Copyright 2011. E. Woodward
Tranq-Dart Love.
The first time I laid eyes on Cecile I certainly didn’t think she had love on the brain. The gorillas were supposed to be in a holding pen while I cleaned out the cage, but there was a malfunction in the electronic gate and Cecile wandered out to see what all the fuss was about. I stood covered in gorilla excrement –to mask my human scent- , broom in hand, and stopped breathing as Cecile came to inspect me. She cocked her head and scratched her brow and I did the unthinkable. I made eye contact. She casually approached me and with one swift motion back handed me into the stone wall. When I came to, I heard the keepers yelling for me to stay down but Cecile had wandered off. She found her big red ball more exciting.
In the weeks that followed, Cecile made her intentions loud and clear. She’d given up dining with her fellow primates and refused to engage in their daily round of volleyball. Well, until my shift started at five. I’d manipulate my broom ‘round the messes and she would cat-call me, lounging amorously against the gate that separated us. I had never seen bedroom eyes on a woman in my life, and the only play I’d gotten in the last twenty years involved online group scrabble. Frankly, my word-building orgies just weren’t satisfying me anymore. But Cecile was a randy little thing, and boy was she trying to let me know it.
I vividly remember the day I signed the waiver -absolving the Zoo- and updated my Last Will, should anything go disastrously wrong when Cecile and I met face to face again. The ‘white-coats’ had never seen a female display such behaviors to a human, and they were positively vibrating at the opportunity to study the action in vivo. I could have cared less about the science mumbo-jumbo; I just wanted to tell my Ma that I had a girlfriend. At fifty, I wasn’t getting any younger, and at eighty Ma wasn’t coherent enough to realize that Cecile was a ten-year-old mountain gorilla.
I assumed the ritual of coating myself in Cecile’s poop and wandered in with a peace offering, a mango. Cecile immediately approached me and took the mango from my hand, wandered over to her wooden perch and set it there for safe-keeping. In spite of my rigorous crash-course in female gorilla-behavior, I broke every caveat in the first five minutes, having a lengthy conversation with Cecile using just our eyes. I raised my brows, she raised hers; she scratched her rear, I scratched mine. And so went our game of charades for the first twenty minutes. Then Cecile decided it was time for a facial. She sauntered over with a handful of her latest bowel creation and finger painted my face. Before long I was covered head to toe in more shit than I had ever known one animal could create. It was only marginally more uncomfortable than the fire-hose they used to get it off. Riding home on the city bus that day was an experience. I can say with confidence that no amount of ‘Dawn’ can remove the pungent odor of gorilla crap.
Our second date was a picnic. We ate orange sections and I taught Cecile how to drink water out of a bottle, though I must say she had more fun using the peel as a retainer, and proudly showed off her orange peel grin. This was the day she also decided to move to second base. She trained my fingers over her gorilla breasts and demonstrated their appeal by smacking them violently with her hands. I looked up at a loss to the keepers, who shrugged and gave me the go-with-it look. Soon after I was pounding her chest with enthusiasm and wondering how in the hell the SPCA wasn’t citing me for abuse. When Cecile decided she’d had enough violent foreplay, it was time to check me for bugs. She wasn’t enthused with my sparse comb-over, I guess she liked her men hairy, but there was enough hair on my arms and back to keep her going for the next century. The white-coats jumped and cheered as she began picking through my hair and eating bits of dandruff; apparently this was a good thing. After hours of raking my body for invaders, Cecile was off to take a nap and I was on the bus again, pondering my unlikely paramour.
