A twitch has developed at the corner of my left eye. I note the involuntary fluttering of the muscle beneath my skin. It happens in fits, twitching for several minutes at a time, then subsiding for a half hour or so before it starts up again. I wonder if this is an early sign of an approaching mental breakdown.
Chance is perched atop the back of my armchair; the upholstery is now peppered with talon punctures. I sit on my couch, eating dry Cocoa Puffs from the box with one hand and watching an old episode of Cosmos. Usually the show is effective at reducing anxiety—remembering the vastness of the universe helps me put my own problems in perspective—but today, it’s not working.
A week has passed since I lost my job. I’ve turned in over a hundred applications, and so far, no one has called me. I’m down to my last few boxes of cereal, my checking account is empty, and despite my cleaning efforts, my apartment is always covered in mouse blood, feathers, and bird shit. By now, it’s probably not an exaggeration to say that I’m living in the midst of a biohazard. I douse the apartment with pine-scented aerosol spray to mask the smell.
I reach into the box again, and my hand comes out empty. I upend the box, collecting the last bit of chocolate-flavored sugar dust from the bottom, then lick my palm clean. I feel disgusting. I am disgusting. But I’m not about to waste precious calories. My ribs are already showing.
There’s a sudden, loud knocking. I give a start, and Chance’s head swivels toward the door.
“Miss Fitz?” It’s Mrs. Schultz, the landlady. Her full, booming voice cuts through the silence. “Miss Fitz, may I speak with you?”
I swallow the half-chewed lump of cereal in my mouth. It sticks in my throat. Of course I know what she wants to talk about. She’s already left three voice mails about rent, which I’ve ignored, because I have nothing to tell her—or at least, nothing that would help my situation. I got fired for vigilante animal rights activity would probably not make her more sympathetic to my plight.
More knocking. “I know you’re in there. Do I need to keep shouting at you, or are you going to open this door?”
I look at Chance. If she sees him, I’ll be instantly evicted. “No.”
There’s a brief silence. When she speaks again, her voice is sharper, almost shrill. “You think this is some kinda joke?”
“No. I just don’t want to open the door right now. I’m—” I pause, fumbling for an excuse. “I’m in a robe.” It’s true, anyway.
She breathes a low, heavy sigh and mutters something incoherent under her breath, then raises her voice again. “You know that your rent’s overdue, right?”
“Yes.”
Chance shifts his weight, talons flexing and clenching. I grip the armrest. Please don’t start shrieking.
“Well, have you got the money?”
“No.” I swallow. I need to offer her some kind of explanation; she won’t let up, otherwise. “I lost my job at the zoo. But I’m going to get another one soon. I’ve been sending in job applications every day.” Even if I leave parts blank, it still counts. “I’ll get you the money. I just need a little more time.”
There’s a long pause. “I’ll give you till the end of the month. After that, you’re gonna be looking for a new apartment. You understand?”
My throat cinches shut. I swallow a few times, trying to loosen it. “I understand.”
“Good. ’Cause I’m not playing around.” There’s a pause, then: “What’s that smell?”
I look at the white-spattered newspapers and the small, compact clump of glistening rat intestines near the foot of my coffee table. I’m normally not good at lying on the spot, but there happens to be a commercial for Burrito Mania on TV. The cartoon burrito dances around, grinning as the camera floats over a plate of enchiladas smothered in something orange. In a burst of inspiration, I say, “I had Mexican takeout last night. It affects my digestion.”
This is also true, though if my gas actually smelled this potent, it would be a sign that I needed urgent medical attention. I can only hope she’ll believe the excuse.
“Christ on a cracker,” she mutters. The floorboards creak under her receding footsteps.
I exhale slowly. Whether she believes me or not, it seems I’ve been granted a temporary reprieve . . . but I now have a deadline. The end of the month. Fifteen days.
Chance watches me. His inner eyelids flick back and forth.
More than once, I’ve gotten so low that I’ve thought about calling Dr. Bernhardt and asking for help. But he’s no longer my guardian; he has no obligation to help me. What could he do, anyway?
I grab my coat and decide that I’m not going to come back to my apartment until I’ve found a job. If I’m evicted, there’s no telling what will happen to Chance. It’s not just my own home at stake; it’s his, too.
If I could just set him free, this would be much simpler. But of course, that’s not an option. Chance might survive a few weeks in the wild, if he was lucky. But eventually he’d die of starvation, if another predator didn’t grab him first.
I wonder if there is any place in the world for a creature so fierce, yet so in need of care.
