Bronx Zoo, Part I

I have never been to New York City. But I have been to the Bronx Zoo.

Before you start classifying me with the geographically challenged or the hopelessly senile, I admit that I am
aware that the Bronx zoo is in New York City. I mean, as far as I can tell. But when you are five years old and Dad tells you that you are going to the zoo, everything else gets blocked out of your five-year-old brain. There are no memories in my present-day brain of New York City. The Bronx Zoo, on the other hand . . .

Traveling across the state border was always a big deal to us Kids. To be honest, traveling into Springfield, the closest Big City, was a big deal; going to Connecticut or New York meant entering a whole new realm, a different country. And it usually meant loading the Van with chips, sandwiches, lemonade, and other choice foodstuffs. Whether our destination was the beach or Dad's hometown of Chester, Connecticut, the trips made themselves memorable for high-level excitement and Doritos crumbs.

So one day Dad decided to take us to the Bronx Zoo.

Mom tried to reason with him: "How are you going to keep an eye on them? What if they get in the lions' cage?"

Dad grinned. "Don't worry, I'll tell the zoo I'll replace the lions."

Mike, the Eldest, slipped the Walkman headphones off his ears for a second and asked, "Dad, how long is this ride going to be? An hour?"

"You better get some more tapes for your Walkman, son," said Dad. "It's a three-hour ride as the emu flies."

Mike stared at the ceiling momentarily before slouching out to re-fill his backpack.

"What are we gonna do for three whole hours?" Mary, Second Eldest, asked her junior associates Rob and Bill as the three of them made sandwiches to fill the van's cooler. Rob was busily suffocating the inside of the rolls with mayonnaise and then stacking the thick sandwiches in a precarious leaning tower on the counter. At his side, Bill struggled to stick the rolls into plastic wrap. His left-handedness made his left elbow a continuous danger to the stack of sandwiches.

"Maybe we can play cards in the back of the Van," Rob ventured, holding the dripping mayonnaise knife thoughtfully in mid-air. "We could gamble for Doritos. What say you, Billy?"

Bill's elbow narrowly missed the sandwich tower in his attempts to stuff a particularly obese sandwich into its shroud of plastic. "If we gamble for Doritos, I want to be in charge of the bag. You were eating them the whole time we were playing the last time, you cheater. And I don't want to be the one picking Doritos off the floor of the Van. It's Mary's turn for that."

"I am not messy like you two pigs," Mary protested. She laid a perfectly-wrapped sandwich into the cooler to prove her point. Rob took this opportunity to wipe the mayonnaise knife on the back of Mary's shirt. In the ensuing commotion Bill's elbow hit the sandwich tower and the floor was littered with onion, cinnamon, and whole wheat rolls.

Mom swept into the room, told Mary to change her shirt, sent Rob to clean out the Van, made sure Bill was finishing up making the rolls, and turned to look at Dad who had just entered the room and was watching the scene bemusedly.

"You better pay them double for those lions," Mom told him.

Dad laughed and went to bring the cooler to the Van.