MONO ISSUE 1 PDF FLIPBOOK - Flipbook - Page 25
THE SQUEAKY CHAIR OF RESPONSIBILITY
by Mark Jabaut
I ARRIVE AT work Thursday morning to find the Primate House in a cyclone of activity. The
custodial staff are running around like a colony of ants, climbing on the walls and standing on the
windowsills. The usual simian pungency of the place is suffused with the burnished smell of fresh
blood. The only sounds are the grunts and mutterings of the men mopping and squeegeeing.
The monkey explosion of the previous night has left the building a mess. Furry severed limbs lay
everywhere, and exotic viscera coats the walls. I kick an unrecognisable organ out of the way as I
enter – a liver? kidney? Some odd squish of meat exclusive to chimps? – and try not to breathe. The
air is thick with monkey despair.
One lone survivor – a juvenile macaque – sits quivering in a corner, soaked and dripping and
clearly in shock. It looks up at me as I pass, and I look away. With a few nods of encouragement to
the men with the rags and buckets, I glide through the main hall and open an Employees Only door
using my pass key. We upgraded all the security doors a few years ago to the newfangled electronic
ones, so as far as entry and exit, we are a zoo on the technological forefront. I stop in front of my
boss’s door and knock.
“Come in,” I hear him mumble from behind the frosted glass.
“Mr. Taylor,” I say as I enter, “I came as soon as I heard.” Mr. Taylor is planted behind his desk in
the squeaky wood recliner purchased at Office Junction fifteen years ago – the one that screeches
every time he moves. It is the one anachronism in this modern zoo. His head is in his hands. Mr.
Taylor is a kindly old man who somehow found himself in charge of our zoo. I’ve always thought he
would be better suited to being a docent at a stamp museum, or something similarly exciting, but he
tries his best and personally feels every defeat. He was not built for the political intrigue of zookeeping.
“Oh, Wally,” he moans. “The horror.” He lifts his eyes to mine, and I can see that he has been
crying. The chair squeaks. “Those poor creatures. How could this happen?” I could go into an
explanation of simian volatility and the physics of monkey detonation, but I know that is not what he
is asking. I try to buck him up by focusing on the positive.
“The custodians are busy cleaning up, Sir,” I say. “They’re wiping down the walls and windows
and mopping the floors. They should have everything back to ship-shape by lunchtime. We’ll only
lose a couple of hours of guest time.”
“But what will our visitors see?” he nearly wails. “It will be an empty building – silent and
brooding like a tomb.”
“Mr. Taylor,” I say, “we’ll figure something out. There was one survivor – a young macaque, I
think, although it was hard to tell as he was drenched in blood. We’ll feature him! We’ll showcase
him as a Darwinian miracle!” My promotional wheels are beginning to turn and I’m realising we
could leverage this tragedy into an asset.
“No one wants to see a bloody macaque,” squeaks Mr. Taylor. “People come to the zoo to see
happy animals: chittering, playful chimps and the like. That macaque’s got to be pretty morose. He’s
not going to feel like chittering or swinging on his tyre any time soon.” His head goes back into his
hands.
“We’ll get him cleaned up,” I say. “I’ll call June.”
Mr. Taylor raises his head, and the chair emits an amiable squeal. June is a miracle worker. She’s
helped me out several times when a lion was looking mangy, or an elephant had a bad case of
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