I often wondered if Cecile sensed the change on the day I was promoted. Maybe I walked around her habitat with more bravado than usual. After weeks of giving the white-coats more real-time data then they could handle, I was given a promotion and a shiny new ‘gorilla-keeper’ badge. It was first thing Cecile noticed when we had our date that afternoon. She ripped it off my shirt and hurled it to the ground, grunting indignantly as she circled me. When she roared and pulled at the tuft of hair on her head the trainers told me it was a mating ritual but I knew different. She was pissed off. Maybe she thought I was leaving her. Maybe she thought I was putting the job before our relationship. Maybe she was jealous. One thing was for sure, it was a day I wouldn’t forget. After several long minutes of pacing, she picked me up and hauled me over her shoulder, spinning me around until I felt like my male –parts were united with my intestines. What happened after that was a blur; though I distinctly remember one of the keepers yelling: “tranq-darts are ready and loaded”, followed by a popping sound. After that I went dark. It should be noted that zoo-keepers are not good marksmen. When I came to I was lying face down in gorilla-poop and Cecile was nowhere to be found. I learned later that she’d hovered over my body and whimpered, before slinking in the corner to sulk. After that display, I really felt I’d solidified my promotion.
A few weeks passed before Cecile and I were allowed to see each other again. And honestly, up until then I’d considered it just a job. Just a bizarre happenstance that I was a 200-pound female gorilla’s Romeo. But throwing poo at each other had kind of grown on me, and in truth, I missed Cecile. It wasn’t like I was ever going to get married, and I sure as hell had never invoked those kind of feelings in a Homo-Sapien, so what did it matter if a gorilla thought I was Mr. Right? Our time apart forced the realization that Cecile had become more important to me than I cared to admit. And it wasn’t until she got sick that I was granted visitation again.
They called it gorilla flu, and she refused to eat or drink for two days. She sniffled and whined in the corner of the habitat, snubbing even the newest black male who had joined the brood. Reluctantly, the keepers agreed to let me to come to the preserve and stand opposite the glass. When Cecile saw me she immediately perked up and wandered over. After giving me a thorough once over and inspecting my shirt pocket for evidence of a gorilla-keeper badge –I wasn’t stupid, I’d taken it off- she pressed her mug to the glass and sniffed loudly. Our reunion was brief and although the fancy scientists were busy trying to decode my girl, I knew -without the PhD- that she wasn’t mad at me anymore. After I left, she downed a bowl of monkey-chow which pleased the white-coats to no end. A few more visits separated by gorilla-proof glass and we were allowed to date again.
Our first post-break-up date was bitter-sweet. Cecile mostly stuck her tongue out at me, and wandered around the habitat showing me the various messes she’d created in my absence. It wasn’t until I started sweeping up straw with my hands that she grinned. It finally dawned on me that she’d been pissed off because I’d stopped cleaning her cage. Evidently she wasn’t thrilled about the current maids. She had me follow her around the preserve, showing me what wasn’t to her liking and needed fixing. Just like a woman to give her man a honey-do list. I aptly told her that the new job was providing a much better pay-check and that if she wanted me to keep the lights on in my walk-up, she’d better quit whining.
Our next dates included some spring cleaning. I brought a broom and we took turns with it. That entailed mainly me sweeping, and Cecile trying to play baseball with my head. Believe or not, it was a demonstration of affection, sort of a: knock your man out and drag him back to your nest kind of affection. Once the habitat was prepared to her satisfaction it was time for a poo-spreading party. Ah, the good old days were back.
***
On Cecile’s birthday I decided to invite my mother along for the celebration. Of course she couldn’t enter the habitat but I thought she’d be interested in at least meeting the woman who’d been occupying most of my time. If Cecile could pass Ma’s test, she just might be able to move in with me! Cecile was particularly fired-up on her birthday, maybe it was the monkey-chow cake I’d given her, or maybe she just knew that Ma was watching. She launched into a fervent breast-beating campaign and wasn’t fulfilled with just a few light taps to the chest. She wanted the Full Monty. After about twenty minutes of breast-bongos, my walkie-talkie let out a series of gasps and I looked up to find my eighty-year-old mother slumped over the observation-deck railing. When we got to the hospital the doc said she’d had a massive stroke. They said a blood clot had been waiting in her brain to strike and that my ‘feeling up a gorilla’ had nothing to do with it. I didn’t quite see it that way.
