There is a short poem added on as a P.S.
ZOO MAN EXHIBIT
By Alex Redmer
Lions, giraffes, zebras
King cobras, gorillas, camels
Elephants, tigers, polar bears
Killer whales, dolphins, eagles
Llamas, cheetahs, orangutans
Giant pandas, springboks, ostriches
Etc. Etc. Etc. Etc. Etc. Etc. Etc.
We cage and display
All the animals in the world
Regardless of what they do
But maybe it’s only the best of men
Who refuse to behave
The ones who take a stand
Who get locked away
(Animals unite!)
What am I supposed to do with those mad words?
Alex’s act of violence and departure from me—do those make my first boyfriend one of the bastards, too?
I don’t know.
But I don’t want to date someone who punches other people’s dads in the face and then gets sent to reform school.
I do not want to date a “Zoo Man” locked away, even if he does think I’m “flawless.”
I thought I knew Alex, and what we had felt so right. For a while there, I was never surer about anything in my entire life. But Alex wasn’t who he seemed to be at first, which ironically is exactly what he claims to be against—posturing, or “pageantry,” as Wrigley says.
My parents are up to speed now thanks to my screaming fit and have been very attentive—concerned enough to take me to see a therapist named Dr. June Westerfeld, who is youngish and insists on being called June instead of Dr. Westerfeld. June is skinny with long dirty-blond hair and vivid green eyes, and she wears tight yoga pants that show off her strong, well-shaped legs and tight sweaters that enhance the look of her small, young-looking boobs, and she also wears the perfect amount of makeup, which highlights her stunning cheekbones without drawing too much attention—all of which makes it hard to like this woman at first, especially because she has a well-respected practice in Center City Philadelphia, right around Rittenhouse Square, and seems to have everything figured out, unlike me, Nanette O’Hare, who has absolutely nothing solved. And so our conversations are very awkward at first. June asks endless questions, and I watch clouds pass by through the fourteenth-floor window. I’m not really trying to be a bitch; I just don’t have many answers these days.
If words are air, I’m a flat tire.
There is talk about me being an introvert and having a rebel personality that I had previously suppressed.
When asked if in general it’s true that I do not like my classmates, I think, It’s like she’s asking if I have ten fingers as she looks at my hands or whether I require the regular intake of air through my nose or mouth as she watches me breathe.
And yet I nod with enthusiasm.
Just to be a bitch, I ask June why the word therapist can be changed to the rapist simply by adding a space after the e. “Do you rape minds?”
Without breaking eye contact, June says she won’t waste time on pointless games meant to distract from the work at hand and looks displeased as we end our second session.
June asks about The Bubblegum Reaper during my third visit, which lets me know that my parents have been filling in the blanks when I’m asked to sit in the waiting room at the end of my sessions, because I haven’t mentioned my favorite novel once during the first few appointments. Apparently, June would like to read The Bubblegum Reaper; this surprises but greatly pleases me. As a missionary for true good literature, I can’t help it. And because I have Mr. Graves’s paperback copy on me, we decide to photocopy all 227 pages right there in June’s office, disregarding the legalese printed at the beginning of the book, violating copyright law with authentic rebel fuck-all glee as the machine flashes repetitively and churns out pages full of a much younger Booker’s words.
I enjoy our photocopying the novel more than seems reasonable, although I’m not sure why. Mine is almost a religious zeal. Maybe literature is my religion? Can being a missionary for fiction become my vocation? Maybe engaging with true art is a revolutionary act, as Mr. Graves once suggested. Booker may believe that there is no such thing as fiction, but Nanette O’Hare, well, she believes.
For some reason, I start talking about Alex, telling June everything as we work. My parents pay three hundred dollars for the hour-long session even though we don’t do anything except make illegal photocopies and discuss my love life. Can such therapy actually help? June’s willingness to read The Bubblegum Reaper makes her seem a bit hipper than I originally thought. I wonder why my parents have not asked to read Booker’s novel. My parents are not rebels, I decide, and that is part of the problem, although I want my parents to be stable and remain committed to the very conventional idea of marriage until death do they part. The irony is not lost on me.
During the fourth session, proving that she actually read Booker’s masterpiece, June asks which of Booker’s characters I most identify with, saying, “Wrigley? The elementary school kids who spun the turtle around with sticks? One of the twins? The faceless masses of classmates? The teachers? The parents? Or maybe could it be—”
“Unproductive Ted,” I say with great assuredness. “I’m the turtle.”
“Which makes Alex your Wrigley.”
“He’d certainly say so. He tried very hard to emulate his favorite fictional hero.”
“So why does Unproductive Ted bite Wrigley? If you’re the turtle, certainly you can tell me.”
I hadn’t really thought much about that before.
And I’m not really sure I’m comfortable with how this metaphor is playing out.