As I’m walking, my phone rings.
“Hello?” It’s a man’s voice. I don’t recognize it. “Miss, uh, Alvie Fitz?”
“Y-yes.”
“This is Maxon’s Burgers. We received your application. Looks like you’ve got some experience working with customers, and we need a position filled ASAP, so—are you available for an interview later today?”
So soon. The world seems to be turning slowly around me. “Yes, I’m available,” I say, trying to keep my voice from shaking.
“Great. How’s three o’clock?”
I agree and hang up. For a moment, I can’t remember how to breathe, then I suck air into my lungs with a whoosh.
I can do this.
I arrive at the restaurant at exactly three o’clock. The walls are covered with old Coca-Cola advertisements and Japanese movie posters for Godzilla and Mothra and a replica of the Mona Lisa with a mustache. There’s a carousel horse in the lobby and a bicycle hanging from the ceiling and a string of green Christmas lights. Trying to make sense of it hurts my brain, so I just focus on the space directly in front of me and avoid looking at the walls. My palms are slick with sweat, so I dry them on my pants.
The manager sits across from me at a small table in the mostly empty restaurant, looking over my answers. He has a little goatee and a pair of black-framed glasses that catch the light. “This is only part-time, you know,” he says, “and only for the holiday season. We need cashiers. You’ll have to work weekends, evenings.”
“My schedule is open.”
“Good. Aside from that, you know, just be fun, engage with the customers.”
Being fun is not my strong suit, but I nod anyway.
“I’ll just ask you a few questions. Pretty routine stuff,” he says, folding his pudgy, soft hands in front of him. “What does good customer service mean to you?”
To me? What a strange question. The definition of words is not up for negotiation. I roll my eyes toward the ceiling, thinking. “Customer service,” I say, “is a series of actions intended to enhance customer satisfaction before, during, and after a purchase. Good customer service would mean that these actions are completed successfully.”
“Uh-huh.” He clears his throat. “So what does that mean to you?”
I start to tug on my braid, then lower my hand. “I don’t understand.”
“How do you see yourself making customers happy? Giving them the Maxon’s experience?”
I blink a few times. A bead of cold sweat trickles down the center of my back. Already, I sense, I’m not doing very well.
“Uh . . . Miss?”
I close my eyes. “Wait.” Visualize a successful encounter.
About twenty seconds later, I open my eyes. “They come in and eat. They get precisely what they ordered. The steak fries are not soggy. The burger is cooked medium well, as they specified. They consider the prices reasonable. There are no surprises. They come to the register to pay. I ask them how their meal was. They say it was fine. I give them their change, and it’s correct. I say, ‘Have a nice day.’ They leave the restaurant.”
He stares at me for a moment, his mouth slightly open. “Okay. That was . . . very specific.” He clears his throat. “And, uh, what are some things you enjoy doing, in your free time?”
What does that have to do with being a cashier? “I like reading about quantum theory, playing Go, doing puzzles, and watching nature shows.”
“Uh-huh.”
“I like animals. Especially rabbits.” I know this isn’t what he wants to hear about, but I’m nervous now; it’s harder for me to think of appropriate things to say, so words just rush out of my mouth, like air rushing to fill a void. “One of the rarest species is the Sumatran striped rabbit. It’s nocturnal and very timid. The local people don’t have a name for it because they don’t even know it exists.”
“Okay. I think that’s all we need. We’ll keep your application on file.”
There’s a little twinge of panic in my chest. When people say that, what they mean is: We’re never going to call you. “Did I do something wrong.”
“Well . . .”
“I know I’m not good at interviews, but I can do the job, I promise. I can work any shifts you need. Give me a chance. Just one day.”
He shakes his head. “I’m sorry. It’s nothing personal. You’re just not what we’re looking for.”
I leave the restaurant.
This is nothing new, of course. All I want is a chance to work and be paid for that work, like the rest of the population. But I rarely get past the interview process.
As I drive back home, I play a Mozart CD.
It’s been speculated that Mozart had Asperger’s. Maybe he, too, had trouble expressing his thoughts, and music was the only way he could translate them into something the world could understand. Of course, there were times when he was quite clear. There’s a lesser-known canon called “Leck mich im Arsch” (translated, “Lick me in the ass”) whose lyrics consist of that phrase repeated over and over.
Once, in detention at my old grade school, I asked the teacher if I could play some Mozart while I did my homework. She said yes, and I played that canon on my CD player. And I didn’t get in trouble, because the teacher didn’t speak German.
