The Fable of Bing

by Tim Sandlin

  This is a technique Turk taught her. Its purpose is to empty her mind, and, that day, Rosemary dreams of an empty mind. The search isn’t going anywhere. She is out of ideas.

  “Do you have an iPhone?”

  Rosemary opens her eyes and there he stands — the object of her search. His hair drips under the engineer’s cap, as if he just stepped out of a shower. He is wearing cargo pants instead of shorts.

  “Do you have an iPhone?”

  Rosemary’s hand moves to her bag. She’d recently taken to carrying her phone in a drawstring pouch because Sister Starshine says a cell phone in your pocket causes cancer.

  “It’s a Droid.”

  “Is that the same?”

  “More or less.”

  Bing says, “Give it to me.”

  Like almost everyone will when given a direct order, Rosemary obeys. She hands her phone to Bing. Their fingers do not touch.

  He glances at the phone, then sticks it into the back right pocket of his pants.

  Rosemary says, “What are you doing?”

  Bing tries to think of an answer. It seems obvious what he is doing. He is standing next to a girl, speaking with her, and even though it is something he’s never done before, anyone can see that’s what it is.

  “Thank you for the possession.”

  “Give back my phone.”

  Bing’s eyebrows draw up in a muscle flex. “You gifted it to me.”

  “Not to keep. I thought you wanted to borrow it.”

  “Borrow?”

  “To telephone someone.”

  Bang pulls the phone from his pocket. He looks at it with a combination of desire and envy. “Who would I telephone?”

  Rosemary takes the phone back. Once more, their fingers do not touch. “How should I know who you would call? Who do you usually call on the phone?”

  “Dr. Lori is the person I know with a phone of her own. She won’t allow me playing on it. And I couldn’t borrow her phone and call her at the same moment. They don’t operate like that.” He enjoys the way borrow comes out of his mouth, as if it is a word he’s known for always. Bing likes new words. He’s learned all the words Dr. Lori is liable to say.

  “I know two persons with phones now.”

  “Counting me?” Rosemary says.

  Bing nods.

  “How many people do you know in the world, all put together?”

  Bing thinks. “Human people?”

  “That’s correct. How many human people do you know?”

  Bing counts on his fingers. “Two. First there was Dr. Lori and now you.”

  12

  Two young people — him, twenty, her, a few years older — study one another, as if in a zoo, looking into cages, or more like watching television unaware that the object of scrutiny is scrutinizing back. Bing admires a soft vein pulse against Rosemary’s throat. It is a fine throat, strong and evenly planed. A throat to be proud of. He would like to place his ear over that vein, to listen.

  She watches his eyes, searching for mystery.

  Bing says, “You have been looking for me.”

  Rosemary says, “Yes.”

  Bing scratches his bottom. Not a subtle, nuanced scratch to relieve a tickle. Bing digs deep, he tears at his anus with all his attention.

  For Rosemary, it is spellbinding. “When did you figure it out?”

  Bing twists to look back at his rear end. His hole itches like he has ants. “I can’t keep in mind how time passes,” he says. “You come and go and you look.”

  He suddenly leaps onto the back of Rosemary’s bench. The seat is concrete, but the backrest is made of green wrought iron in a scroll pattern. As Bing jumps, Rosemary stands and turns. She watches him walk barefoot three steps along the back edge of the bench before he turns in a semi-circle and comes toward her.

  “I need to know how you made the groundskeeper start breathing,” Rosemary says. “After he was gone.”

  Big spins back the other way. He speaks without looking at her. “The man wasn’t gone anywhere.”

  “He was dead. Or close to dead. You healed him by that – ” She holds her hands out flat, the way Bing had held his over the groundskeeper. “Gobbledygook.”

  Bing stops. He looks down at Rosemary. “I do not fathom gobbledygook.”

  “The chant. It wasn’t works, more like magic sounds. Could you do it again? Make a person well when they are sick?”

  Bing hops up and comes down at Rosemary’s level, directly facing her. His eyes are sly. “Maybe. For an iPhone.”

  They both drop back into stare mode. Rosemary is good at the unblinking eye challenge that comes with sexual politics. The dare. The question. The submission.