My next visit with Cecile was after I’d buried Ma. She’d lived a good life and I didn’t feel like she’d missed anything, but the pain of losing her was more than I’d bargained for. Cecile knew right away that something was different; no amount of excrement-cologne could mask it. I offered her my usual mango and she rolled it around in her hands before presenting it back to me. “I buried Ma today” I said, and she hooted and grunted, her mouth turning down in a frown. “I guess it’s just you and me girl.” I tried to stop it, not knowing what impact it would have on her, but a rebellious tear traveled down my cheek anyway. Cecile cocked her head and hooted a soft cry into the air. She poked at the mango, her peace offering, and put her hand to my lips. Guess it was a woman’s way to know that the way to a man’s heart was through his stomach. The science of it all never concerned me. I didn’t need a text book to tell me what Cecile was all about. She felt my pain and told me so. She led me over to her nest and initiated an epic grooming session that left my balding head almost shorn.
Our subsequent dates had Cecile examining my face for tears, and sharing snacks. We’d transitioned from small talk and games, to full- fledged dinner affairs. I was obligated to eat monkey-chow and Cecile wasn’t exactly taking no for an answer. If I didn’t take it of my own accord, it was shoved into my face. This was evidently a major scientific breakthrough according to the white-coats. Hell, I just thought it sure beat the usual body-painting. I did notice something happening with Cecile that made me wonder just how this relationship was progressing; she’d entirely stopped grooming me. The keepers said that gorillas go through social phases and this was just one of them, but I knew something else was afoot. It didn’t take long for the 400 pound male, who’d recently become a Silverback, to begin protesting our dates. They called him George and he had just entered full maturity –picture King Kong on steroids. George decided that Cecile was going to be his partner whether she liked it or not, and proceeded to go ape-shit every time I came around. After I would leave, he would ignore Cecile for hours, alienating her from the rest of the brood. Talk about a bizarre love triangle!
When Cecile and I had our last date I can’t say I was excited about letting her go. When I first walked in, she grabbed my mango and immediately trotted over to the holding pen where George was beating his chest and roaring at the bars, and presented him the fruit. He readily chucked at me with impressive accuracy. If you have any idea what it feels like to get hit square on with a 90 mile an hour fast ball, you’ll know what I mean. After that, Cecile took me over to her nest to show me all the hard work she’d put into it the last few days, but she wouldn’t let me touch it. I guess that would kind of be like lipstick on the collar. My middle-aged man scent would yuck it up and George would catch her cheating red-handed. I was being dumped. Cecile twittered and grunted, excited by all the adjustments she’d made to the nest I’d cleaned for months. And it finally clicked. She was preparing for a baby. With George. Would I be a grandpa or a perverted uncle? Blech! I chuckled, imagining what Cecile would say to me if she could talk: ‘it’s not you, it’s me. I’m so sorry but I’ve found someone else, he’s more my type’. Cecile and I said our goodbyes shortly after the love-nest tour, and she quickly returned to attending to her ego-maniac of a boyfriend.
I checked in on Cecile from time to time, and discovered that George had finally figured how to treat a lady. He groomed Cecile with careful precision and was very attentive during her pregnancy. He even seemed to tolerate the poop-throwing with ease. And for Cecile, I was happy. She would catch me peeking in the preserve and throw me the odd grin. It doesn’t matter how complicated we try to make life, sometimes just a simple gesture says so much.
I was transferred out of primates and lost my status as ‘gorilla-keeper’ but not my paycheck. It was the least they could do after what I’d endured. But secretly I missed my Cecile, and every year on her birthday I buy myself a little cake to celebrate. My newest job is the in elephant compounds. And I have to admit, there is a pretty pachyderm that’s had her eye on me.
No comments:
Post a Comment