The next morning Jamie and I shared a cup of tea in the lobby. Mine was English Breakfast with a splash of milk and sugar. His was Earl Grey, condiments unknown. We walked Lydia, still clad in an evening gown, back to the hotel she should have been staying at. It cost us breakfast with Melanie, but we weren’t concerned. We knew our adventure wasn’t over quite yet.
When we got back into his car the 40s and the Steel Reserve sat waiting, no longer cold but still drinkable. We didn’t touch them. Instead we went and stopped at every Texas Historical Marker we could find between Austin and Fort Hood.
Not a single one was remotely historical.
The first started with, “According to Oral Tradition…” which I knew instantly to mean nothing of interest to me. The second we found contained the line, “rumor has it.”
I half expected to find a marker claiming how Sam Houston had fought a Cyclops on these hills, the leader of the demon horned Jews found roaming the lands. Or one simply saying, “Yeehaw!” I’m sure they’re further towards the coast though.
Jamie mentioned that a friend had claimed to know of a drive through Safari the town over. After failing to find it, we stopped by Hollywood Video for information and DVDs. The cashier gave us directions, a random man gave us attitude, and a woman said she was fairly certain there were no lions.
Mazda 3 in a safari? Entirely possible in Texas. I’d love to say that the animals were wild, varied, and awesome. But they were mostly diseased. Incestuous and horrid herds of deer molested the bars of food we had. Fly covered sheep, jumped on the car in an attempt to eat while indifferent buffalo grazed elsewhere. Donkeys stared blankly at windows and breathed heavy layers of moisture onto the glass. Even the singular lion was sad, lying angry or upset in his electric cage; he was able to watch the prancing of elk and ram alike, but could do nothing to slay them. The worst though, were the llamas. Llamas, in history and cartoon and even folklore are sweet, kickass animals whose main purpose is to rock out, carry lots of weight, and spit at you. These llamas were sinister. Not a one of them appeared healthy, and all seemed to be filled with malice toward the vehicle. Jamie and I quickly realized our folly in offering the demon beast’s food, and rolled up the windows with a quickness not seen before. But that didn’t stop the llamas, they boxed us in as one terrible camouflage faced llama, obvious their leader, stood in front refusing to allow us passage. It was only with a quick cracked window, a deft throw of pellets, and some excellent heel-toe action that we got out of there. And into the zebras.
Zebras, if you are unawares, are horses who have for whatever reason decided to dress like zig-zag lines and also treat you indifferently. Except these zebras. The zebra on the passenger side, where I was, felt nothing but admiration for me as he permitted me to pet his flank and feed him the remainder of my food.
But on the driver side was the antithesis of that gentle creature. It, besides having the exact opposite coloration in coat, wanted nothing to do with the food Jamie offered it. No, it wanted Jamie. As we started to drive off, all food expended, the zebra reached his huge horse-like head through the driver’s side window, and bit Jamie in the shoulder. I freaked out. Jumped in my seat and screamed “what the fuck!?” while Jamie made a sound halfway between pain and rage. I would like to say that he also slammed on the gas, spinning the tires and shooting rocks at a big fucking zebra face, but that didn’t happen. We were shocked, and rightfully so. Not even the lion gave us any flak as much as that zebra did. So we zipped off, exited the permissible safari zone, and parked. Deep, shallow breaths. Excitement to be alive, and not in confinement. And then we saw the extra exhibits.
A peacock. A sea turtle. A white rabbit. Two tigers, both angry. Some wallabies and a kangaroo. More goats. A golden pheasant. And out of nowhere, a screaming angry I’d-Kill-You-If-Only-I-Could-Get-Out-Of-This-Cage Monkey. The little one, from Indiana Jones. Exact replica. Except instead of being nice and eating ppoisonous dates, this little jerk was screaming at me. I was simply standing, wondering why it was so mad. Mad enough to attack the rope next to it in fury. Mad enough to jump across the entire pen and shake the bars with its little monkey hands. Mad enough to climb, limb over limb, to the bottom of the pen, claw at the ground, climb back up, and chuck a handful of dirt at my chest.
“Fuck you, monkey!” I shouted in retort.
Hours later I was still furious. Still bitching. “I can’t believe that little fucking monkey threw dirt at me. What a fucking prick.”
“Bro, let it go. You keep talking like that, and the monkey wins.”
