He passed a row of wastebaskets and looked at the empty Crackerjack boxes as though they were hollow souls.
He stopped in front of the seal pool. His glance touched the sign. With my salary, I should feed them, he thought. And as for annoying them, I have better things to do.
The sun was ingot bright. Mr. Jones stared dully at the cool green water. He thought there were worse things than being a seal.
Suddenly a black whiskery monster poked its head out of the water and honked its horn at Mr. Jones.
Aaah, shut up, thought Mr. Jones. Stop shoving. Everyday it’s the same. Shove. Shove. I bet you love it you bum. Watch the doors! You and your goddam watch the doors!
Then Mr. Jones smiled benignly at the seal.
Won’t perform unless there are more people will you? You performer you. A black zoo fly sat down to rest on his elbow. He brushed it away impatiently and walked directly to the pheasant cage.
There were little boys looking at the birds. A poppa was feeding the birds. The sign said, do not feed. Mr. Jones sighed. Watch ‘em gobble gobble, said the poppa to his blonde-haired angel child nodding mutely.
The pheasants looked around in bobhead curiosity.
Your pigeon cousins walk in freedom. You sit in the cage in glorious Technicolor. Walk on wet concrete. Nibble at popular peanuts. Watch the beady eyes and strut.
Yeah! Strut you little minx. I know you. Can’t take a joke. Always, “Oh Behave Yourself Jonesy” or “What Would Your Wife Say If I Told Her?” or “I’ll Tell The Boss On You.” Well, the hell with you, you little minx, I know you.
Mr. Jones walked to the fox cage. He looked at the scrawny red excuse for the sign.
Well, they sure beat you. No more chases. No more holes to run in. Slide along the earth into the cool belly of the mountain, panting and sparkle-eyed; happy.
Mr. Jones pouted as he walked away from the red fox. The trees are green. I can see them through the bars.
He passed a truck of green acrid-in-the-nose hay. Why can’t we eat hay? Relative anyway. A filled gap is a filled gap.
Two pigeons scurried out from under his feet and continued their walk with gentle histrionics.
“Come on, come on,” said Mr. Jones under his breath, snap it up. Watch the doors.
He stopped and looked between the thick bars at two great moldy buffalo. He saw two baby buffalo standing behind their parents. Born in a public park. Sign of the times.
“Buffalos!” came a little girl shriek.
Mr. Jones turned away in distaste. My daughter does not open her mouth like that when she is looking at something.
Mr. Jones said to himself: I wonder if animals talk. People say no but how do they know? He shrugged his shoulders and looked down at the dead stagnant water where the black bear was drinking.
You old bear. Really lap it up, don’t you? You’re quite a businessman, Mr. Gibbons. Oh, you love that don’t you, you oily old bear. Then you get mad because someone disagrees. Just because I like to empty the wastebasket at noon and you like to do it at five. Don’t know your business Jones! Don’t know your business. Just because I like to empty the wastebasket at noon.
Old bear. I ought to quit. I ought to poke you one in those bloodshot eyes and say, So I don’t know my business haah! Well let me tell you one thing. I know more about my business than you know about yours! And don’t forget it. Huh!
Mr. Jones stamped his foot and almost waved a stern finger at the bear.
A mothervoice whined behind him:
“Alvah, have you urinated?”
Mr. Jones whirled with blazing eyes.
“Good god madam,” he said acidly. “Have you no sense of proportion!”
Then, without an answer, he turned away and stalked off.
Mr. Jones, bent over a concrete fountain, sent a burst of brackish water into his throat. A little boy standing at an adjoining fountain was putting his finger over one of the holes and squirting a stream of water in the air. A mother yelled. Mr. Jones passed on, superior.
He hardly looked at the straggly reindeer carrying bent clothes trees on their skulls. Barely noticed the floppy kangaroos twitching with fat zoo flies. He left the sunlight and went into the dark stale animal house. Voices sounded hollow.
He passed a raccoon who stared at him from blackrimmed eyes and then padded out onto its sun porch.
