of his chest in complete terror.
The Reptile House: We are fascinated by poisonous slimy cold-blooded
killers behind a wall of glass. It is like spying on your in-laws. Each
specimen has a biographical card explaining the creature’s habitat and
how quick its poison will kill you. One snake can bring down an elephant
with a single drop of venom. Another can kill at a hundred yards with a
hard stare. I stand back from this one, but encourage the screaming
children to gather round and take a look.
The card is misleading; the children break the glass, chew the snake up
and charge off in search of fresh meat. No beast is safe with two or
more untrained children. This is why man is the true king of the beasts;
his children can destroy anything in their path. Lions, black mambas,
elephants all run in terror from a tribe of six-year-old children on a sugar
high.
No luck at the gator pit: All the children make it across the bridge safely.
There is one moment of hope when a mother picked up her youngest
child and flung him over the railing. He caught the top rail though, and
none of us was quick enough to dislodge him before he scampered back
to safety. He soon begins begging for another ten-dollar single-dip ice-
cream cone. The mother doesn’t have the strength to throw him over
again, and because he’s is not my child, I don’t offer to give it a go.
Finally, we make it to the exit. I glance over at the unfortunates just
starting their journey. I don’t try to warn them away. I can tell by their
downcast stares they know what’s in store. Oh well, there’s always hope
at the gator pit.