  Bing is lost.

  Rosemary says, “The groundskeeper guy told me you live in the Wildlife Park. You don’t go outside the gates.”

  It isn’t a question, so Bing doesn’t answer. He is basking in the flavor of Rosemary’s breath. He’s never inhaled an air similar before. It smells like sweet life mixed with timothy hay.

  “How long have you lived here?” Rosemary asks.

  Bing can no longer stand the pressure. Again, he leaps onto the bench back, only now he walks on his hands. His face swivels to keep an eye on Rosemary.

  “Since Dr. Lori saved me.”

  “What did Dr. Lori save you from?”

  Bing hand walks to the end of the bench. He performs a move dancers call spotting, where he looks at Rosemary, then spins his head lightning fast as he turns to look at her again. It’s hard to pull off, upside down.

  “Outies. They would have touched me and given me diarrhea and I would have died in misery. She protects me from those outside. People like you.”

  “You need no protection from me.”

  Bing’s look is dubious.

  “I touched you the day you healed the man and you didn’t die. You didn’t even get diarrhea, did you?”

  Bing lowers his head until it aligns on the iron bench back. “That is true.”

  “This Dr. Lori has been feeding you horse manure.”

  Bing loses his purchase and falls. He bounces off the bench seat and lands in a pile of elbows, knees, and wounded dignity. He jumps to his feet. “I did that on purpose.”

  Rosemary takes no note of the fall. She is on a mission. “So you’ve never been outside the park?”

  From the top of Elephant Lookout, Bing catches a flash of light. He tilts his head sharply right and the light goes out. He brings his head back straight and the light glints again. Sunlight on glass. A tourist must have propped a pop bottle on the rail.

  “Do you ever go out there?” Rosemary gestures toward the big world beyond the zoo.

  “I don’t want to catch the plague. People outside are shreds of broken humanity.”

  “Do I look like a shred?”

  What she looks like to Bing is everything Dr. Lori isn’t — youth, beauty, possibility. Sex. She brings a trickle of sweat to his ribcage.

  “Perhaps you are a shred in places I cannot see.”

  Rosemary moves closer, bathing Bing in female scent. She says, “I need you to come with me. Outside.”

  Bing shows fright. “That is not possible.”

  “It is possible.” She glides even closer. He feels cool breath on his eyelids. “What’s your name?”

  “Bing.”

  “I’m Rosemary Faith.” She extends out her hand to shake. Bing looks at Rosemary’s hand. He sees the length of her fingers — longer index than middle — and the gloss on her nails. He has no clue as to what he is supposed to do.

  13

  Two nuns from Waterloo, Iowa, make their slow way up the steps to the Elephant Overlook. They are dressed in nurse shoes and the modern wool habits that make nuns look like Mary Poppins wannabes. The older one who considers herself the ept member of the team has her face turned down toward a guidebook called 1,000 Must Sees in Southern California.

  “What is this place?” she asks.

  The other nun actually
believes in Jesus as opposed the older one who chose her career based on job security. This younger devout nun searches the railing area until she finds a sign.

  “Elephant Overlook.”

  The older nun who doesn’t believe pulls a number 2 pencil from behind her ear where it is held in place by a white cotton scarf and checks a box next to ELEPHANT OVERLOOK in the guidebook.

  “What next?” the younger one says.

  “Lion Camp.”

  Neither of the nuns glances across the rail at the elephants. These are checklist tourists. The attraction is irrelevant.

  As they turn to make their exhausted way back down the board steps, they pass Dr. Lori who isn’t watching elephants either. Dr. Lori has her elbows propped on the viewing rail to stabilize the binoculars through which she is watching Bing and Rosemary. When Rosemary grasps Bing’s wrist and teaches him how to shake hands, Dr. Lori lowers the binoculars and says, “God damn little bastard. I’ll cut off his nuts.”

  The nuns from Waterloo ignore her. They are too tired to take offense.