Sometimes when I’m angry at the world, I play that song, and I feel a little bit better.
The sun sinks low in the sky, a tiny white circle burning through the clouds as I walk down the street, hands shoved deep into my pockets. A thin layer of sleet coats the pavement.
I pass a small red-and-yellow building with a fiberglass sculpture of a smiling rooster on the sign outside. CLUCKY’S CHICKEN, reads the sign. There’s a piece of poster board in the window, with the words NOW HIRING written in red marker.
I go in.
A few minutes later, I’m sitting at one of the crumb-covered tables in the lobby, filling out a simple one-page application. The manager, Linda—who has dark circles under her eyes and threads of gray in her hair—offers me an interview on the spot. She sits across from me at a table and looks over my experience. “A zoo, huh? Well, you’ll feel right at home here.” She laughs. I don’t understand the joke. “You got a car?”
“Yes.”
“Good. Can you start tonight? The cashier I had on schedule just quit, and no one’s available to take his shift, so I need someone to handle the dinner rush.”
My heartbeat quickens. This can’t be real. It seems too easy. “That—that sounds good.”
She slides a package across the table; a yellow uniform wrapped in transparent crinkly plastic. “Welcome to the crew.”
I change in the bathroom. The uniform feels stiff and starchy against my skin, and the hat is bright yellow with a red chicken’s comb on top. When I come in, Linda walks me through a door marked EMPLOYEES ONLY, into a steam-filled kitchen. There are apron-clad men and women working in back, frying chicken in vats of bubbling orange grease. One of the men grins at me, showing a flash of very white teeth, and says something in rapid Spanish. The others laugh.
A schedule hangs on the wall. Someone has scrawled the words FUCK CLUCKY’s across it in black marker.
Linda glances at it and laughs again. “That’s probably from Rob.”
I assume Rob is the one who quit today. I’m not sure how to respond.
She gives me a quick tour and shows me how to operate the register. “I’ll try to train you as we go, but we’re understaffed right now, so it’s going to be a little hectic. You take the orders, I tray them up. Just remember, after you repeat back the order, ask them if they want potato fingers with that.”
“What are those.”
“Fries. But don’t call them fries.”
Customers start filtering in. For the first hour or so, things go reasonably well. All I have to do is repeat their orders and hand them their change. Then more and more people crowd into the lobby, and it becomes harder to keep up. A long line forms. The clatter of dishes fills the kitchen, distracting me. Every sound is magnified.
“Do you want potato fingers with that,” I ask.
A man in a business suit scrunches up his forehead, and his toupee slides back. “I just ordered some.”
“I have to ask that every time. It’s a rule.”
“So . . . are you asking me if I want another order of them, or what?”
I freeze.
“Just give me the damn fries,” he says.
Linda, who’s been traying up food, has to go take care of an angry customer on the phone. I’m left alone. Each time I take an order, I have to turn around and scoop pieces of fried chicken, thin wedges of potato, and dollops of macaroni and cheese onto Styrofoam plates.
“Hey, hurry up!” someone shouts. “I’ve been waiting for fifteen minutes back here!”
I give a start and drop a piece of chicken on the floor.
The phone in the office is ringing again. I don’t know where Linda is. The oven keeps beeping, which means whatever’s inside it is done, but there’s no time to go back and get it. The smell of burning biscuits fills the air. My hands start to shake, making it difficult to scoop the right change out of the register.
At Hickory Park, whenever I got overwhelmed by crowds or noise, it was easy to find a secluded spot where I could get myself under control. Here, there’s nowhere to hide, no space to breathe. Things start to blur together as my body moves on autopilot. Clucky, the chicken mascot, grins at me from a poster on the wall. His face starts to melt, eyeballs dripping from their sockets like runny paint. Or maybe it’s my brain that’s melting. The people in front of me wiggle and warp, as if I’m looking at them in a fun-house mirror, and the walls bleed into a swirl of red and yellow. My skull has become an echo chamber, distorting every sound. Someone is shouting. Then lots of people are shouting. I’m falling, collapsing into myself.
My body moves of its own accord as I climb over the counter and push my way through the crowd, toward the doors. My own rapid breathing echoes in my ears, drowning out the noise. When my head finally clears, I’m huddled in a ball behind the Dumpsters out back, surrounded by soggy, crumpled balls of wax paper.
A few hours later, I give back my uniform, and Linda pays me in cash for my single night of work. Thirty-five dollars.
