He sees the decaying carcasses of the starved cats…
He listens to the terrifying stillness of the zoo and the surrounding City…
He feels his isolation now; and he remembers being the City's apparently sole survivor of the Ebola 135 Pandemic that raged around the world, sweeping over the Bay Area a little over a month ago.
Then, Devlin forces himself to peer down into the empty eyes of the little corpse in the wheelchair…and he moans his despair. "No, I never had the chance to know you, Robbie. It isn't fair."
It is all too much for him—the mind-boggling guilt the last straw.
Devlin blinks, and with a major effort of will, he re-gathers his own version of reality tightly around himself, an invisible cloak, shielding him against all the horrors of the City, including his dead family…
***
The big male roars frighteningly.
And Robbie stirs in his chair.
"Ohhhh…" the boy groans with delight.
The sound is like a Clapton guitar riff to Devlin's ears.
"Scary, huh, dude?"
"Scaaar-ee," Robbie manages, his face contorted into a drooling grimace of intense pleasure.
Devlin basks in his son's delight, thinking, I knew it! I knew today would be the day.
"C'mon, let's check out the leopards," he says, the euphoria surging through his body, as he pushes the wheelchair toward the next habitat.
"Ohhh, booy!" Robbie shouts, contractures of excitement stiffening his body, raising him slightly off the seat of the wheelchair.
***
They see it all,
every
animal exhibit, Devlin chattering excitedly, Robbie answering back as best as he can manage, more than matching his father's enthusiasm.
A great outing.
***
"Well, I guess it's time to make tracks for home, son," Devlin announces after checking his watch: 4:45.
Robbie groans.
And Devlin silently agrees with his son's disappointment, but he knows that Lil will be growing anxious if he gets the boy back even a few minutes late for dinnertime.
"Hey, how about we go over to Golden Gate Park next week, Rob. Check out the Aquarium, Natural Science Museum…"
"Yeaaah, Daad," Robbie says
almost
clearly, his arms waving about out of control.
Devlin beams to himself.
***
After dropping his son off at the townhouse, Devlin drives back toward his apartment, through the City empty of people, maneuvering his way around the abandoned cars, ignoring the prevailing stench, enjoying what is left of the beautiful pollutant-free day…
***
8:30 pm
Devlin looks out his apartment's picture window, admiring the string of lights illuminating the Golden Gate, making the bridge look more red than orange as night falls. He nods to himself, unable to suppress a huge grin of contentment
It had indeed been one fine day at the zoo.
And next week, Golden Gate Park. Then Pac Bell, see the Giants. Maybe Lil would start going out with them, a family again.
Who knows where it would all end?
A merging of a modern institutional setting with two legendary figures from ancient mythology. I suppose at the time I wrote this story I was also interested in poetic justice. Another element of mythology
.
When Legends Die
…
Even a legend must eventually come to an end
…
Undiscovered Qumran Scroll
(Circa 250 B.C.)
I escape from group a few minutes early and hurry into the dayroom, planning to see the late afternoon edition of the news on T.V., hoping for a missing persons report with my photograph or anything with some clue to my background.
No such luck.
Three mousy-looking women are sitting in front of the T.V., two on the couch and one on the stuffed chair, with a psych tech standing behind them, all four watching one of the afternoon soap operas.
The psych tech turns when I enter the dayroom and offers an explanation, "Our T.V. is being fixed on B Wing, and the girls just had to see
Days of Our Lives
. Never miss a show. But it's almost over and you can have the T.V. back in a minute or so." She produces a fake smile of apology then turns back to the soap opera.
The girls—not one under forty—are not actually watching the program at all, only the psych tech. In fact the one sitting in
my
stuffed chair, the one with stringy, unwashed brown hair and an empty smile on her face, is gazing absently over the top of the set, rocking gently back and forth, her thoughts obviously a million miles from the stupid soap opera.
