"Untitled" by Mary Barbero
by James Callan
My day begins with AC/DC, with cleavers and saws. The sounds of men. The echoes of industry. In the food prep room, among my fellow zookeepers, we great apes ritualize the morning with rock ‘n roll. We are butchers. We are chefs. We are evolved beings of the highest order. I never thought it would be like this: so many dispirited animal faces looking to me like I am their god. I never dreamed it would turn out like this: my dream job a drudgery steeped in sorrow.
If there is solace to be found at the zoo, it is with the red pandas. Among the bamboo shoots and tall trees there is a vertical splendor that opens out into a wide, kaleidoscopic portal—crisp blue sky, a bright patchwork between dense foliage and varicose, black branches. In the nook of a tree, curled up and asleep, or perhaps descending a wide trunk to approach for inspection, they pepper the canopy, prominent, yet somehow inconspicuous: flame-orange fire foxes, live embers among the leaves. Impossibly cute, vividly beautiful, they dot the woodland awning, a bold smear of bright turmeric against a hundred shades of green. Paradoxically, while searching for what by all accounts should be glaringly blatant, it is like scanning a chaotic page of Where’s Waldo; those little fuckers are hard to find! But when you spot them, they carry with them a sense of complacency, of inner peace. They blink slowly in the sun, seemingly joyful, a rarity among the zoo inhabitants.
It is never a displeasure to arrive at the red panda’s little slice of faux Nepal. The imitation Himalayan forest provides an adequate sense of majesty, if small. The pagodas and prayer wheels somehow avoid feeling gimmicky. Here, the Tibetan flare adds charm and more of that tranquility that seems to come with being near the red pandas. Tattered, sun-bleached prayer flags whip in the wind. A man-made waterfall provides hypnotic white noise to drown out the distant urban echoes, the excited comments of patrons that goggle on the fringes.
I take a deep breath and close my eyes. I open them and look to the sky. I see Himalayan giants making a mockery of the clouds. I see infinite ranges, folds of towering rock, that only gods could sculpt. Here, among the recumbent fire foxes, I do not see the zoo, which makes it my favorite place in the zoo.
Six ethereal swathes of molten-hued majesty dance or sleep in the trees, Hindu spirits or woodland fairies, sentinels of the forest, luminous ghosts as radiant and pure as fire. Half a dozen red pandas in all, they are divided into three separate enclosures, a trio of pairs, male and female. They are segregated to keep from maiming each other, from tearing each other to bits. Highly territorial, solitary animals, red pandas only seek the company of others during mating season. Like me, introverted and grouchy, they only want company when it means sex.
To ensure the neighboring pairs do not mix, branches are cleared along the borders of each individual containment, divided at ground level by six-foot, metal-plated walls, impossible for claws to find any purchase. Along the top of the wall, a live, electric wire stretches taut, frequently shorted by rainfall or fat, dead spiders. I do not know the voltage, but I’ve been electrocuted more than once. It isn’t especially fun.Six red pandas and not a single one named after a Disney character. At the zoo, these odds are unheard of. Just another thing to like about these magical creatures.
Parvati is wrapped into herself, her feather duster tail blanketing her body. Up in the trees, aglow, like amber held up to the sun, she basks in the late summer rays. She has a distinct, dominantly white face, which brings out a certain wisdom in her dark eyes. As I approach with a tray of food, cut fruit and yams, Parvati unfolds her cinnamon-bun self and stretches, elegant and unhurried.
By contrast, Shiva darts from his lofty resting place. He scrambles across a branch, descending a wide trunk, face down, and scurries over to me with an eager expression. His face is alive for his favorite moment of the day, his very favorite thing in all of his rather small world: food. But there is something in Shiva’s fervor that lacks the well-known zombie charge for mealtime so common among the zoo’s animal residents. This is not Shiva’s only moment to live for. Not like it is for the servals, who pace in puddles of urine within their off-display, supposedly temporary, jail cells, month after month after month. For those poor wretches, the chicks and pilchards are the one distraction to a pitiful existence.
But not so for Shiva. For the cutest deity you’d ever imagine, food is a joy to look forward to. This is why I smile when I see him snake down a tree and bound with great speed toward my offering. This is why Shiva should not be pitied for his automatic, frantic haste, his response to a treat. Or maybe because he is the god of destruction and could end the zoo, end us all, end everything in all the cosmos at a whim. Thankfully for mankind—bananas, apples, and a bit of yam do much to subdue.
I brace for Shiva’s approach, then Parvati. I hold out my arms to balance the tray of food, and I plant my feet, wide and firm. Without breaking pace, both red pandas climb up my legs, ass, back, and perch upon a shoulder. Shiva to my left, Parvati to my right, in this moment I am a living totem of Hindu majesty. I offer both god and goddess morsels, which they take with their paws, surprisingly deft and covered completely in fur, even the toes and the palms.
