The Fable of Bing

by Tim Sandlin

“You know what will happen if I catch you with her again.”

  Bing knows enough not to go there. This is the time to change the subject. “I just want to wear what I want to wear.”

  “You’ll wear whatever is on sale. And white.”

  He plumps his lower lip. “You’re not my mother.”

  Dr. Lori stalks to the tub and hovers too close to Bing. “I am better than your mother. I am your owner. You’re mother is a bonobo. When she goes to Costco, she can pick out whatever color you want.”

  The owner crack causes something deep in Bing to break. The unthinkable decision is suddenly thinkable. “I do not want to be around you.”

  “You’re stuck, Bing. Get used to it.”

  “I am not stuck.”

  Dr. Lori says, “You will never be able to live without me.” What she means, of course, is, I’ll never be able to live without you.

  20

  Night. Bing the boy crouches on his haunches in the far back corner of the enclosure. His arms wrap around his legs. His butt almost but not quite brushes the packed dirt. His nose quivers slightly, smelling the hot wind blowing off the desert side of the mountains, northeast to southwest, opposite the way the wind generally blows. It brings a hint of smoke from fires in the canyons above Escondido.

  Bing’s lower lip protrudes. A soft hum emanates from his chest and the lower end of his throat. A deer fly lands on his cheek and walks across his face. Bing doesn’t notice. He is in a trance of waiting. His brain has been put on hold until the event he is waiting for comes to pass.

  We hear a soft murmur and Betty crosses over from the sleeping nests to sit in front of her ward. The two don’t stare directly at each other. They both look a bit to the right, slightly off center. A distant security light casts a glow to the yard, little more than you would get under a full moon.

  Betty’s hands waggle back and forth, patting air. Bing emerges from his trance, although you’d have to have spent most of his life with him to tell his awareness has moved from inside to out. His eyes are the same, as are his shoulders. He touches Betty on the ankle. She ruffles his hair.

  Her other hand moves to his chest. The fingers are spread, the index finger providing a slight pressure to Bing’s sternum. He blinks, gradually, more like a closing of the eyes and then a reopening. He places his palm on her face.

  A door slams and Dr. Lori enters the compound, come to say goodnight. She is carrying a bucket of water and a sponge. She plans to clean the feeding station where Ubu vomited earlier in the afternoon.

  “Look at you two droopy mouths,” Dr. Lori says. “Why are you still awake?”

  Betty ignores Dr. Lori, but Bing turns to the voice. “The night is too pleasant to sleep.”

  Dr. Lori sniffs the air. It’s hot and dry, no more pleasant than any other night.

  “Phooey with that. Go to bed now. Both of you.”

  Bing shuffles over to his nest, leaving Betty facing the empty corner of the fence line.

  21

  Rosemary Faith buys a hat. A floppy straw affair suitable for gardening by the aged who are melanoma paranoid. More awning than head cover. She buys the hat from Jambo Outfitters, surrounded by the sort of jungle attire you see in a Bob Hope/Bing Crosby Road to Zanzibar type movie. Rosemary doesn’t make the connection between the movie and Bing the boy. She’s too caught up in her problems to be on the alert for irony.

  After paying with a debit card, Rosemary pushes through the throng of folks who go to a wildlife park for the shopping to the tinted glass doors and on outside where she finds Bing, on his knees, peering into the workings of the Penny Smasher. A pair of exchange students from Bahrain have fed fifty-one cents into the machine. They don’t seem aware of Bing, who is enthralled by the belts and great gears flattening the penny into a two-dimensional lozenge with the imprint of a cheetah stamped on the head’s side.

  One of the exchange students says, “What a waste of spare change.”

  The other says, “We can collect all four designs for two dollars.”

  “I’d rather get a henna.” And they take their flat penny away.

  Rosemary raises one foot to the toe and puts her palm on the back of her head in a vamp pose. “What do you think? Is it me?”

  Bing says, “Is what you?”

  “The hat.”

  “You are not a hat.”

  “Do you think it’s my style?”

