The Zoo: Part 1

THE ZOO

A Novelette By:
Trent Coffin



PART 1:

The Dame

Chapter 1
The night is cold and young and the sky is filled with black smog coming from the factories on the outskirts of town. It's a wonder how the stars that even care to twinkle tonight manage to do so. One would probably think with so much air pollution they'd come falling down.

Wind from the winter air blows gently across my face as I trudge through the snow on the ground. The maroon scarf around my neck isn't doing its job, so I tighten it. In Baxton City a cold won't go away very easily, since almost every apartment, home and shelter's got some sort of hole or crack in its walls. It's kind of sad, really, the shit people go through in this town. Almost everyone's poor or homeless, and can barely keep their stomachs full for a week. Oh, and on top of that, there's the gangs.

I suppose almost every city's got them, but in this one it's especially bad. Gangs are constantly lurking around every corner, looking for their next prey. Sometimes it's adults. Sometimes it's the teenagers. But it really pisses me off when it's the kids. Yeah, I hate to admit it, but Baxton City's got its share of pedophiles and perverts. If someone wants to have a kid here, they'd better arm it with a knife or a gun the minute it's born. Otherwise you don't know what could happen.

Anyways, the gangs in this city practically run the place. The cops constantly have their hands tied when it comes to the crime rate here. Almost every day they are on the job, using every person and unit on their force. But it's never enough. The gangs outnumber them two to one. So sometimes the cops just give up. And sometimes they give in to the crime, getting a little in for themselves.

Yep, Baxton City's not what it used to be. But somehow we manage. Somehow I manage. And somehow I'm still trudging through the snow, and the scarf I'm wearing still isn't keeping my neck warm. I tighten it again.



Chapter 2

I walk into the East District. The cars are lined up on the streets, half of them with broken windows, missing tires, stolen radios or missing engine parts. There's a green one underneath a street light with words etched into it.

"SEVINZ RULE," it says. Damn gangs. Don't care what they do to things or people. They're just like animals, never thinking about what they do. They never reason. They never care.

The buildings on this street are mostly townhouses. They're mostly brick ones, but sometimes you get a white wooden one in there. They've all got the same roofs, brown, tacky, burnt-looking shingles, and they've all got the same chimneys on the sides. Sometimes you can see a big satellite dish on the top of some of them. I think satellites are stupid; too much work to take care of. I'm a cable guy myself.

This is what your average residential street looks like in Baxton City. They all pretty much look the same. It's somewhat depressing, seeing the same type of homes all throughout the city. The people here have no imagination, no creativity. You don't see any holiday decorations, no plants on the doorstep, not even so much as a welcome mat. It's like the people have lost hope, like they've given up on happiness.

Of course, there is happiness here, sure. There's happiness in all places. But from the looks of these homes, you could never really guess. It's a sad place, Baxton City. But we all learn to live with it.



Chapter 3

I make my way through the East District and head into Downtown. There are more people here. Not a horde, if that's what you're thinking, but enough to say there's a crowd.

"Hey, honey, want a good time," asks a sleazy, wrinkled woman wearing fishnets on her legs and has a cigarette in her mouth. I simply shake my head and continue.

There are some gang members playing cards on the steps of a tall, glass building. If you look closely to the one on the left, the one wearing a black overcoat, you can see the tip of a knife, glistening in the moonlight. There's a spot of blood on it. God only knows who that's been dug into. But, I don't tend to do anything about it.

See, I'm no cop. I'm no savior. And I'm damn well not a superhero. God. A superhero. Superheroes are for fags, I swear. I don't like the crap that goes on in this town, and I damn well don't approve of all the sleaze, drunks, gangs, and drugs. But I don't plan on doing anything about it. Me, I'm just a follower; nothing more, nothing less.

I don't plan on being the next vigilante and blowing up a gang hide out in the name of all that is good. That's just not me. I only stand up when I have to, when it's absolutely necessary. But most of the time, that 'absolutely-necessary-event' doesn't come around. I stick to the shadows. I'm quiet, and I'm happy that way.