  14

  Our young man Bing stands, legs spread, on the lip on a tractor tire that hangs horizontally by a three-rope rig from a beam across the top of the bonobo enclosure while Kano stands on the opposite side. Their purpose: to jump up and down until the other brother, on the far side, falls off. The game requires much energy. Doesn’t give Bing time to think about any girl with shiny hair and sage breath. Bouncing, laughing, chirping. Two brothers at play.

  “Bing.” A harsh voice sounds behind him. “Come to me.”

  Bing ignores her. He has Kano off balance and is moving in for the kill, game-wise. Bing goes from jumping to a slide and shake twist motion. Kano’s feet fly off the tire but he hangs onto the rope by one hand.

  “This minute.”

  The threat in her voice pierces Bing’s glee. He thinks uh-oh and stops to look back at Dr. Lori standing in the dark doorway to the support hall. She’s wearing a black turtleneck, black pants, black cloud. Posture of a lion trainer. Bing starts to say, “I didn’t-” just as Kano makes a savage jump that jerks Bing into the apex of the ropes.

  Bing screams. “Aieee!”

  Dr. Lori says, “One.”

  His voice is a slur. “Ah bit mah thung.”

  “Two.”

  Bing drops off the tire. Holding his mouth open in an off-kilter slant fashion, he approaches Dr. Lori. Bing lowers his body, drags his hands along the ground, keeps his eyes downcast — classic submission posture.

  Bing lisps. “Hurts.”

  “You deserve pain.”

  Behind his inferior body language, Bing is hyper-alert. He doesn’t know how Dr. Lori knows about his talk — and touch — with Rosemary Faith, but he has no doubt that she knows. Dr. Lori has convinced Bing that she sees all things at all times. Bing assumes there is an ever-present security camera with Dr. Lori on the monitor.

  Dr. Lori stares down at Bing. “You have had contact with an Outer One.”

  Bing hangs his head. Busted.

  She doesn’t wait for denial. “Bing, you must go directly to the decontamination chamber. I only hope we have caught the infection in time.”

  Bing’s lower lip protrudes much farther than you normally see in even the most recalcitrant of human children. “I don’t feel infected. I feel pleased.”

  She expected tears and begging for forgiveness. She hasn’t planned for a lack of remorse. “Do not contradict me. You will spend today in the chamber. No food. No toys. You may use your time in dwelling on the horror of your actions.”

  Dr. Lori pauses to check the power of her words. Bing stares ahead like a stubborn four year old who thinks he’s being unfairly attacked.

  “You must be made to understand the seriousness of your transgression.”

  Bing sulks. Kano moves to the front of the enclosure. All the bonobos move as far from Dr. Lori as they can get.

  “You do understand the seriousness, don’t you, Bing?”

  Bing is petulant. Not petulant enough to meet Dr. Lori’s glare, but he isn’t going to roll over and accept the punishment this time.

  “She said you are feeding me a line of horse manure.”

  Dr. Lore goes apoplectic, which in this case means her nostrils flare and her hands form fists. An electric current passes up her spine. In the shadow of the late afternoon light she appears as an angry tall predator. A leopard walking upright.

  “You told the female about me?”

  “Just what you said — that touching her would give me diarrhea.” Bing glances up at Dr. Lori, then away to Betty, who is watching nervously. “She touched me and I didn’t get diarrhea.”

  Dr. Lori also glances over at Betty. She wonders if she slaps Bing in the face would Betty charge. The bonobo is properly submissive now, but Dr. Lori has seen the maternal instinct kick in in violent forms in the past. It can be a mess.

  “How long ago did this touch from an Outie take place?”

  Bing shrugs. What does he know about time? “Before.”

  “Before what?”

  “Before now.”

  Dr. Lori crosses her arms over her chest. She leans back on her heels. “I assume you have been meeting this licentious woman on a regular basis.”

  Bing holds up two fingers off to his side, like pointing a direction. “Two. I’ve talked with her two times.”

  “Do not lie to me.”

  Bing’s forehead wrinkles, washboard fashion. He stares hard at the ground. It has never occurred to Bing to lie to Dr. Lori. He thought it impossible. He may omit information if she doesn’t ask, but he’s never thought it possible to lie directly to her. The fact that she thinks he might be telling an untruth but she isn’t certain means she doesn’t know all. He senses a crack in her omnipotence.