When I get home, there’s a note on the door: Several other tenants have told me there are strange noises coming from your apartment. They said it sounds like an animal. As you know, pets are NOT allowed. Please deal with this IMMEDIATELY. If I receive one more complaint, I’m shortening the rent deadline to NOW.
Lots of capital letters. That’s usually not a good sign.
When I open the door, Chance is sitting in his usual place on the back of the couch. He tilts his head, and for a moment, he looks almost concerned. His beak opens, like he’s about to ask me a question, but he just croaks. Gah-ruk. I have the sudden urge to clutch him tight and bury my face against his feathers, but I’d probably just get scratched.
I collapse into the chair.
I know what I should do. I should take him to a wildlife rehabilitation center, somewhere he’ll be truly safe. Expecting Chance to fill the void in my life isn’t fair to him.
“I have to let you go,” I whisper.
He yawns and preens his breast feathers. Hawks are immune to sentimentality.
Slowly I reach out. Stop. Then keep going. He fixes one brilliant copper eye on me as I hold out an arm. A current of recognition passes between us. Casually—as if he’s done it a thousand times—he hops onto my arm and grips it with strong talons. When I lower him into the carrier cage, he doesn’t struggle.
Chance’s thoughts and feelings may be different from mine, but I have no doubt that his inner world is as rich and complex as any human’s. In some way that I don’t have the words for, we are the same.
During the drive, he’s surprisingly calm and quiet.
My destination is Elmbrooke Wildlife Center—close enough to visit, and its staff has an excellent reputation. None of that stops me from feeling like I’m abandoning my friend.
If I were living in one of those animal movies, like Free Willy or Duma, Chance would have both wings, and I could just pull over into one of the nearby fields and let him out. He would fly away into the woods while inspiring music played in the background. The reality is far less satisfying.
I pull into the parking lot in front of Elmbrooke Wildlife Center—a small, yellow-brick building, surrounded by woods. I write Chance’s name on a slip of paper and stick it between the bars of the carrier door, then carry it across the lot, to the building’s entrance. On the other side of the window, the receptionist sits behind a desk, staring at her computer. I set the carrier down near the door and knock a few times. The woman starts to raise her head, but before she can get a good look at me, I turn and run back to the car. By the time she walks out and picks up the carrier, I’m already driving away.
My chest hurts.
This is better for Chance. I should be happy, but I’m not. I lost Stanley, I lost my job, and now . . . I want to break something.
An image flashes through my head—that stupid sign at Hickory Park Zoo, the one that advises visitors not to “anthropomorphize” animals by attributing feelings to them. I always fantasized about ripping it out and destroying it.
What’s to stop me now?
Night falls. Streetlights glow through the misty darkness, spots of yellow. Cars glide past like ghosts.
I park several blocks away and walk to Hickory Park Zoo. It’s deserted and locked up, of course. There’s only one security camera—the zoo can’t afford an elaborate system—and it’s easy to avoid. I climb the wire fence surrounding the property.
I wander the dark paths. The cougar looks up as I pass, her eyes yellow coins of reflected light. The hyenas stir in their enclosure and flick their ears toward me.
The sign stands in its usual place.
Happy? Sad? Mad? Attributing human feelings to animals is called—
I kick the sign post until the wood breaks.
I creep toward the fence, the sign tucked under one arm. The fence isn’t high. I can probably hurl the sign over the top, then climb.
Pale light touches the sky. Headlights. My heart pounds, and I quicken my pace, weaving through the maze of cobblestone paths. I round a corner—and freeze.
Two men in khaki-colored uniforms stand in the path, staring at me. I recognize their faces. Maintenance workers. Maybe Ms. Nell finally called someone to fix that clogged toilet in the bathroom.
I turn and start to run, but the taller man grabs my arm. The sign clatters to the ground. I twist, trying to free myself from his grip.
“What the hell are you doing here?” he asks.
I thrash and flail blindly.
“Jesus, what’s your problem?”
“Hey, I’ve seen her before,” the shorter man says. “She used to work here.”
He’s still gripping my arm. It hurts. “Let me go!”
“Tell us what you’re doing here, then I’ll let you go.”
But I can’t think, I can’t breathe while he’s touching me. I stomp on his foot.
“Ow! Shit!”
He releases me, and I bolt for the fence, but he runs after me and seizes me in a bear hug, pinning my arms to my sides. I struggle, kicking and screaming.
The shorter man stares at me and shakes his head. “How did this nutjob ever get hired in the first place?”