Anyway, I walk down the street past some skyscrapers. I look into the window of one of the buildings. You can see some kids hanging out inside, playing what seems to be an old arcade game. They're smiling, mouths wide as a crater on the moon, laughing as though they weren't even in this dump-of-a-town. Like it was pure, whole, nice.

I smirk at their enjoyment. I won't stop them. I don't care. In fact, I'm happy for them. They need to get all the smiles in while they can, because once they turn eighteen, they've got to sign the damn dotted line for 'Good-ol' Uncle Sam.' Then they get to go to boot camp, get yelled at by some tight-wad general, and then be sent off to some damn far away country and get shot in the face by a terrorist.

If it weren't for the constant need for soldiers, we'd have a lot more people in this country nowadays. There's constant war everywhere, you see. Ever since England betrayed us and went over to the Russians, they've been getting support for Anti-American armies everywhere. And they're ready and willing to blow us sky high so that they don't see our Stars and Stripes waving another day.

So, as usual in this great wide country of ours, we needed an army fit for a king, a huge power, like a giant fist, ready to crush those who opposed us. But things aren't looking so good, to tell you the truth. America's losing, and we don't know what to do. President Johansen tried reasoning with them, tried showing them our polite, kind ways, even tried apologizing for the stuff we'd caused in the past. But they wouldn't let up.

So then he thought, "Well, they want a war, we'll give them one." And then he put into effect the biggest draft this country's ever seen. Every boy, and even a small majority of the girls, almost under any condition would be whisked away from their homes and spread out across the globe.

"To ensure peace and democracy," was Johansen's excuse for doing what he did. It makes me sick. War's just plain stupid all around. I get frickin' annoyed whenever I see the news.

"Bomb explosion in New Orleans today," was a topic I heard this morning. I was so sick of hearing that crap I threw my television out the window. Don't know what became of it, but I could've sworn I heard someone below yell, "It's a sign from above!" I just smirked and went outside.

So there you have it. I've pretty much laid out the scenery for you. Dark, tall buildings everywhere you go, smog in the air that burns your lungs every time you breathe, gangs, murderers, and even a world war.

Boy, I tell you, it's enough to make a man lose faith in himself. Some people have.



Chapter 4

By now I've moved on and I'm walking down a street called Lennon Terrace. There are a bunch of tired-looking stores around me. One has a board nailed over a broken window. Another has a sign on a door that says, "KEEP OUT." Another has a message written in black spray paint on its shabby wooden side says, "HOODS GO HOME." No doubt a threat to the Hood gang.

This is the building I stop at. I look up at the large, pink neon sign above its door. It reads, "Mike's Tavern." This is my stop; I've reached my destination.

Every Thursday night I come here to relax. Suck a few brews back, you know? With all the stress I get, I need to have some down time. Day in and day out, all I hear in my existence is, "Kaufman! I need that story finished now!" or, "Kaufman! I've pushed the publishers date back two months now! When the hell is your damn book going to be finished?!" Yeah, being a writer has its downs. Too much work, for me at least. I don't know how King did it. He wrote, what, five-hundred books before he croaked? And he had about six billion dollars in his pocket?

And here I am, in a dead-beat town, already thirty-five, only on my third book, with the agents and publishers barking at me like wild coyotes. It gives me a headache every time I think about it.

I walk into the tavern. The smell of alcohol and the chorus of sob stories at the bar welcomes me home. The wooden floor-boards creak underneath my feet as I walk into the dim place. I don't mind, though; reminds me of my mom's house when I was a kid.

The bar is on the left of the room and to the right of it are all the tables. This is mostly where the other guys who can't afford their car payments sit. Some of these tables have uneven legs, so it's not uncommon to see a stack of magazines underneath them to keep them balanced. There are posters of old movies from the early 2000's up on the walls. Dale says it reminds him of a simpler time. I can't blame him.

I step up to the bar and sit down on the cherry-red seat in front of me. I pull out a cigarette and light it. I suck in the smoke, feeding my addiction like a fat kid who wants more candy. Then I exhale.

"Well, here he is! I was wondering when you'd show up." Dale's voice is hard and gravelly. He's my only friend, and God only knows how much I need him now. He smiles a warm smile, and I do the same.

