KEVIN STERNE
Wisconsin's American Zoo (WAZOO) Invites You to Pet the Meese
1
TUESDAY I GET A CALL FROM BOSS to come down to his temporary office at my earliest convenience. Which means immediately. Boss’s office is behind Meese Trecks. It’s called this because Boss says the plural of Moose is Meese. So that’s that.
The two Meese are finicky and prone to violence. By finicky I mean they shriek constantly and bull-rush the fences. Ever since they took out a Feeder, we’ve had to feed them on this sort of dragline. I’ve thought about putting muzzles on them but my Liaison in Handlers warned me that muzzled Meese is just the thing that Journalist at the Gazette would get off on. So, the Meese remain finicky and prone to violence.
When I get to Boss’s office Boss tells me to take a seat. He’s wearing an American flag as a cape and waving around a bottle of gin.
“Dark times are upon us Stedman,” he yells over the Meese. This is how he starts most conversations.
He tells me the books look bad. “We’re off by several million.” he says before taking a long pull of the gin. “And that’s not even with that dumbass Handler and dead Joy the Elephant.”
Joy was the star of our longest running attraction Joy to The Elephant that ran every two hours, 6 days per week for 18 years. We had to put her down when she stopped walking. I haven’t figured out a creative way to tell the Investors or the public, so we have a sign that says: “Sorry, Joy is Feeling Down Today. Check Back Tomorrow Please.”
“The last thing we need is the Protestors finding out.”
“I agree sir,” I say over the shrieking of the Meese.
“These Protestors are getting out of hand.”
“I agree sir.”
The two Meese are finicky and prone to violence. By finicky I mean they shriek constantly and bull-rush the fences. Ever since they took out a Feeder, we’ve had to feed them on this sort of dragline. I’ve thought about putting muzzles on them but my Liaison in Handlers warned me that muzzled Meese is just the thing that Journalist at the Gazette would get off on. So, the Meese remain finicky and prone to violence.
When I get to Boss’s office Boss tells me to take a seat. He’s wearing an American flag as a cape and waving around a bottle of gin.
“Dark times are upon us Stedman,” he yells over the Meese. This is how he starts most conversations.
He tells me the books look bad. “We’re off by several million.” he says before taking a long pull of the gin. “And that’s not even with that dumbass Handler and dead Joy the Elephant.”
Joy was the star of our longest running attraction Joy to The Elephant that ran every two hours, 6 days per week for 18 years. We had to put her down when she stopped walking. I haven’t figured out a creative way to tell the Investors or the public, so we have a sign that says: “Sorry, Joy is Feeling Down Today. Check Back Tomorrow Please.”
“The last thing we need is the Protestors finding out.”
“I agree sir,” I say over the shrieking of the Meese.
“These Protestors are getting out of hand.”
“I agree sir.”
2
Today Boss says: per the Investors, the Protestors need to go or heads will roll. Considering that I got One in Art School, which already costs an arm and a leg, I cannot afford to have my head roll.
Boss leaves without warning to yell Shut up Shut up Shut up at the Meese. I wait for him while he does this.
“If I could feed those Protestors to these damn Meese I would.”
I tell Boss we might have to call the Lawyer for that one. I also tell him his phone is ringing.
It’s Esther from Admissions. She says the Protestors are spray painting “Welcome to WA Zoo, the Midwest’s Third Largest Animal Prison” all over the parking lot.
“What do these people want from us?” Boss yells, “Because if it’s money, we don’t have it.
“We could ask them,” I say.
Boss says, why don’t you ask them?
Boss leaves without warning to yell Shut up Shut up Shut up at the Meese. I wait for him while he does this.
“If I could feed those Protestors to these damn Meese I would.”
I tell Boss we might have to call the Lawyer for that one. I also tell him his phone is ringing.
It’s Esther from Admissions. She says the Protestors are spray painting “Welcome to WA Zoo, the Midwest’s Third Largest Animal Prison” all over the parking lot.