He stopped and looked at the big tan wolf pacing restlessly. They exchanged kind glances.
I know what you’re thinking. The people stand here and look at you. They think of Russia and Greta Garbo in a sleigh and you chasing it.
Well, someday they’ll put hairy coats on men again and put them in cages. And you can stand outside.
And laugh with your eyes.
Feeling particularly compassionate, Mr. Jones idled over to the lion’s cage. There was a righteous, eternal print on his features.
He gritted his teeth and winced as strident boy voices rang in the silence and they surrounded him like a relentless army of red ants. He looked down at their wild hair with distaste.
“Hey Mr. Lion what are you doing?”
For Chrissake little man. Can’t the king of beasts even take a leak in private? King of beasts. On exhibition for jokers.
“Look at his ears!”
Yours ears, you little bastard, are not so hot either. Mr. Jones could not contain himself. He uttered a long shuddering, “Shhhhhhhh” and walked on, barely noticing the slopebacked puma stalking drunkenly around its cage.
As he stepped into the sunlight, he heard the seals barking loudly. They must have an audience. Slick glory seekers. Whiskered prima donnas. Watch the doors.
He walked to a rail and looked over.
The silent ones. The great black ones. Silent laughing mouths. Leather pendulum of a tail. Garden hose trunk. Floppy cabbage-leaf ears.
He looked at the huge beasts swaying as they chewed chomp chomp on the hay. I wish she’d get a corset.
You look like hell darling. I’m sorry if it hurts your feelings. But what do you expect the way you eat? You’re getting as big as an elephant.
Mr. Jones focused his eyes. He smiled.
“My god you are an elephant.”
“Whud you say mistuh?” asked a little boy.
“What’s it to you?” said Mr. Jones.
He left without an answer. He felt superbly witty. He stopped and waved by two pigeons. He passed two little boys with packs fastened to their shoulders.
The great outdoors haah fellas? Watch the cars. Don’t step on anyone. Forest primeval.
Don’t trip on beer bottles.
Mr. Jones breathed in the smell of warm leaves and found it not half bad. He conjectured briefly on whether sparrows have adams apples. He shrugged, felt very silly.
He stopped in front of a birdcage. He looked in.
His smile had no humor.
Tidy practical vultures. Nature’s morticians. Doesn’t cost a nickel for a dignified vulture funeral. No shrouds, sobbed eulogies, thick rugs, white faces, tuxedos or tears. No corteges of coffins. No nothing.
Mr. Jones stared at the ugly red head. He watched it rip the greenish guts from a fish.
Who put you here? he thought. Who said, I think people will get a bang out of watching a vulture rip dead flesh with his curved and bloody beak?
Oh, don’t turn away dear bird. Have I offended? You can’t help it. If you were put on earth to tidy up the dead, then who can shudder at your baneful carrion stare?
Hurry back to your fish. The zoo flies are making a black crawling pattern on the rotten death of it. Suck a lively beak. Go back you tired old redheaded hunchbacked and blackfeathered monster. Eat your dead fish. Have no shame.
Have we?
Something burned in Mr. Jones’ stomach. An anger that would not be revealed. An uncontrollable yearning to shout out meaningful words and tell everything.
But his mind would not shape the shapeless thoughts.
He walked thoughtfully into the monkey hou
se and out again, hardly glancing at the mass orgies. He felt close to something very fine and he could not stop to look at the red behinds of hairy monkeys.
Mr. Jones stopped in front of a cage and looked in.
You look like a hyena, Crocuta Crocuta. I have several names like things in your world. You don’t really laugh do you? Not here, there’s nothing to laugh at. Sometimes I feel like crying.
Mr. Jones stopped momentarily to look at the skunk. He sniffed hard but smelled only warm leaves.
He smiled tenderly.
He walked over to the seal pool. There were many people staring down and laughing at the black mischief.
Mr. Jones watched a while dispassionately. Then a particular dive caught his fancy and he smiled against his will.
A chuckle followed, bubbling through his lips and then his laughter was lost in the roar.