  Dr. Lori lifts his chin, forcing his eyes to meet hers. He doesn’t like this. “Bing, you know I am your only link to the world.”

  Bing motions toward the bonobos. “Except for the family.”

  “The only link to the human world. Your real world. Just like the bonobos raised in captivity, you would never be able to survive in the wild.” She skewers him with her eyes. . “Alone. Without me.”

  Bing nods. He’s heard this in the past and he knows it is true. Outside Dr. Lori’s protection, he is lost.

  “You must promise me, Bing. Promise. Never to go out the front gate. Never risk your life in the outside world. If something happened to you it would kill me, and you don’t want to kill me, do you?”

  Bing sulks.

  Dr. Lori tightens her grip on his chin. “You hear me?”

  Bing nods.

  “You hear me.”

  Bing snaps. “I hear you.”

  With her free hand, Dr. Lori grabs the front of Bing’s sweatshirt and yanks him toward her face.

  “Promise me, Bing.”

  “Okay.”

  Promise!”

  “I promise I will never leave the animal park. Not ever.”

  Dr. Lori releases both Bing’s sweatshirt and his chin. She pats her hair at the nape of her neck. Her voice dials way down. She whispers. “Great things are done when Men and Mountains meet. It is not done by jostling in the street.”

  She studies Bing’s face to see if he is properly moved. He nods, as if he knows what she has in mind and he agrees.

  Dr. Lori rests her hand lightly on Bing’s right shoulder. “Now, report to decontamination.”

  15

  Bing squats on an overturned bucket with his knees up at his shoulders. He is crammed between cases of toilet paper, Pine Sol, floor wax, mini-pads, glass cleaner, and three types of mop. When he was younger the decontamination chamber was even more packed by paper towel wheels and refills, but now that the park has gone to paperless drying machines the room isn’t quite so crowded as it used to be.

  The first time Bing was sent to decontamination — for eating a urinal cake back when urinals sported cakes — it had been pitch black and Bing cried. He wouldn’t stop. Dr.
Lori was afraid someone would hear him, so now she allows Bing the use of a six-volt flashlight. A big bugger.

  Bing sets the flashlight upright on the floor with the beam aimed at the ceiling. He crouches over it and creates shadow puppets with his fingers. No one ever showed him how. This is spontaneous art Bing taught himself during the long hours of decontamination. He makes a dik-dik, then a wattled crane. No dogs or kitties for this boy. The cape buffalo is a snap. Giraffes are funny because he sticks his middle finger out to make the neck, but birds are the hardest. Bing has spent hours on the laughing kookaburro. Tonight, he has it. The moment of triumph and no one to share it with.

  As he creates a two-dimensional zoo on the ceiling, he hums a song he learned from riding the Conservation Carousel. It’s a simple organ tune originally meant to convey the light-heartedness of a circus midway. Bing is quite good at imitating the organ. He can imitate almost any sound in the park. He hasn’t had much contact with music in his life — Dr. Lori doesn’t listen to the radio while she works, only tabla.com later in the security of her trailer — and he enjoys it when he can. Music does bubbly things to his insides.

  The truth is this: Decontamination terrifies Bing. He plays games with himself and hums to turn his mind to a blank. Thinking is bad. No matter how much he hums or how many shadow animals he makes, the walls and ceiling, even the floor, press against him. There is not enough air. Bing needs air. Dr. Lori tried to frighten him with spider and rat stories, but spiders and rats don’t frighten Bing. No air frightens Bing. Not being able to move his arms and legs frightens him. Fat toilet paper rolls frighten him. He can’t stand to look at the mop for fear it will jump up and hit him in the face. Decontamination is the nightmare of Bing’s life.

  16

  That night as Bing creates wattled cranes on the ceiling of his chamber, Rosemary Faith cleans her house naked. She vacuums the bathroom, the only room with a carpet. She sweeps the hardwood floors, then wet mops, then waxes. The empties her kitchen cabinets, takes out the natural fiber paper liners, and replaces them. She scrubs the microwave oven plate.