Laurels Literary Magazine Fall 2015 | Page 74

The Hard Thing Janna D. Tierney I love coming to the zoo late at night. It’s a place that never sleeps. In the heart of the city it never gets dark or quiet. Beyond fake plaster mountains and rusty chain link barriers, the distinctive sounds of car, train, and siren resonate mechanically on the streets. Overhead, a dirty yellow glow looms where there should be a speckled black horizon. In the zoo, the animals are all asleep. Even the nocturnal creatures have learned to take their rest at night. The bats and big cats are kept in shady, dark places during the day where they like to prowl and pose for the tourists. It’s easier that way, and it keeps the guests interested. But at night, the keepers turn on specially animals get to sleep, even when I can’t. So I come every night and watch the leopards and the lizards slumber. It’s easier that way. Crushed paper cups and gnawed Popsicle sticks conglomerate around the base of a brown waste barrel, dripping with melted sugar, beside the primate quarter. Inside the cages, animals have retreated into little rooms for the night where they are locked in. A fourth cleaning woman devotes herself to ensuring the feature Plexiglas wall is as transparent as possible, although she cannot polish away the scratch marks that run along the exterior base of the display. Despite the vibrant sign warning against taunting the animals, children never fail to run their hands and nails against the gorilla exhibition, mimicking the black behemoths on the other side of the thick shield. The worn out mothers always conveniently ignore the signs and welcome the promise of free childcare for a few precious minutes. Every day. Every week. Every year. It’s so much easier that way. I love the zoo at night. Black mosquitoes hum around a yellowed sidewalk lamp. A sensor catches the disturbance of my movements and begins playing a recorded introduction to the tropical birds exhibit, the latest addition to the menagerie and the glistening pride of the zoo. As I pass, I listen to the breaths and tiny 62