Man and beast, he thought, with sudden delightful clarity. The ever-turning diamond. The flash of facets. Light.
Then dark again.
The Prisoner
When he woke up he was lying on his right side. He felt a prickly wool blanket against his cheek. He saw a steel wall in front of his eyes.
He listened. Dead silence. His ears strained for a sound. There was nothing.
He became frightened. Lines sprang into his forehead.
He pushed up on one elbow and looked over his shoulder. The skin grew taut and pale on his lean face. He twisted around and dropped his legs heavily over the side of the bunk.
There was a stool with a tray on it; a tray of half-eaten food. He saw untouched roast chicken, fork scrapes in a mound of cold mashed potatoes, biscuit scraps in a puddle of greasy butter, an empty cup. The smell of cold food filled his nostrils.
His head snapped around. He gaped at the barred window, at the thick-barred door. He made frightened noises in his throat.
His shoes scraped on the hard floor. He was up, staggering. He fell against the wall and grabbed at the window bars above him. He couldn’t see out of the window.
His body shook as he stumbled back and slid the tray of food onto the bunk. He dragged the stool to the wall. He clambered up on it awkwardly.
He looked out.
Gray skies, walls, barred windows, lumpy black spotlights, a courtyard far below. Drizzle hung like a shifting veil in the air.
His tongue moved. His eyes were round with shock.
“Uh?” he muttered thinly.
He slipped off the edge of the stool as it toppled over. His right knee crashed against the floor, his cheek scraped against the cold metal wall. He cried out in fear and pain.
He struggled up and fell against the bunk. He heard footsteps. He heard someone shout.
“Shut up!”
A fat man came up to the door. He was wearing a blue uniform. He had an angry look on his face. He looked through the bars at the prisoner.
“What’s the matter with you?” he snarled.
The prisoner stared back. His mouth fell open. Saliva ran across his chin and dripped onto the floor.
“Well, well, well,” said the man, with an ugly smile. “So it got to you at last, haah?”
He threw back his thick head and laughed. He laughed at the prisoner.
“Hey, Mac,” he called. “Come ‘ere. This you gotta see.”
More footsteps. The prisoner pushed up. He ran to the door.
“What am I doing here?” he asked. “Why am I here?”
The man laughed louder.
“Ha!” he cried. “Boy, did you crack.”
“Shut up, will ya?” growled a voice down the corridor.
“Knock it off!” the guard yelled back.
Mac came up to the cell. He was an older man with graying hair. He looked in curiously. He saw the white-faced prisoner clutching the bars and staring out. He saw how white the prisoner’s knuckles were.
“What is it?” he asked.
“Big boy has cracked,” said Charlie. “Big boy has cracked wide open.”
“What are you talking about?” asked the prisoner, his eyes flitting from one guard’s face to the other. “Where am I? For God’s sake, where am I?”
Charlie roared with laughter. Mac didn’t laugh. He looked closely at the prisoner. His eyes narrowed.
“You know where you are, son,” he said quietly. “Stop laughing, Charlie.”
Charlie sputtered down.
“Man I can’t help it. This bastard was so sure he wouldn’t crack. Not me boy,” he mimicked. “I’ll sit in that goddamn chair with a smile on my face.”
The prisoner’s grayish lips parted.
“What?” he muttered. “What did you say?”
Charlie turned away. He stretched and grimaced, pushed a hand into his paunch.
“Woke me up,” he said.
“What chair?” cried the prisoner. “What are you talking about?”
Charlie’s stomach shook with laughter again.
“Oh, Christ, this is rich,” he chuckled. “Richer than a Christmas cake.”
Mac went up to the bars. He looked into the prisoner’s face. He said, “Don’t try to fool us, John Riley.”
“Fool you?”
The prisoner’s voice was incredulous. “What are you talking about? My name isn’t John Riley.”
The two men looked at each other. They heard Charlie plodding down the corridor talking to himself in amusement.
Mac turned aside.
“No,” said the prisoner. “Don’t go away.”
Mac turned back.
“What are you trying to pull?” he asked, “You don’t think you’ll fool us, do you?”