So, I stand and wait, looking about the dismal, nearly-empty dayroom: The flat-gray walls, not even decorated with a bulletin board, a pair of battered card tables along the far wall, one with a checkerboard and the other a greasy deck of cards, and in the far right corner a lopsided ping pong table, with no net, ball, or paddles.
I've never seen anyone use this stuff. Most of the residents are not competitive at all, but shy and reserved—oh, a guy was at the card table the other night, playing solitaire. Most of the floor space is cluttered with folding metal chairs. Finally, my gaze returns to the couch and two matching chairs in front of the T.V., all a faded brown and worn threadbare to an almost junkyard condition.
Ah, finally the ending credits begin to roll.
The psych tech announces, "That's it today. C'mon, girls."
The two on the couch stand, ready to leave, but the spaced-out rocker ignores the tech.
"Okay, Margaret," the psych tech says in a slightly exasperated tone, "time to go home now." The tech touches Margaret's shoulder and she stops rocking. "C'mon, sweetie," the tech says in a more gentle, coaxing voice, "we're leaving."
Finally, Margaret rises and joins the others, after glancing once back in my direction.
Co-educational dayroom?
Seems inappropriate for a male, medium security ward at a State Hospital. Yet the three dowdy women do appear to fit in, even the psych tech; they complement the sterile drabness of the room. So, I guess finding women in the dayroom is really not so shocking after all.
In fact, now that I think about it, someone in group said that group was always co-ed on Friday afternoons, and one of the residents even mentioned a dance every other Saturday night. I wonder if Margaret dances. The thought chokes me up, almost makes me laugh aloud.
I shrug off the logical contradiction of finding females on an all male ward in a State Hospital and move closer to the T.V., a new big-screen Mitsubishi, which does seem out of place in the lifeless dayroom.
Just as I touch the dial to change channels, a voice announces over the P.A., "Medication."
And behind me a booming voice adds, "That's right, meds."
I glance back over my shoulder.
It is Nurse Mel.
She stands in the doorway in her crisp, white, spotlessly clean uniform—all of six feet tall—hands on hips, as if just daring me to ignore her and the announcement. An imposing symbol of authority indeed.
"John Doe, are you coming?"
I reluctantly nod and turn off the T.V.
Of course my name is not John Doe—at least, I don't think so. That's why I wanted to see the news and a possible missing persons announcement. I've been here almost a week, a paragraph in the Napa
Register
last Monday stating I was found wandering about nude under the Third Street Bridge late Sunday evening, confused and amnesiac, no clue to my identity yet revealed.
But no one has told me exactly what specific behavior brought me here, committed to the State Hospital. What did I do, if anything? I'm not insane—at least not now, when compared to most of the other residents.
Maybe it's just the memory thing. Because I still don't seem to know who I am, or where I come from, or where I belong. I can't remember
anything
before seven days ago. Dr. Jones promises that little things—tidbits, as he calls them—about my past will begin to pop back into my head any time now. But so far he's been wrong.
Nothing.
So, I have no past, and maybe no future, if I don't get out of here soon.
There have been some significant changes though in the last week. My senses seem to be grower keener each day, especially a kind of hyper acute sense of smell, and I have a great, almost overwhelming yearning…Not a mental kind of thing, but a more basic, physical need, a tactile, kinesthetic hunger, a molecular desire that silently screams across my synapses—a deep, constant need that has heightened in intensity each day of my seven day awareness.
But a hunger for
what
?
Something I'm missing, obviously.
Special food? Drink? Dope? Sex?
Maybe just my freedom from this depressing place…I'm not sure.
"Hurry
up
, John, they are almost through giving out the cups," Nurse Mel snaps at me over her shoulder, as if I am an infant dawdling at a playground sandbox when it's time to leave, and she is my nanny.
I obediently follow her out of the dayroom down the hall to the Dutch door where they dispense medication in paper cups.
Then, I get at the end of the line for my cup, which contains one large red pill and two tiny blues. Most of the other residents, some with years of practice, can swallow their meds dryly. Not me. I go to the fountain down the hall and wash the blues down with several gulps of water, repressing a gagging reflex when the red lodges for a moment in my throat.
