Last night my very closest friend and I broke into the zoo to settle a bet about whether or not he could ride a giraffe. My personal opinion was that one cant ride a giraffe for any respectable period of time, and during that short time the giraffe probably wouldn't be very happy about it. My friend disagreed, stating giraffes could very well be the most ride-able animals in the animal kingdom but nobody has bothered to try, on account of their height and everything.
 Normally these kinds of conversations just come and go, providing temporary entertainment in conversation and nothing more. But wouldn't you know it the same night we had this conversation happened to be boxed wine night, and boxed wine can make you do some pretty funny things. An important thing to understand about boxed wine is that even when it seems like a good idea, it's not. It could seem like the best idea! It isn't. In fact I'd go so far as to say that the more excited you are about drinking boxed wine with friends the more likely you will be to commit a felony later that night. The reason boxed wine is such an instigator of bad news is because it's like regular wine, but it comes in a box. That doesn't make any sense. Bottles have been around for thousands of years and nobody has seemed to have any trouble with them. Why all of a sudden the need for a box? No other beverages come in a box. It's unnatural. Much like Capri Sun.
I forget how we came upon the nonsense in the first place. I think I had mentioned something about a camp I attended as a small child where they placed us on a horse and walked us in a circle for ten minutes. It was a pretty fair waste of time, nobody seemed too excited about the whole ordeal; not the campers, not the camp aids, and especially not the horse. Yet there we were, clambering on and off that big dumb animal like it was the most incredible experience of our life. Its amazing what youll throw yourself into when youre 9 years old.
"It's a shame they didn't let you ride a giraffe! That would have been a great time as a child!" And that was all that was said concerning the subject at the time, us being not even halfway through our first glass of the evil stuff. But later, when the box was getting noticeably lighter, he touched upon the subject again.
"You don't think I could ride a giraffe, do you!" he shouted. When people get to this point in a box of wine questions become accusations. To be honest the thought hadn't really crossed my mind up until that point. I'm not really one to tell a man what he can or cannot do, but he seemed pretty intent on the subject and I thought I'd offer my two pennies.
"Pffffft." I replied intelligently.
The pfffft sound is a sound all of us have made at one point or another in our lives and is conversely a sound we have heard in response to a statement we have made. It stands for one of three things 1.) You're full of shit. 2.) I don't give a shit. 3.) That shit is a bunch of bullshit.
In this case my pfffft was a hybrid of I don't give a shit and you're full of shit.
"Well I can. In fact I'll bet you $100.00 that I could ride a giraffe." My friend boldly claimed. I love these kinds of bets because he knew as well as I did that neither of us could produce $100. Maybe if we combined our bank accounts, but we'd probably still have to borrow a twenty from a friend.
"One hundred dollars!" I yelled, getting into the spirit of things. "Why not make it&One&THOUSAND!" If we were going to play make believe we might as well take it to the limit.
"Just fine! Let's go now. We'll borrow my neighbors ladder."
My friend leaps from the couch in a hustle and throws on his coat and gets his car keys. I tuck the boxed wine firmly underneath my arm and follow his lead. We trek across the front yard and bang on his front door.
"Neighbor!" my friend yells, alternately pounding on the door and mashing the doorbell.
"What is it!" The neighbor shouted from the second story window in lieu of answering the door. It was late after all.
"We need to borrow your ladder to settle a bet among men!" my friend was speaking unnecessarily loud, another sad benefit of boxed wine.
"He believes that he can ride a giraffe and feels the need to prove it to the sum of $1000.00." I explained, also loudly, and over emphasizing the sum of one thousand dollars because I believe for some reason it is a huge sum and we have a lot on the line, even though I am not going to pay him even if he does ride the stupid thing.
"I'll let you borrow the ladder if you take me with you..." the neighbor replied.
We both thought it best to have a third party as an unbiased witness. Not only that but 3 is always a better crowd than 2. It's more of a party that way. And with three people, when you tell a joke about one persons sister and they take it the wrong way, you can turn around and hold a conversation with the individual who was least offended instead of sitting there awkwardly.
Fifteen minutes and a few bathroom breaks later we're off. There was no room for the ladder in the Kia so we had to strap her to the top of the car and hold on. Wouldnt you know it this is against some law or another, or it just looks suspicious to the police, whatever the case may be we found ourselves pulled over feeling pretty nervous just after turning onto Rt 2. At least I was feeling nervous, my friend didn't seem phased at all bless his dear heart, even though he was drunk on boxed wine and gripping a ladder. At this point you might wonder why somebody else didn't drive. There is a perfectly good reason for my not having to drive, I was in charge of the boxed wine. As for the sober neighbor who we were taking a long as an independent witness, well there wasnt much of a good reason for him not driving. Good reasons and well thought out plans are few and far between when it comes to boxed wine. Anyhow my friend didn't seem phased at all. In fact he looked a little annoyed that the police officer would have the nerve to pull over a Kia full of drunk people with a ladder strapped to the roof, which I thought was the wrong approach to the situation.
"Where are you boys heading tonight?" Police always come at you with questions like that. "Who are you, where are you going, where are you coming from, is that a voice coming from your trunk?"
I imagine they teach cops this in the academy. When I was arrested in college the police officer used these same tactics on me in a game of psychological warfare for which I was not prepared. I was leaving a girls apartment at roughly 1:30 in the morning. It was early March in Athens, O.H. but there was still snow everywhere. I had a bottle of rum with me to make rum and coke. Ill spare you the details, but I was leaving sweaty and satisfied. I saw the bottle of rum on the kitchen counter. It was just a touch less than half full. I had a moment where I told myself to leave it. But it was college, it was rum, and it cost almost $8.00. You dont just leave $8.00 behind like that. With the number of police standing in the parking lot when I walked outside you would have thought there was a hostage situation. I never found out why there were 5 Police Cars sitting directly outside the door that night but it looked like Nelson Mandela was there and needed protection*. Staring down a handful of cops I did what any level-headed 20 year old would do. I checked the bottle into the snow and tried to run back into the building. The door was locked. The cop took his time moseying up behind me.