  Bing studies Rosemary’s hat, as if he’s never seen a hat before. Or he’s seen hats but they don’t register. Hats, other than his own, are not items Bing feels strongly about.

  He says, “I am prepared.”

  “Prepared for what?”

  “To go away. With you.”

  Rosemary forgets the hat. Her short-term goal is in sight. “You want to leave the park?’

  “Today, please.”

  “What made you decide?”

  “I want to reach my potential.”

  “Wow.”

  Bing sniffs his armpit to see if he smells. He bathed in the creek this morning, but he doesn’t want to go out into the world smelling like an animal. He is choosing people now, over bonobos.

  “I don’t know what potential is, but if it comes with a phone I will reach for it today.”

  Rosemary glances at the passing crowd, wondering if they are noticed. She has a creepy feeling that Bing doesn’t show up on security cameras and anyone watching her will think she’s talking to herself. She saw a movie once about a mathematician who talked to people no one else could see and it turned out those people weren’t real. The mathematician was psychotic.

  She grasps Bing’s arm, as if touch can’t be hallucinated but vision can. “Where is your stuff?”

  “I have no stuff.”

  “Everyone has stuff. Clothes. Toiletries.”

  “Toilets do not grow on trees. I haven’t been around humans much, but I’m not stupid.”

  Rosemary laughs and Bing looks offended. She says, “Photographs? Birthday cards? Sentimental mementos of youth. Objects you think matter.”

  “Objects do not matter.”

  Rosemary nods, as if Bing is spouting wisdom. “Sister Starshine says that all the time, but Turk says she’s pretentious. I can tell you are not pretentious.”

  Bing has no clue on pretentious so he drops back to the original subject. “I have no stuff. I am prepared to go outside as I am.”

  Rosemary looks Bing up and down. He’s wearing a faded blue sweatshirt with no writing on the front. Bermuda shorts. The engineer’s cap. Still no shoes.

  “We’ll have to buy you shoes before we take you anywhere.”

  “I tried shoes once. They inflict pain.”

  “You can’t go in restaurants without shoes and you can’t live in normal society without going in restaurants.”

  Bing juts his jaw. Somewhat impressive piece of body language. “I won’t go into normal society if I must wear shoes. I’ll move into my cave and not talk to you or Dr. Lori. I’ll stay alone.”

  Rosemary wishes she had a lit cigarette in her hand. This would be easier with a cigarette. She could think quicker. “How about I buy you jellies. Jellies never hurt anyone.”

  Bing pulls his lower lip with his index finger and thumb — his thinking mode. After a bit, he releases his mouth hold and says, “Jelly comes in little boxes on the condiment bar. The boxes are too small to wear on my feet.”

  Not for the first time, Rosemary wonders about Bing’s education. He doesn’t know potential, but he does know condiment? Dr. Lori has misplaced priorities.

  “Jellies are squishy shoes. They make your feet feel like you’re walking in mud. You like mud, don’t you?”

  “I enjoy mud.”

  “They feel just like mud, only they’re sparkly and you can go into places that don’t allow barefoot boys.”

  “What kind of world doesn’t allow a barefoot boy?”

  Rosemary chooses her words carefully. Bing is delicately poised on a balance beam and he could fall off
either way. “Do you know the difference between indoors and outdoors?”

  “Indoors has a ceiling.”

  “Well, out there in Greater San Diego, when you go indoors you need some sort of shoes or they’ll make you leave, and jellies are as close to no shoes as you can get and still pass. So we’ll buy you jellies.”

  Bing stares at families coming into the front gate. Not many going out this early in the day. Every last one of them is wearing shoes, even the toddlers in strollers. Their other clothes vary considerably based on age, gender, nationality, and proclivity, but footwear is consistent. It’s not as if he’ll have to wear them always. How much time can people spend indoors?

  He says, “I can do those.”

  Rosemary releases her death grip on Bing’s arm. She hadn’t realized she was holding so tightly.

  “Let’s head out, then.” She starts walking toward the gate, moving upstream against the crowd. Bing doesn’t follow.