That's when I notice the visitors in civilian clothes with Dr. Jones. Half a dozen young people, all jotting notes in opened binders—probably Napa Valley College students.
My gaze is drawn to an attractive young woman: Tightly curled auburn hair framing her oval face, high cheekbones, full sensuous lips, modest breasts and hips just barely contouring a tall, lanky runner's body. She is standing at the back of the group—not shyly, more like reserved—and my nostrils flare as I pick out her distinct private scent among the mixed deodorant, soap, shaving lotion, and cologne smells. A heavy, musky, salty, tantalizing
she
smell. It makes my nostrils twitch, my throat constrict so I can barely breathe, and my eyes water.
I blink.
And
those
eyes—her most prominent physical feature is her fiery emerald gaze, which locks on to mine unflinchingly.
Now, I understand the true nature of my lingering cellular need.
It flares almost to a painful level of intensity, as she inspects me curiously without the slightest pretense of shyness or coyness. Not the gaze of a naive college student, especially one attending a small, backwater community college.
No, indeed.
We finally break eye contact, as Dr. Jones moves the group by me at the drinking fountain, down past the Dutch door; and they disappear into the dayroom, leaving her
she
smell lingering in the air around me.
Heavy.
Musky.
Strong.
I stand numbly, my nostrils twitching almost out of control, trying to deal with my throbbing intense need…a sexual craving—with a specific partner in mind. I feel a strong compulsion to chase down the group and physically assault the young woman on the spot. Of course, I remain frozen in place with an effort of will, my hormonal system in complete rebellion.
***
Later that night after lights are out, I have difficulty going to sleep. Finally, after an hour or so of tossing and turning, I manage to begin to drift off, but I linger in that twilight zone between wakefulness and sleep for a few moments…
Suddenly, I feel my inner, spiritual self leave my supine physical body on the bed, rising up and away.
In the dream I'm transformed.
I can fly!
And I'm moving through a thick mist completely nude, my body changed in addition to the wings. Shorter, stockier, much more powerful, skin dark—almost chocolate in tone—and tough as leather. Long, curving, yellow talons on my hands and feet. I have a strong scent—almost like an animal, a big cat. And I can't help but notice my impressive male genitalia, swinging heavily, as I fly through the fog…
***
Then, I am looking down on her in her bed—the auburn haired young woman from Dr. Jones' group of college students at med time. She is as lovely as before, except I can't see the remarkable green eyes, because she is asleep.
Suddenly her nostrils flare, and I know she has caught my strong scent. She moans as she stirs awake, her beautiful eyes snapping open. I expect her to react with fear, or at least surprise, at finding a stranger in her bedroom, especially someone in my transformed appearance—I can just imagine my grotesque facial features—as I hover over her, my leathery wing beats stirring the air into a whirlwind about her.
But
no
.
No terror, not even a trace of surprise on her lovely face. It's almost as if she expected me to visit, and recognizes me despite my transformed state.
Her eyelids droop and she smiles seductively, as she casually flips back the bed covers, exposing a flimsy, blue nightgown.
I can see her breasts through the sheer material, small and girl-like, but with large dark aureoles, prominent nipples pressing against the flimsy material. My gaze drops to her golden-reddish pubic triangle. My nostrils flare wildly, the whirling air thick with her musky
she
scent, and an animal-like growl rumbles up from deep in my chest. My vision tunnels, and overwhelming lust consumes me.
I drop down and tear away the dainty garment with one swipe of my clawed hand, completely exposing her breathtaking nakedness…and she just calmly gazes back.
We mate like two solitary big cats stumbling across each other in the darkness of the jungle night—a kind of snarling, frantic, excited, scratching and biting, slippery-wet, raw, rough copulation. Not one moment devoted to thoughtful tenderness. And like two beasts in heat, the first coupling lasts only a minute or so, before we finish, and burst apart, bodies bathed in sweat, both gasping loudly for breath.