“What do these people want from us?” Boss yells, “Because if it’s money, we don’t have it.
“We could ask them,” I say.
Boss says, why don’t you ask them?
2.5
I return to my office and tell Intern I need him to go talk to the Protestors. Intern is a yesman to the roots. You can’t put a price on his type of loyalty. Intern interns 40+ hours per week without monetary compensation in order to gain invaluable experience in a professional setting. Pigs would fly before I did something like that. Pigs would also fly before I covered two maternity leaves like Intern has.
I tell him to find out what they want and then give him the keys to the golf cart, which he’s excited about.
I tell him to find out what they want and then give him the keys to the golf cart, which he’s excited about.
3
We’ve had issues with the Peacock of late, the issue being its recent tendency to squawk somewhat aggressively at a very specific racial demographic of male visitors. My Liaison in Handlers reckons it’s some sort of hormonal imbalance due to the change in Feed Supplier. I had Intern run a cost benefit analysis to determine if switching back to the more expensive Peacock Feed would positively impact the bottom line. It wouldn’t, so we’ve decided to monitor the situation. And hope it resolves itself.
And hope that Journalist at the Gazette isn’t drafting some Gonzo piece about our racist peafowl.
While monitoring the situation, I receive a personal call, which I take even though it violates my rule of no personal calls on the clock. It’s from my One in Art School. My One in Art School only calls when they need something. Go figure, this time it’s money.
From what I gather, my One in Art School has not been responsible with their stipend and can’t afford art supplies.
“Why can’t you get an internship to cover the cost of art supplies?” I ask.
“Dad,” they say with hesitation, “The Muse doesn’t work that way.”
I hear no complaints from Intern re: this Muse thing.
“Listen,” I say, “You need to tell this Muse who is Boss.”
“I promise I will try.”
It tickles me when they say that. All I ever ask of my One in Art School is that they put forth their best effort. But because I am—as The Ex says—“a push over with the wrong priorities,” I condone a one-time-only-no-exceptions use of the Emergency Credit Card.
Somewhere in Primate Canopy I catch That Journalist from the Gazette sashaying around the slanted berm. There are signs as clear as day asking patrons not to walk due to erosion and the chance someone might break an ankle and sue, which we’d definitely need our Lawyer for.
“You,” he says, “I need to talk to you.”
I re-stake the sign he’s knocked over.
“I need a story, man," The Journalist prods me with the butt of his pen. “Something that will get clicks. Preferably something easy so I don’t have to pay out of pocket to come back here.”
I ask him if he’s talked to the Protestors. He says people protest everything these days and there’s no story there. I tell him our Welcome Wagon Menagerie could use some exposure.
The Journalist scribbles something on a receipt. He says readers want WOW factor and asks if we’ve had any animal-on-man crimes or accidents of late.
Our Lawyer has advised us not to talk about these after the gorilla reached through the fence and nearly choked a Patron by tie. We had to shoot the gorilla. Then we had to shoot it a second time because the first shot didn’t kill it. Now I have Intern wear a gorilla suit sometimes and just kind of lay around far enough away so people can’t tell it’s a suit. Boss thinks this might be the way of the future for the zoo business.
The Journalist says readers only want tragedy porn. “Pure spectacle,” he says, “But between you and me, man, I’m all for selling out for clicks.”
I can sympathize with this. I tell him I can respect a man who is willing to do what it takes to be a success. But then he goes into this diatribe about the death of print media and journalism ethics and his insurmountable credit debt. Blah, blah, blah. I got my own laundry list of problems. Has he thought about taking an internship in a career field that isn’t going the way of the Dodo?
“I’m just trying to survive,” he says.
“We’re all trying to survive,” I say.
And hope that Journalist at the Gazette isn’t drafting some Gonzo piece about our racist peafowl.
While monitoring the situation, I receive a personal call, which I take even though it violates my rule of no personal calls on the clock. It’s from my One in Art School. My One in Art School only calls when they need something. Go figure, this time it’s money.