"Well where else am I gonna go on a lonely Thursday night," I smirk. We chuckle and Dale gets me a tall, glimmering glass. He fills it with Miller and I start to suck it back. Oh, man, it tastes good.

"How ya' been, Kaufman?" asks Dale.

"Oh, you know, the same," I reply, finishing my drink. I set the glass down. "The Big C's been riding on my tail for the book. I'm getting paranoid, to tell you the truth. Kida' feel like she's going to cut me off cold turkey if I don't give her something soon." The Big C, of course, is my publisher, Clara Michaels. She's a real pain in the ass. She's got the body of a McDonald's victim, and the voice of a chainsaw. Did I mention she's seven feet tall?

"Yeah, I hear you," says Dale back to me, "My landlord's been givin' me guff, too. I'm running low on the cash flow, you see. Business is good here, but not great if you know what I'm saying." I nod, getting every last drop of my Miller into my mouth. I put the glass down, and start to get out a five from my wallet. But Dale puts up his hand.

"Naw, Kaufman," he says, "you keep your cash. You're practically my brother. Brothers don't pay." I look at him funny.

"But, Dale, you just said you were low on cash." He smirks.

"There'll always be money here," he says, waving his hand to the other customers at the seats behind me. "I've got it made, in a matter of speaking. Don't you worry ‘bout me, friend. I’ll make it. We all do, somehow.”? I smile and nod, putting away my leather wallet.

Dale’s words have never been truer. Dale’s always speaking optimistically. Kind of makes me feel guilty, like I should do the same.

Dale and I grew up together in the suburbs of Baxton City. We were best pals, great chums. Everywhere he went, I went, and vice versa. We always played ball together, watched T.V. together, went to the fun park together. When we grew up, we didn’t go to college; my lousy parents wouldn’t pay for it, and Dale’s parents died of cancer when he was about 18. Sadly, they just couldn't afford to pay for Dale's college when they were alive. Dale was definately smart enough, but his parents dead-end jobs could barely keep his stomach full, let alone pay for school. So I started writing to make ends meet, and Dale started working at Mike’s Tavern. Dale eventually became the owner of the place.

I finally got my first book published about five years after I graduated from High School. It was al living hell getting it to a publisher that would take it, but somehow I got it done. Dale was a saint, giving me loans to pay the bills and letting me spend nights at his place when his cash flow couldn’t cut it. He was still looking out for me, just like a brother would.

Since we didn’t have any money to get out of Baxton City and make it somewhere else, we decided to stay. It’s not like we would do any better in any other city. Not smart enough, nor rich enough. Besides, the whole country’s like this place, all because of the war, and the poverty and violence that comes with it. Doesn’t really matter where you go, it’s all the same. So here we stayed, living in each other’s company to this day.

I spend another half hour talking to Dale at the bar. We laugh and reminisce of times past, the better days of our glorious lives.

It’s now ten thirty-two, and I feel like I should be getting back home. But something keeps me glued to my chair, like a hand is holding me down. I let it.

But just then, there’s the creak of the front door opening. Footsteps echo through the room like the place was a cave. I turn to look what new sad-sack has walked into the bar.

It’s a dame; tall, curvy, and elegantly dressed.

Chapter 5

She walks over to the counter, and talks in an angelic voice.

“Gimme a Coors Light,�? she winks. Dale kind of stares at her a minute and gets to making her drink.

She turns to look at me, those big blue eyes staring right into mine.

“Hey, stranger,�? she says. “What’s your story?�? I raise an eyebrow at her. A dame like her never comes here. The only girls that come here are the sloppy, depressed kind. But this one, she’s a goddess. Her shiny blond hair illuminates the room like a torch in a castle, and her big, round lips are ruby red. Her teeth are perfectly straight, eyes like pools of the clearest water. She’s perfect, the perfect woman.

Maybe a little too perfect. Yeah, something doesn’t seem right about this one. Like I said, a chick like this doesn’t—and maybe even shouldn’t—come here; too many drunks and weirdoes. Dames like this don’t even like ugly guys, like the ones sitting in back of me. Hell, the only real reason a girl like this one would come here is if she lost her job or got beat up by a boyfriend. But this one seems too happy, to pure, to perfect. Something’s fishy and I can’t put my finger on it.