The prisoner stared.
“Will you tell me where I am?” he asked. “For God’s sake, tell me.”
“You know where you are.”
“I tell you…”
“Cut it, Riley!” commanded Mac. “You’re wasting your time.”
“I’m not Riley!” cried the prisoner. “For God’s sake, I’m not Riley. My name is Phillip Johnson.”
Mac shook his head slowly.
“And you was going to be so brave,” he said.
The prisoner choked up. He looked as though he had a hundred things to say and they were all jumbled together in his throat.
“You want to see the priest again?” asked Mac.
“Again?” asked the prisoner.
Mac stepped closer and looked into the cell.
“Are you sick?” he asked.
The prisoner didn’t answer. Mac looked at the tray.
“You didn’t eat the food we brought,” he said. “You asked for it and we went to all that trouble and you didn’t eat it. Why not?”
The prisoner looked at the tray, at Mac, then at the tray again. A sob broke in his chest.
“What am I doing here?” he begged. “I’m not a criminal, I’m…”
“Shut up for chrissake!” roared another prisoner.
“All right, all right, pipe down,” Mac called down the corridor.
“Whassa matter?” someone sneered. “Did big boy wet his pants?” Laughter. The prisoner looked at Mac.
“Look, will you listen?” he said, the words trembling in his throat.
Mac looked at him and shook his head slowly.
“Never figured on this did you, Riley?” he said.
“I’m not Riley!” cried the man. “My name is Johnson.”
He pressed against the door, painful eagerness on his features. He licked his dry lips.
“Listen,” he said, “I’m a scientist.”
Mac smiled bitterly and shook his head again.
“Can’t take it like a man, can you?” he said. “You’re like all the rest for all your braggin’ and struttin’.”
The prisoner looked helpless.
“Listen,” he muttered hoarsely.
“You listen to me,” said Mac. “You have two hours, Riley.”
“I told you I’m not…”
“Cut it! You have two hours. See if you can be a man in those t
wo hours instead of a whining dog.”
The prisoner’s face was blank.
“You want to see the priest again?” Mac asked.
“No, I…” started the prisoner. He stopped. His throat tightened.
“Yes,” he said, “I want to see the priest. Call him, will you?”
Mac nodded.
“I’ll call him,” he said, “In the meantime, keep your mouth shut.”
The prisoner turned and shuffled back to the bunk. He sank down on it and stared at the floor.
Mac looked at him for a moment and then started down the hall.
“Whassa matter?” called one of the prisoners mockingly. “Did big boy wet his pants?”
The other prisoners laughed. Their laughter broke in waves over the slumped prisoner.
He got up and started to pace. He looked at the sky through the window. He stepped up to the cell door and looked up and down the hall.
Suddenly he smiled nervously.
“All right,” he called out. “All right. It’s very funny. I appreciate it. Now let me out of this rat trap.”
Someone groaned. “Shut up, Riley!” someone else yelled.
His brow contracted.
“A joke’s a joke,” he said loudly. “But now I have to…”
He stopped, hearing fast footsteps on the corridor floor. Charlie’s ungainly body hurried up and stopped before the cell.
“Are you gonna shut up?” he threatened, his pudgy lips outthrust. “Or do we give you a shot?”
The prisoner tried to smile.
“All right,” he said. “All right, I’m properly subdued. Now come on,” his voice rose. “Let me out.”
“Any more crap outta you and it’s the hypo,” Charlie warned. He turned away.
“Always knew you was yellow,” he said.
“Listen to me, will you?” said the prisoner. “I’m Phillip Johnson. I’m a nuclear physicist.”
Charlie’s head snapped back and a wild laugh tore through his thick lips. His body shook.
“A nu-nucleeeee…” His voice died away in wheezing laughter.
“I tell you it’s true,” the prisoner shouted after him.
A mock groan rumbled in Charlie’s throat. He hit himself on the forehead with his fleshy palm.
“What won’t they think of next?” he said. His voice rang out down the corridor.
Backteria and Other Improbable Tales Page 5