From what I gather, my One in Art School has not been responsible with their stipend and can’t afford art supplies.
“Why can’t you get an internship to cover the cost of art supplies?” I ask.
“Dad,” they say with hesitation, “The Muse doesn’t work that way.”
I hear no complaints from Intern re: this Muse thing.
“Listen,” I say, “You need to tell this Muse who is Boss.”
“I promise I will try.”
It tickles me when they say that. All I ever ask of my One in Art School is that they put forth their best effort. But because I am—as The Ex says—“a push over with the wrong priorities,” I condone a one-time-only-no-exceptions use of the Emergency Credit Card.
Somewhere in Primate Canopy I catch That Journalist from the Gazette sashaying around the slanted berm. There are signs as clear as day asking patrons not to walk due to erosion and the chance someone might break an ankle and sue, which we’d definitely need our Lawyer for.
“You,” he says, “I need to talk to you.”
I re-stake the sign he’s knocked over.
“I need a story, man," The Journalist prods me with the butt of his pen. “Something that will get clicks. Preferably something easy so I don’t have to pay out of pocket to come back here.”
I ask him if he’s talked to the Protestors. He says people protest everything these days and there’s no story there. I tell him our Welcome Wagon Menagerie could use some exposure.
The Journalist scribbles something on a receipt. He says readers want WOW factor and asks if we’ve had any animal-on-man crimes or accidents of late.
Our Lawyer has advised us not to talk about these after the gorilla reached through the fence and nearly choked a Patron by tie. We had to shoot the gorilla. Then we had to shoot it a second time because the first shot didn’t kill it. Now I have Intern wear a gorilla suit sometimes and just kind of lay around far enough away so people can’t tell it’s a suit. Boss thinks this might be the way of the future for the zoo business.
The Journalist says readers only want tragedy porn. “Pure spectacle,” he says, “But between you and me, man, I’m all for selling out for clicks.”
I can sympathize with this. I tell him I can respect a man who is willing to do what it takes to be a success. But then he goes into this diatribe about the death of print media and journalism ethics and his insurmountable credit debt. Blah, blah, blah. I got my own laundry list of problems. Has he thought about taking an internship in a career field that isn’t going the way of the Dodo?
“I’m just trying to survive,” he says.
“We’re all trying to survive,” I say.
4
Intern tells me he has big news re: The Protestors. Apparently one of them is refusing to eat until we release an animal. I relay to Boss.
Boss says this is just a stunt and we should let the Protestor starve.
I ask if that’s our official position if the Journalist asks.
Boss says this is just a cry for attention and we should give it time to play out.
So we give it time to play out.
Boss says this is just a stunt and we should let the Protestor starve.
I ask if that’s our official position if the Journalist asks.
Boss says this is just a cry for attention and we should give it time to play out.
So we give it time to play out.
5
Next morning I reassess things. The situation is as follows:
So that’s where we are at.
“We need to stop footing around and take action,” Boss says, and asks if I know anyone who might stick their neck out for the greater good of the company.
“Preferably someone who needs us more than we need them,” he says.
I say I could go talk to Intern. Boss says why don’t I go talk to Intern? So I go talk to Intern.
- All 50+ Protestors have taken a blood oath to go hungry until we release an animal into the wild.
- The Journalist has written a puff piece concerning the hunger strike.
- The Journalist also calls me for comment and I may have told him the Protestors are suspected terrorists and he might want to start looking at I.D.s. I learn this was not a good thing to say.
- Boss says it’s not looking good for us. We’ve had three field trips cancel already and it’s only 10am. Field Trips are the only thing keeping our ship afloat.
- Boss also says per the Investors, heads are on the chopping block and assets are being liquidated.
So that’s where we are at.
“We need to stop footing around and take action,” Boss says, and asks if I know anyone who might stick their neck out for the greater good of the company.
“Preferably someone who needs us more than we need them,” he says.