“My story,” I finally reply, “wouldn’t interest you. Too boring.” She giggles politely. Dale comes back with her drink.

“That’ll be three forty-five,” he says. He glances at me, and I do the same. I can tell we’re thinking the same thing. At the sound of ‘three forty-five,’ the dame flinches. The flinch is almost invisible, but I saw it. Why would she be flinching, as if someone insulted her, about paying for a beer?

She pulls out her silver, shining purse from underneath her mink coat. She gracefully takes out a five.

“Keep the change, hon,” she winks. Dale nods stolidly and takes the cash. He walks away to put it into his register at the other end of the bar. The chick turns back to me.

“Hey, haven’t I seen you somewhere before, stranger,” she asks. I shrug.

“Dunno. I’ve been lots of places. Could’ve seen me anywhere.”  I’m being distant with her. For some reason, like an instinct of some sort, I don’t want to get involved with her.

“No,” she says, “I mean, you look familiar. You been on T.V”  Damn. I’d be lying if I said no, so I nod. See, I don’t like to lie to women, not even this one. Makes me feel, oh, I don’t know, scummy, like I’ve got no salvation in me. Call it my ‘childhood-conscience.’

“Yeah, I’ve been on T.V. a couple of times. Mostly on the literary channels.” She gasps loudly, childishly. Some people look over strangely at her. I feel embarrassed.

“I know who you are now,” she says, eyes wide open with excitement, “You’re Richard Kaufman! The guy who wrote ‘Moon Devil’?”  I raise my eyebrows at this; not in a bad way, but in awe. She’s read my book, my stupid little story, all one-hundred and twelve pages of it.

I mean, sure, I bet at least a thousand people have read that. But for some reason it always hits me like a lead pipe whenever I hear someone praising it. Kind of makes me feel important, like I’ve got something to contribute.

”Yep, that’s me,” I say. I smile for the first time to her. Maybe she isn’t so bad. Maybe she’s just a little….slow. Yeah, that could be it; she’s just a bit slower than other people. Damn, God might’ve not given her the best brain, but he did a fine job with the body.

“Oh my God, I loved that book,” she exclaims. Music to my ears.

“Really?”

“Oh, yes. Such eloquent language! Such beautiful imagery! And the story’s just so….cool! How did you come up with that?�? Dale comes back and gives me another Miller. Read my mind, Dale, thanks.

“Well, I kind of got the idea after the government shipped those robots up to the moon. I wondered, ‘What would it be like for one of them to be stuck up there?’ Because, you know, they’ve got no tasks to complete, no orders to obey, it’s like they’ve been deprived of all that they were created to do. I dunno, just kind of thought it was sad. So I wrote a book about it.” She nods stiffly, mechanically. Strange.

“I loved it,” she repeats quickly. “You tell a story really well. Man, I can’t do that to save my life.”

“You’d be surprised how much I hear that.”

“I’ll bet. So, you from around here?” I nod.

“Yeah, born and raised in Baxton City. I live in a house by the docks. I tell you, it’s quite a hike up here to the main part.”

“You don’t have a car? But you’ve got so much money from those books!”  I sigh.

“Well, not really. You’d be surprised how much people don’t read nowadays. All they want is media, media, media. They don’t care about character development, or how someone describes a scene, not even about the action that takes place. You could write the novel that was the key to world peace and no one would know the difference. Shit, it’s a damn hell being a writer in this era.” She frowns slightly. “I’m sorry,” I say, “I didn’t mean to curse in front of you. Shouldn’t do that.”

“No, no,” she says reassuringly, “I don’t care about that. I’m just kind of sad for you. Doing a career that seems hopeless to you. You must be awfully depressed.”  I shrug with a half smile.

“Yeah, well, I deal with it. It’s not like I could do anything else but write.”  She places her hand on my shoulder. It makes me feel awkward, but at the same time I feel happy, cared for; loved. But there’s something else about it: it feels cold.