  Rosemary stops. She turns back. “Bing?”

  Bing’s forehead has taken on a perspiration shine. His eyes dance, like ponies in a burning barn. “You think I should tell Dr. Lori? She might worry if she can’t find me.”

  “You want to end up back in decontamination?”

  “That is not what I desire.”

  Rosemary says, “In your wildest dreams, can you see Dr. Lori letting you leave here, if she knows you are going?”

  Bing pictures Dr. Lori in his mind. Her eyebrows. Her glasses on the chain. The way she crosses her arms over her chest when she is vexed.

  “No.”

  Rosemary eases Bing toward her. Her breath puffs against his eyelids. “It’s time for us to go.”

  22

  Imagine a mother leading her child into his first day at pre-school. Each atremble — anticipation, dread, terror. That is Rosemary leading Bing through the throng to the front gate. Sweat rivulets run on Bing’s face. His hand in hers feels like saturated shammy.

  “You okay?” she asks.

  Bing nods.

  They stop before the turnstile. Bing looks back at the only home he’s ever known. More than home, the only place he’s known. He sees a formless mass of tourists doing what tourists do. A zoo worker in a gray shirt is cleaning the water fountain in front of Adventure Photo. The only animals in sight are the flamingos. From Bing’s point of view, each member of the flock has twisted on the single leg to stare directly at him. They don’t bob. No flopping wings. Nothing but the stare of accusation.

  “What’s this now?” “He can’t leave.” “This is wrong.”

  Bing considers Dr. Lori. A lemur rejected her baby a few days ago and Dr. Lori has been on it, day and night. Bing can picture her bent over the tiny body, helping it suck milk off the tips of her fingers. How long before she realizes he’s gone?

  Rosemary says, “Breathe.”

  Bing breathes.

  Rosemary says, “Let’s see what happens next.” She pushes through the turnstile, then steps to one side, waiting, watching Bing.

  His eyes are on her — the throat, the hair, the eyes. The pull of Rosemary is stronger than the pull of Dr. Lori.

  He takes one last, longing look at the flamingos, nods, then turns and follows Rosemary into the outside.

  23

  Bing walks upright, carefully and with purpose, as if crossing a high place on a log. Of course, inside the park he could have crossed a log as casually as a man walks down a hallway on his way to the bathroom in the middle of the night, but, outside, Bing concentrates on breath and balance. He holds his hands away from his body. His head is rigid, eyes focused on a spot in the air, about eight feet to the front. Imagine a man on a tightrope who expects to be struck by lightning. Annihilation as probability.

  Rosemary says, “What do you think? You’re not dead yet.”

  Bing doesn’t speak. He’s concentrating on not falling off the edge of the world, which, in this case, means the outer plaza of the wildlife park. Ticket booths. The information pagoda. Huge signs announcing upcoming events for members only. Parents slapping sunscreen on children who can’t stand still.

  Rosemary asks, “Is this what you expected?”

  Bing raises his right arm up to his line of vision. He cannot lower his line of vision to his arm. Looking down would court disaster.

  “I have no boils. No pox.”

  “You expected to walk through the gate and instantly catch chicken pox?”

  Bing stares straight ahead at a bus disgorging Pakistanis bearing cameras and umbrellas. “Dr. Lori said I would suffer from boils and pox.”

  Rosemary steps off the curb into valet parking. “Face the truth, Bing. Dr. Lori lied.”

  24

  As they cross the street, moving toward the acres of parking, Bing drops to a knuckle-walk. It’s easier for the long run. Makes him feel grounded. This being Southern California, people watch Bing without appearing to watch — you don’t want to draw the crazies’ attention — but some kids skateboarding the lots stop to stare.

  Rosemary says, “Must you walk like that?”

  “Like what?”

  “Like a chimpanzee.”

  Bing takes offense and, considering how frightened he is, this is no doubt a good thing. “I am a bonobo. Never call a bonobo a chimpanzee. Chimps are vicious and cruel.”

  “You are human. Say it.”

  “I am human.”

  “I know you can walk like a human. I’ve seen you.”