I say I could go talk to Intern. Boss says why don’t I go talk to Intern? So I go talk to Intern.
6
I explain to Intern the situation and say we have zero budget. Intern is fully bought into wearing the gorilla costume and running/monkey-crawling across the parking lot.
6.5
I help Intern climb into the gorilla suit and then zip up the zipper on the back, which he is unable to do himself due to the undexterous rubber hands. When he’s all zipped up I kind of do that father-to-spawn-pep-talk-think where I lovingly push his shoulders back and tip his gorilla chin up so he’s looking confidently in front of him.
“You’ll do great.” Then I get slightly teary-eyed and Intern wipes at my cheek with his gorilla index finger but knocks my nose and not my cheek.
“Sorry.”
My One in Art School used to give this lean-in huggy thing around my waist back in here crayon construction paper days. And though I’ve never had a son, right now Intern might as well be.
Then Intern says, “I’m sweating profusely,” and that means it’s time to go.
“You’ll do great.” Then I get slightly teary-eyed and Intern wipes at my cheek with his gorilla index finger but knocks my nose and not my cheek.
“Sorry.”
My One in Art School used to give this lean-in huggy thing around my waist back in here crayon construction paper days. And though I’ve never had a son, right now Intern might as well be.
Then Intern says, “I’m sweating profusely,” and that means it’s time to go.
7
There’s about a mile-long stretch of woods separating the back of the parking lot from the highway. Plan is for Intern to scamper across the parking lot, plunge into the forest, and then wait for me on the side of the highway to pick him up in my Ford Taurus.
Intern does make it successfully to the end of the parking lot. But he’s not fast enough in the heavy suit to elude the damn Protestors. The thirty or so of them encircle him at the edge of the woods and then close in like a pack of wolves. Poor Intern, trapped like a bunny rabbit, falls into a fetal ball.
Intern does make it successfully to the end of the parking lot. But he’s not fast enough in the heavy suit to elude the damn Protestors. The thirty or so of them encircle him at the edge of the woods and then close in like a pack of wolves. Poor Intern, trapped like a bunny rabbit, falls into a fetal ball.
8
Next day I show Boss the front page of the Gazette, which pictures Intern tied to a tent pole, stacks of our brochures at his feet. It’s 7am. Neither of us have slept. And Boss is has been drinking gin through the night.
“These hunger-striking Protestors are cannibals,” Boss tells me. Outside the Meese are ramming into the fences.
I tell Boss at least they have the human decency to let the suit drape at his waist.
Boss asks me what is our company position on negotiating the release of hostages from Protestors?
“I don’t believe we have one,” I say, “But if we get him back alive, I can have Intern draft one.” Boss waves his hand at me, which I take to mean it doesn’t matter because we probably won’t make it to see another week at this zoo.
He asks me how much money I have in my bank account, which turns out to be $162 after the $4 service fee. Boss and I agree that time is of the essence and forgo copying the serial numbers in lieu of riding off in the golf cart to negotiate Intern’s safe release.
“These hunger-striking Protestors are cannibals,” Boss tells me. Outside the Meese are ramming into the fences.
I tell Boss at least they have the human decency to let the suit drape at his waist.
Boss asks me what is our company position on negotiating the release of hostages from Protestors?
“I don’t believe we have one,” I say, “But if we get him back alive, I can have Intern draft one.” Boss waves his hand at me, which I take to mean it doesn’t matter because we probably won’t make it to see another week at this zoo.
He asks me how much money I have in my bank account, which turns out to be $162 after the $4 service fee. Boss and I agree that time is of the essence and forgo copying the serial numbers in lieu of riding off in the golf cart to negotiate Intern’s safe release.
9
We slide into the parking lot to find the Protestors prancing around Intern, arms locked and chanting “Hey Ho, Let Those Animals Go” like battle cry.
This tattooed guy with blonde dreadlocks is kind of instigating everything with a bull horn.
I say “Happy day,” and ask Guy with Bullhorn if he’s in charge.