“I’m sure you’ve got lots of talents. You’re probably just so busy you can’t see them.” That makes me all warm inside, like my chest was a fireplace and someone just turned on the gas. This girl’s alright. A little odd, but nice. You don’t see that too much in a city like this.

“Well, Richard,” she says, “I’ve got to get going now. Maybe I’ll see you around somewhere.”  I nod.

“Likewise,” I say. She winks at me and rises from her chair. She glides over to the door and is ready to open it, but stops. She turns around and walks back toward me. From underneath her coat, she pulls something out: a book, about the size of a grown man’s hand, with white lettering on its glossy black jacket. “Moon Devil,” it reads.

“Richard?” she asks, “Could you do me the honor of signing your book?”  I’m astounded. Not once in my career has anyone asked me to do this. Not one damn person. This is the best night of my life, I swear. I nod quickly and pull out a pen.

I scribble my name onto the cover page and she looks at it, feeling it like it was a sick animal that she had just fallen in love with. She looks me in the eyes, and then gives me a peck on the cheek.

“Look me up sometime,” she teases. “My name’s Emily Sanford.”
Emily. Emily. Emily. The name rings in my ears.

“See ya,” she says, and walks out the door.



Chapter 6

I’m smiling like a Cheshire cat. Emily Sanford. Man, things just might be looking up for me. That’s the first time since high school a dame has ever liked me. The first one was no prize like her, I tell you.
Suddenly, Dale comes up next to me. He looks worried, suspicious.
“Kaufman,” he says, tapping me on the shoulder. Suddenly I come out of my dream world.

“Kaufman, you don’t like that woman, do you?” I look at him funny.

“Huh?” I ask. “Why wouldn’t I? She’s beautiful, Dale, and not to mention nice. She even reads. Reads, Dale. Do you know how many girls have read my book? None, ‘cept for her. God, it’s like a match made in Heaven.”  Dale shakes his head.

“Somethin’s screwy about that one,” he says. “You thought that, too, before she started givin’ you the sweet talk, right? Man, I know love’s never come easy for you, but, you know, just don’t go head over heals for her yet. Don’t be a sucker just for a pretty face.”

“Okay, okay,” I reply. Dale’s acting weird, and I’m a bit worried. For some reason he’s getting all worked up over a woman. Shouldn’t he be happy for me? Shouldn’t he be excited that his best friend’s finally getting the girl of his dreams? Why does he care what girl I like? What’s it got to do with him?

True, she is a bit odd, and I'm not really sure why she would get pissed about paying for a beer, or even why she'd come to a place like this. But that shouldn't matter. Not now, after she's been so kind to me. I've got to take all the chances I can get if I want to be a dad.

All of a sudden, the clock on the wall grabs my attention. It reads eleven o-five. Damn, it’s time to go.

“Dale, I got to get going,” I say, trying to change the subject. “Got a long day ahead of me tomorrow. Big C’s gonna be barking at me again.” Dale nods, looking downhearted, and wipes off my glass with his rag.

“See you next Thursday,” he says stolidly. I can tell he’s still concerned, because usually he says that closing line with a smile; but not today. I try to ignore it. He’s just probably got too many landlord issues at home.
“Next Thursday, same time same place,” I say back. With a wave, I head for the door. But Dale puts his hand on my shoulder, firmly.

“Kaufman,” he says in a low voice, “I mean it. I don’t know how, but somethin’s wrong with that one. Stay away from her. Find another. That’s my advice.” I stare at Dale, he stares at me. I look into his eyes: they’re dark and serious and worried. Dale’s trying to hint at something, that’s for sure, but I don’t know what.

“Dale, I don’t know what you think is wrong with Emily, but…”

“Just listen to me,” he whispers frantically. “Then you won’t be sorry. That’s all I need to say. Just listen to my advice.” My forehead wrinkled in confusion, I nod slowly. He still looks scared, but he lets go of my shoulder.

“Alright,” he sighs. “See ya’ ‘round, Kaufman.” He turns to walk over to another customer. I stand there for a moment, pondering on what he’s saying. Then I finally decide to go out the door.

END OF PART 1