“Beats me.” His arms clamp tighter around me. “Hold still,” he growls. “You’re just making this worse for yourself.”
I scream.
The shorter man fishes a cell phone out of his pocket and dials. “Hey, Mrs. Nell? Sorry, Ms. Nell. We’ve got a trespasser. Yeah, it’s the chick with red hair and braids. What should we do with her?”
After kicking and struggling a while longer, I go limp with exhaustion. My vision blurs, and I seem to be sliding backward, down a long tunnel. The men are talking, but their voices sound muffled and distant, and I can’t make out the words.
They drag me to the office building in the center of the zoo. I’m no longer fighting or trying to run, but they push me into a closet and slam the door shut.
“Does it lock?” the taller man grunts.
“No.”
“Well, what are we supposed to do then?”
“Just wedge a chair under the knob.”
There’s a scrape of wood against tile. I ram my shoulder against the door, trying to force it open. It rattles but doesn’t budge. I try the knob, jiggling it, but it refuses to turn. No way out. I slump against the back wall. It’s dark, and the lemony smell of cleaning supplies hangs thick in the air. It makes me gag. I pound on the door.
“Keep it down, you. Nell says you’ve gotta stay here till the police show up.”
“Hey, when did they say they’d get here?”
“An hour or so.”
“An hour? Are you serious? This is an emergency!”
“Not according to them.”
I stop pounding and sink to the floor. A heavy numbness creeps over me.
“Hey,” the taller man calls through the door, “what were you planning to do with that sign, anyway?”
I don’t answer. My mouth opens, but all that comes out is a faint croak. The words won’t line up, won’t form proper sentences. “Lies,” I manage to whisper.
“What?”
“Don’t bother trying to talk to her,” the other says. “I don’t think anyone’s home upstairs.”
The blood pounds in my head, making me dizzy. A thin, reedy sound fills my ears, like an animal in distress, and I realize it’s coming from my own throat. I huddle in a tiny ball on the floor and begin to rock back and forth. I can’t stop myself. I rock harder and harder until my head is banging against the back of the closet.
“What’s she doing in there?” one man mutters.
“Just ignore her.”
The rocking speeds up. My head knocks against the wall again and again. Bang, bang, bang.
I’m glad they don’t open the door, glad they can’t see me like this, because I know what I look like. I look like what I am: an autistic girl having a meltdown.
My body won’t stop, so I let it go, rocking over and over until the pain numbs me and my movements slow, like a toy winding down. When it’s over, I am squeezed into a corner of the closet, fists bunched up and pressed against my temples, and the world is dark and still. The overpowering lemon smell still snarls inside my nostrils. A dull ache pounds in my forehead. When I touch the ache, my fingers come away wet with blood.
I do a few algebra problems in my head to make sure I don’t have a concussion. Breathing shallowly through my mouth, I press my ear against the door, but I can’t hear any voices or movement. I don’t know if the men are still there or if they left the office. For a few minutes I just sit, listening. The shuddering little gulps of my own breathing fill the silence.
I try the doorknob, but it won’t open. My hand falls, limp, to my side.
Soon the police will arrive. I’ve never been arrested, so I don’t know what will happen after that. Will they handcuff me? Will I have to spend the night in jail?
I try the knob again. I jiggle it. I kick the door and then kick it a few more times, and something jars loose and clatters to the floor. The chair? For a few minutes I stand motionless, holding my breath, but I still don’t hear anything from outside. I try the knob again. This time, it turns smoothly.
When I open the door, the office is empty, dimly lit by the faint sunlight spilling in through the window, and the chair is lying on the floor. I creep out of the closet, hunker down, and peek over the windowsill. Outside, I can see the men standing and smoking.
“How long has it been, anyway?” one says.
The other snorts. “Bet they don’t even show up. The cops in this city are a joke.”
Holding my breath, I duck back into the office. If I go out through the door, they’ll see me. I open the window on the opposite wall and squeeze through, then run and run until I reach the wire fence. I scramble over it and keep running until I find my car, parked on a narrow residential street.
I sag against the car, my body weighted with exhaustion, and close my eyes.
Will anyone come looking for me? I don’t think hunting down some crazy girl who broke into a zoo will be a big priority for the police. I try to remember where I dropped the sign, but it doesn’t matter. They’ll probably just put it back up tomorrow.
It’s started to snow. Fat, heavy flakes drift down from the sky and settle onto my hair and clothes. I watch them for a few minutes, then get into my car.
When I return to my apartment, there’s a bright yellow eviction notice on the door.