He tells me with the bullhorn that this is a free, non-violent assembly.
Boss pokes him in the chest with the wet end of his bottle of gin. “You’re ‘bout ready to burn our man at the stake,” he says, “You call that peaceful?”
“Peaceful is your word, man,” the Guy with Bullhorn says, “We said non-violent.”
Boss says to give Guy with Bullhorn the money, so I give Guy with Bullhorn the $162. Guy with Bullhorn looks at the money in my outstretched hand, then looks at me, then looks at his people, then looks back at me. He starts laughing. His comrades start laughing as well.
I can see that sweat has pooled under Intern’s neck. I imagine that everyone is frozen still except me, and like a hero I rip the rope binding Intern to the tent pole and carrying him off into the woods like a groom with his bride. Then Boss picks us up in his BMW and we drive off to Big Baby Boy Burger Bar.
I’m pulled from this fantasy by the violent flames Guy with Bullhorn has produced with his lighter and my wad of money.
“We don’t want money,” Guy with Bullhorn says.
“What do you mean you don’t want money?” Boss says, “What else is there?”
This starts a chant: “Free Those Animals. Free Those Animals.”
“Here’s how this is going to go,” he says while walking over to Intern and the stacks of brochures, “You let us go in and rescue all endangered, vulnerable, or threatened animals. We take them to Federally Protected Nature Preserves. And in exchange you get your guy back.”
“But we don’t have any endangered animals,” I say, “They’ve all died.”
“No Sea Lions?”
“Dead.”
“Hawksbill Turtle?”
“Dead.”
“Alaskan Moose?”
“We have Moose. We definitely have two Moose.”
“Meese,” Boss says waving the gin around.
I say you can have them. Guy with Bullhorn says they’ll take them. And Boss says they’re all yours.
This tattooed guy with blonde dreadlocks is kind of instigating everything with a bull horn.
I say “Happy day,” and ask Guy with Bullhorn if he’s in charge.
He tells me with the bullhorn that this is a free, non-violent assembly.
Boss pokes him in the chest with the wet end of his bottle of gin. “You’re ‘bout ready to burn our man at the stake,” he says, “You call that peaceful?”
“Peaceful is your word, man,” the Guy with Bullhorn says, “We said non-violent.”
Boss says to give Guy with Bullhorn the money, so I give Guy with Bullhorn the $162. Guy with Bullhorn looks at the money in my outstretched hand, then looks at me, then looks at his people, then looks back at me. He starts laughing. His comrades start laughing as well.
I can see that sweat has pooled under Intern’s neck. I imagine that everyone is frozen still except me, and like a hero I rip the rope binding Intern to the tent pole and carrying him off into the woods like a groom with his bride. Then Boss picks us up in his BMW and we drive off to Big Baby Boy Burger Bar.
I’m pulled from this fantasy by the violent flames Guy with Bullhorn has produced with his lighter and my wad of money.
“We don’t want money,” Guy with Bullhorn says.
“What do you mean you don’t want money?” Boss says, “What else is there?”
This starts a chant: “Free Those Animals. Free Those Animals.”
“Here’s how this is going to go,” he says while walking over to Intern and the stacks of brochures, “You let us go in and rescue all endangered, vulnerable, or threatened animals. We take them to Federally Protected Nature Preserves. And in exchange you get your guy back.”
“But we don’t have any endangered animals,” I say, “They’ve all died.”
“No Sea Lions?”
“Dead.”
“Hawksbill Turtle?”
“Dead.”
“Alaskan Moose?”
“We have Moose. We definitely have two Moose.”
“Meese,” Boss says waving the gin around.
I say you can have them. Guy with Bullhorn says they’ll take them. And Boss says they’re all yours.
10
We all march across the park to Meese Trecks. That is me, Boss, and the Protestors led by Guy with Bullhorn. Intern is no longer tied to the tent pole but is closely guarded by an enclave of Protestors.