From above, zoo patrons ooh and aah. They take pictures and point and lean far out over the pagoda wall. I put on a show, offer up a few facts. I am told, each time, “You have the best job in the world,” and I agree with them. I forgo the behind-the-scenes details, the malaise that wracks your soul, the gloomy boredom that festers in tame hearts, once wild, that now beat without purpose. I do not taint a visitor’s zoo experience by explaining to them that a dark, odious cloud of discontent pervades each moment and every inch within and around the zoo. “I sit at a desk all day,” someone pines, “and you juggle raccoons!” Red pandas do resemble raccoons. I do not correct him. “Yes,” I always lie with a smile. “I have the best job in the world.”
With a glorious god on one shoulder, a shining goddess on the other, this is my dismal job at its best. This is one of those rare moments that occasionally have me believing it’s all worthwhile. I set the tray down for supreme beings to serve themselves. I wave to the crowd and leave to feed the other two pairs of red pandas, who eye me from tall canopies across the six-foot wall.
Next door, I attend to Shiva and Parvati’s son, Elvis Presley, who is a god in his own way. Immortal, anyhow. His mate, Red Ghost, is the most striking among the six. Her coat transcends orange. It is practically fire engine red. These two are young and full of verve. I leave my offerings and move on.
At the far end, furthest from view from the pagoda, the ancients hobble and exchange sagacious teachings, life lessons, and lore. Jay and Ruth, arthritic oldies. Wizened and slow, they are the cutest of all.
I help Jay onto my lap and allow Ruth to eat from the floor, as is her preference. I listen to their labored breathing and watch toothless gums mash the soft fibers of canned pineapple and green grapes. I wipe away the rivulets of sticky fluid, fruit juice and saliva, which streams in profusion over their faces and dribbles over their chins. I feel old bones, like tent poles, protruding just beneath a scruffy sheen of orange fur. Rheumy eyes smile up at me as my own reflect the most adorable, perfect creature beaming back down upon itself.
I know this is a special moment, but I don’t suspect it will be the last. Yet the next day, as I bring the early morning rounds of fresh cut bamboo to the red pandas, there lies Jay and Ruth, curled together as one. In the night, as they slept, they had expired. Together, under infinite stars, they left this world behind.
If there is solace to be found at the zoo, it is with the red pandas. Among the bamboo shoots and tall trees there is a vertical splendor that opens out into a wide, kaleidoscopic portal—crisp blue sky, a bright patchwork between dense foliage and varicose, black branches. In the nook of a tree, curled up and asleep, or perhaps descending a wide trunk to approach for inspection, they pepper the canopy, prominent, yet somehow inconspicuous: flame-orange fire foxes, live embers among the leaves. Impossibly cute, vividly beautiful, they dot the woodland awning, a bold smear of bright turmeric against a hundred shades of green. Paradoxically, while searching for what by all accounts should be glaringly blatant, it is like scanning a chaotic page of Where’s Waldo; those little fuckers are hard to find! But when you spot them, they carry with them a sense of complacency, of inner peace. They blink slowly in the sun, seemingly joyful, a rarity among the zoo inhabitants.
It is never a displeasure to arrive at the red panda’s little slice of faux Nepal. The imitation Himalayan forest provides an adequate sense of majesty, if small. The pagodas and prayer wheels somehow avoid feeling gimmicky. Here, the Tibetan flare adds charm and more of that tranquility that seems to come with being near the red pandas. Tattered, sun-bleached prayer flags whip in the wind. A man-made waterfall provides hypnotic white noise to drown out the distant urban echoes, the excited comments of patrons that goggle on the fringes.
I take a deep breath and close my eyes. I open them and look to the sky. I see Himalayan giants making a mockery of the clouds. I see infinite ranges, folds of towering rock, that only gods could sculpt. Here, among the recumbent fire foxes, I do not see the zoo, which makes it my favorite place in the zoo.
Six ethereal swathes of molten-hued majesty dance or sleep in the trees, Hindu spirits or woodland fairies, sentinels of the forest, luminous ghosts as radiant and pure as fire. Half a dozen red pandas in all, they are divided into three separate enclosures, a trio of pairs, male and female. They are segregated to keep from maiming each other, from tearing each other to bits. Highly territorial, solitary animals, red pandas only seek the company of others during mating season. Like me, introverted and grouchy, they only want company when it means sex.