  Slowly, Bing straightens up. He is erect. “Is this what is expected?”

  “When you are with your bonobo buddies, you can act like a bonobo. In the human world, you should try and act like a person.”

  “I can do that.”

  He walks on both feet — no hands — down the long hill to Lot G. Bing has seen cars before, but never more than two or three together. He now faces an immense field of cars, trucks, buses, stretching to the distant horizon, which is another thing Bing hasn’t seen before. His views have been short — mostly ending in walls except up by the condors where he is up against a steep hill. He has no concept of distance.

  “Do all these come with people?”

  “The cars?”

  Bing doesn’t answer. What else could these mean?

  “People drive them here from their homes. They usually bring families.

  “My family would not enjoy being on the inside of a machine.”

  Rosemary stops next to her ten-year-old Jetta. Bing isn’t expecting a sudden stop, so he bumps her, bounces back, and sits on his haunches.

  “That’s another thing humans rarely do,” Rosemary says. “Sit like that.”

  “How do humans sit when there is no bench?”

  “They don’t, as a rule. It’s okay to sit on grass, sometimes, on a nice day, but not pavement.”

  Rosemary pulls her keys from her purse and pushes a button. The car BEEPS. Bing flings himself to the asphalt. He goes fetal.

  Rosemary says, “Get up, Bing. It won’t hurt you.”

  “The car spoke.”

  “I unlocked the door. It beeps when I push this button.” She pushes the button again, causing another BEEP when the doors lock.

  Bing cowers.

  “It’s okay. Here, you do it.” She holds the keys toward him.

  “No.”

  “Have it your way.” She makes another BEEP and unlocks the doors again. “Get up, Bing. People are watching. You’re not invisible.”

  What Rosemary said takes a moment to sink in. She looks around the parking lots. A security guard is watching, no doubt, considering stepping into the situation. A family of blond parents and blond children, all so healthy they could be on a Scandinavian poster are staring. The youngest blond child points at Bing and says something foreign.

  Rosemary repeats herself. “You’re not invisible.”

  Bing uncoils his arms from around his head and sits up. Rosemary says, “Why aren’t you invisible?”

  “I never am.”

  “You were in t
here.” She motions back at the park. “I could see you but no one ever noticed when you did weird stuff like crawling in the dirt or eating bugs.”

  Bing makes it back to his feet. “Dr. Lori says I have no aura. People don’t notice people with no aura.”

  “Oh.”

  “First, she says she doesn’t believe that auras exist. They are made up, and then she says I don’t have whatever it is people see when they see each other, so she calls it an aura even if that’s not what it is.” He scratches himself, over the liver area. Then he closes one eye and looks at Rosemary. “Do you know what an aura is?”

  “Mine is purple.”

  He looks at her closely. He doesn’t see anything purple. Her skin is pink. Her hair is orange-brown. “Do I have one now, that I’m outside?”

  Rosemary stares at Bing who is staring at her. He looks the same to her as he did before. A child in a grown-up body with ape-like posture. “I’m not good at auras. That’s Persephone’s line. I’ll have her meet us for lunch and she can make a study.”

  Rosemary goes around the Jetta to open the car door for Bing. Bing doesn’t move. She says, “I don’t see how you could be invisible — hard to notice — in there but not here.”

  Bing shrugs. “I could always see me.”

  She motions for him to get in. “Have you ever ridden in a car?”

  Bing is haughty. “Of course. All the time.”

  Rosemary stares at him.

  Bing says, “No.” He touches the Jetta roof, flinching at the heat. “I’ve seen people in cars. It appears that the car eats them.”

  “Watch me.” She crosses back over to the driver’s side, opens the door, and gets in. She shuts the door behind her and leans over to speak to Bing through the open passenger side door.

  “Any questions?”

  Bing gets in but he doesn’t close his door. He turns to her and asks, “Is this the part where we copulate?”

  25

  “Why for God’s sake did you expect to copulate the moment we left the park?”

  “What sake is that?”

  “God’s sake.”

  “Is he bonobo or human?”