Outside Meese Trecks the Meese are shrieking. Boss uses Guy with Bullhorn’s bullhorn to talk over the shrieking Meese.
Boss explains that the Meese need to be pet in order to be handled, and demonstrates by rubbing my belly. “But once they’ve been petted,” he says, “they’ll obey you like a dog. Then he gives Guy with Bullhorn his Bullhorn and opens the gate for the Protestors. The Protestors go inside single-file.
The Meese charge. The male knocks two Protestors to the synthetic grass which is two parts carpet and one part pine needles. Very hard. I definitely hear something like bones crunching. We are surely done for. Bodies are splayed on the ground. Even with our Lawyer we won’t survive this.
Boss sets fire to a bottle of gin and chucks it at his office. The inside instantly bursts into flames.
Things escalate quickly.
The Meese chase most of the Protestors to the 20-foot perimeter fences. They have no way out, firewood waiting to burn. Some make it out safely, but many at the bottom are picked off. I’m no use to help them. My ears are ringing, my heart pounding, and I can’t seem to move my legs.
I find the Journalist with the video-end of his phone pointed at the male moose which is catapulting a Protestor into the fake pond. Blood pools. We kind of lock eyes and I try to tell him nonverbally that I now respect the hell out of his profession.
Outside Meese Trecks the Meese are shrieking. Boss uses Guy with Bullhorn’s bullhorn to talk over the shrieking Meese.
Boss explains that the Meese need to be pet in order to be handled, and demonstrates by rubbing my belly. “But once they’ve been petted,” he says, “they’ll obey you like a dog. Then he gives Guy with Bullhorn his Bullhorn and opens the gate for the Protestors. The Protestors go inside single-file.
The Meese charge. The male knocks two Protestors to the synthetic grass which is two parts carpet and one part pine needles. Very hard. I definitely hear something like bones crunching. We are surely done for. Bodies are splayed on the ground. Even with our Lawyer we won’t survive this.
Boss sets fire to a bottle of gin and chucks it at his office. The inside instantly bursts into flames.
Things escalate quickly.
The Meese chase most of the Protestors to the 20-foot perimeter fences. They have no way out, firewood waiting to burn. Some make it out safely, but many at the bottom are picked off. I’m no use to help them. My ears are ringing, my heart pounding, and I can’t seem to move my legs.
I find the Journalist with the video-end of his phone pointed at the male moose which is catapulting a Protestor into the fake pond. Blood pools. We kind of lock eyes and I try to tell him nonverbally that I now respect the hell out of his profession.
11
Intern and Boss pull up in the golf cart. “Mistakes were made,” Boss says, “We’re going to lay low at Big Baby Boy Burger Bar.” I start to get in and see the Protestors are jumping from the tops of the fence. Falling to their sure death.
Boss and Intern see this too. And then we look at each other. A memory of me and my dad in our back yard comes into my head. He’s standing over me and explaining the value of a dollar, new lawn mower at his side. I’m eight years old.
I’ve made many mistakes in my life.
I wipe a tear from Boss’s cheek. He’s the closest thing I have to a father right now.
“We are all going to hell,” he says.
“You’re right sir.”
And Intern, Intern is as solid as stone, driving us to our future.
Boss and Intern see this too. And then we look at each other. A memory of me and my dad in our back yard comes into my head. He’s standing over me and explaining the value of a dollar, new lawn mower at his side. I’m eight years old.
I’ve made many mistakes in my life.
I wipe a tear from Boss’s cheek. He’s the closest thing I have to a father right now.
“We are all going to hell,” he says.
“You’re right sir.”
And Intern, Intern is as solid as stone, driving us to our future.
Copyright © December 2019 Kevin Sterne
Kevin Sterne is the author of From Your Jerry (No Rest Press) and I’ve Done Worse (Long Day Press). He's also the editor in chief of Funny Looking Dog Quarterly. His fiction has appeared in SmokeLong Quarterly, Maudlin House, Literary Orphans, and others. Kevin loves running and trees.