To ensure the neighboring pairs do not mix, branches are cleared along the borders of each individual containment, divided at ground level by six-foot, metal-plated walls, impossible for claws to find any purchase. Along the top of the wall, a live, electric wire stretches taut, frequently shorted by rainfall or fat, dead spiders. I do not know the voltage, but I’ve been electrocuted more than once. It isn’t especially fun.Six red pandas and not a single one named after a Disney character. At the zoo, these odds are unheard of. Just another thing to like about these magical creatures.
Parvati is wrapped into herself, her feather duster tail blanketing her body. Up in the trees, aglow, like amber held up to the sun, she basks in the late summer rays. She has a distinct, dominantly white face, which brings out a certain wisdom in her dark eyes. As I approach with a tray of food, cut fruit and yams, Parvati unfolds her cinnamon-bun self and stretches, elegant and unhurried.
By contrast, Shiva darts from his lofty resting place. He scrambles across a branch, descending a wide trunk, face down, and scurries over to me with an eager expression. His face is alive for his favorite moment of the day, his very favorite thing in all of his rather small world: food. But there is something in Shiva’s fervor that lacks the well-known zombie charge for mealtime so common among the zoo’s animal residents. This is not Shiva’s only moment to live for. Not like it is for the servals, who pace in puddles of urine within their off-display, supposedly temporary, jail cells, month after month after month. For those poor wretches, the chicks and pilchards are the one distraction to a pitiful existence.
But not so for Shiva. For the cutest deity you’d ever imagine, food is a joy to look forward to. This is why I smile when I see him snake down a tree and bound with great speed toward my offering. This is why Shiva should not be pitied for his automatic, frantic haste, his response to a treat. Or maybe because he is the god of destruction and could end the zoo, end us all, end everything in all the cosmos at a whim. Thankfully for mankind—bananas, apples, and a bit of yam do much to subdue.
I brace for Shiva’s approach, then Parvati. I hold out my arms to balance the tray of food, and I plant my feet, wide and firm. Without breaking pace, both red pandas climb up my legs, ass, back, and perch upon a shoulder. Shiva to my left, Parvati to my right, in this moment I am a living totem of Hindu majesty. I offer both god and goddess morsels, which they take with their paws, surprisingly deft and covered completely in fur, even the toes and the palms.
From above, zoo patrons ooh and aah. They take pictures and point and lean far out over the pagoda wall. I put on a show, offer up a few facts. I am told, each time, “You have the best job in the world,” and I agree with them. I forgo the behind-the-scenes details, the malaise that wracks your soul, the gloomy boredom that festers in tame hearts, once wild, that now beat without purpose. I do not taint a visitor’s zoo experience by explaining to them that a dark, odious cloud of discontent pervades each moment and every inch within and around the zoo. “I sit at a desk all day,” someone pines, “and you juggle raccoons!” Red pandas do resemble raccoons. I do not correct him. “Yes,” I always lie with a smile. “I have the best job in the world.”
With a glorious god on one shoulder, a shining goddess on the other, this is my dismal job at its best. This is one of those rare moments that occasionally have me believing it’s all worthwhile. I set the tray down for supreme beings to serve themselves. I wave to the crowd and leave to feed the other two pairs of red pandas, who eye me from tall canopies across the six-foot wall.
Next door, I attend to Shiva and Parvati’s son, Elvis Presley, who is a god in his own way. Immortal, anyhow. His mate, Red Ghost, is the most striking among the six. Her coat transcends orange. It is practically fire engine red. These two are young and full of verve. I leave my offerings and move on.
At the far end, furthest from view from the pagoda, the ancients hobble and exchange sagacious teachings, life lessons, and lore. Jay and Ruth, arthritic oldies. Wizened and slow, they are the cutest of all.
I help Jay onto my lap and allow Ruth to eat from the floor, as is her preference. I listen to their labored breathing and watch toothless gums mash the soft fibers of canned pineapple and green grapes. I wipe away the rivulets of sticky fluid, fruit juice and saliva, which streams in profusion over their faces and dribbles over their chins. I feel old bones, like tent poles, protruding just beneath a scruffy sheen of orange fur. Rheumy eyes smile up at me as my own reflect the most adorable, perfect creature beaming back down upon itself.
I know this is a special moment, but I don’t suspect it will be the last. Yet the next day, as I bring the early morning rounds of fresh cut bamboo to the red pandas, there lies Jay and Ruth, curled together as one. In the night, as they slept, they had expired. Together, under infinite stars, they left this world behind.
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James Callan (he/him) grew up in Minnesota and currently lives on the Kāpiti Coast, New Zealand. His writing has appeared in Bridge Eight, White Wall Review, Maudlin House, Mystery Tribune, and elsewhere. He is the author of two novels, Neon Dreams (Atmosphere Press, 2021) and A Transcendental Habit (Queer Space, 2023).
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