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
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