It was a Saturday morning in the middle of summer ’95, maybe ’96 — I’m not a calendar, fuck you.
Either way, I was young and impressionable. My parents made a last-minute decision to take the family on a surprise day trip, so they strapped me and my little sister into the back seat of our Toyota Camry — you know, the one with the wheels.
I’m my mother’s son, and because of that, I’ve had the neurosis of a middle-aged Jewish woman since my fourth birthday, when Momma explained to me the imminent danger associated with blowing out one’s own candles. Also, I’ve never liked surprises.
I spent the first half-hour of our trip scrounging for context clues in an effort to figure out where we were headed. My mother had dressed me in my favorite Yankees T-shirt, which was my only Yankees T-shirt, so, favorite by default. I’ve never really liked sports. Were we going to a baseball game? No, I thought — my parents wouldn’t do that to me.
I tried to decipher highway signs, but we were driving so fast that they might as well have been written in Sanskrit, which, by the way, I still can’t read. Thanks, college.
A ray of sunlight deflected off the rearview mirror right into my eye, triggering a migraine, a condition so common among my contemporaries that it should be mentioned somewhere in the Old Testament. 40 years of walking in the desert and no pressure headaches? Yeah, doubtful.
I slipped into a Nerve-Induced Semi-Coma. (See also: nap.)
No more than 20 minutes later I was woken by a cheerful announcement from my loving parents: “Surprise, I hope you like the Bronx Zoo!” which, I’ve come to learn since, is just a euphemism for, “Surprise, I hope you like Hasids and the smell of gorilla shit!”
After a lengthy search, Captain Dad found a vacancy in a parking garage a few blocks away. I was taken out of the back seat.
Free at last!
I inhaled the sweet smell of cigarettes. I heard the foreign mutterings of taxi cab drivers. I felt the click and lock of my leash as my mother chained me to her — wait. What?
“What the fuck is this?” my 5-year-old self thought. “A leash?”
“It’s just for safety,” my mother said. “Now nobody can take you away from me!”
Take me away? Why would somebody want to take me away? What do I have to offer? I can’t cook.
But without further explanation, we embarked on a grueling three-and-a-half-minute walk to the zoo. We were finally there.
I toyed with my leash and pondered my newfound sense of captivity on the walk to “feed some goats,” which, when said with a positive inflection, does sound mildly exciting. The act of goat feeding, generally promoted as a sure-fire platform for childhood fun, was the first of many blows to my self-confidence.
I stared deep into the eyes of a malnourished buckling, and he stared back at me. Then I felt the slight tug of my leash, and at that moment realized, I was no less a prisoner than this goat. I am of equal value to a creature whose greatest meal of the day consists of pellets marinated in dirt and snot.
I’m a caged animal, held captive by overbearing parents for what they think is the greater good. I’m thinking way too much into this. I’m on a fucking leash.
I’m tired.
The zoo sucks.