"Is that your bottle of liquor there son?" Right away with the questions.
"What bottle? That one?" I asked, trying to look around in confusion for the bottle that I just checked into the middle of the courtyard.
"Did you just throw that bottle over there?"
"Me? No. Never seen that bottle. Well, yes. I have seen that bottle. In fact I threw it. But it's not my bottle. I saw it laying on the ground when I walked outside coming from my church meeting, I picked it up because I wondered what it was, then I realized that it was alcohol. Which is bad. Bad. So I threw it back down."
"Son, would you like me to charge you with littering instead of underage consumption?"
"How much does that fine cost?" I think I threw him off for a second by playing the question game because he started to make a statement instead of ask a question but caught himself and just said
"Would you rather I just charged you with both counts?"
"Uhhhh." Eventually, when backed into a corner, I'll just stop talking and make "Uh" sounds. I still have to get that little incident taken off my record. The fine was $250 and 12 hours of community service. I'm looking for a new job right now and the incident still shows up on my record. What I did that night was wrong. I should not have been drinking underage. Furthermore, I should not have taken the bottle with me when I left the girls apartment. And finally, I should not have lied to the police officer when he questioned me, I should have been honest and forthright. Taking these facts into account I think we can all agree; fuck that guy.
The cop outside the Kia's window wasn't much different, and he didn't even mention the ladder, which might tell you something about his police work.
"We're going to the zoo. I'm going to ride a giraffe. This guy here doesn't think I can to the tune of a grand." My friend jerked a thumb at me like I was some sort of chump. Like I bet him dolphins swim in chocolate syrup.
"Impossible." The cop says.
"Another doubter!" My friend slaps the dashboard like they were old friends. He hadn't even showed his license yet.
"I assume that's what the ladder's for?" the officer said. He was a little more perceptive than I thought.
"Surely! You're welcome to join if you're a man who doesn't mind being proved wrong."
Well wouldn't you know it we're heading down Rt 2 with our very own police escort now. Incredible, the places boxed wine takes you. Now I haven't really engaged in any breaking and entering since I was a young man so I wasn't sure how to go about the whole thing. But I'll be damned if my buddy didn't just throw that ladder up against the first wall he found and shimmy right on over. For a brief second I got nervous, that kind of skill isn't learned on the monkey bars. Had he been breaking in to the zoo on his own time? Had he been practicing for this very day? We all followed suit, myself the neighbor and the cop. The only nerve racking part of the whole climb was the darkness we found on the other side. I truly had no idea how far the drop might be but my friend seemed to land without much trouble and I didn't want to catch any flack for being a chicken-shit. I was reminded of the last time I fell into the dark without knowing where it would end, but that was a flight of concrete stairs. Quite a bit different. You can imagine my relief when I landed in a pile of leaves on this occasion.
"I just want you guys to know" the police officer tells us "If we get caught I'll have to shoot one of you and claim self defense."
I was about to chime in about how maybe shooting us wasn't the best idea. Maybe he should hand cuff us instead. Use the stun gun if he really had to get physical to prove a point.
"That is totally understandable." My friend chips in. To further complicate matters we hear a bit of a growl. That's to be expected in a Zoo, mind you, a little purr here and there when you're around a bunch of animals shouldn't shock anybody. This growl, on the other hand, was a bit too close. Surely we weren't unfortunate enough to land in the Lions Den? Yet we were. This was nobody's fault but the boxed wine's.
I don't know if you've ever been stalked by a lion in the dark while drunk on boxed wine, but it's a whole new sensory experience. I read in a book one time about a place where you could go to dinner and eat in the dark. It was totally pitch black in the restaurant and they had a blind waiter bring you your food. It heightened the sensory pleasure for the diner or something. Well even thought I have never eaten in a pitch black restaurant (I'm one of those types who needs to see his food.) I can safely say the situation was exactly like that, except I don't think the lion would have any reservations about eating in the dark.
I have often wondered how I would react in a situation of great peril. I've read books and newspaper articles about men who, in the face of danger, showed superhuman strength and extraordinary bravery. On the inside I would like to think that I, too, would rise to the occasion. If it is in fact true that I might rise to an occasion it appears that this was not that occasion. I will say this, in spite of all the leaping, jumping, tripping and girlish screaming, I never dropped the boxed wine. I fell into the concrete pit that separated the lions den from the spectator area. I took quite a bruising but the box, although a little worse for wear, still held fast. The rest of the group came skittering down on their butts a few moments later, taking their time and making sure not to get their clothes dirty.
"Thanks for distracting the lion for our safety. I can't believe how close he got to eating you." the neighbor said.
"Yeah that was really close." The police officer agreed "I almost shot you just in case we were going to get in trouble."
"Why wouldn't you just shoot the lion?" I asked the cop.
"Who's asking the questions here?" The officer asked me, insinuating he was the one asking the questions even though he hadn't actually asked a question.
We propped the ladder against the other side of the concrete barrier and climbed into the spectators area, safely away from the lion pacing the line on the other side, looking rather disappointed we escaped. My buddy produced a zoo map and a mini flashlight from his back pocket. I never asked him how he was so prepared for this, but upon reflection it seems awfully suspicious.
"300 yards ahead and two clicks south. Once we pass Flamingo Paradise we're there." He told no one in particular.
We walked in a straight line carrying the ladder over our heads. I expected the Zoo to be a peaceful place at night, but it was actually quite noisy. One could hear the squawks of unidentifiable animals echoing throughout the park. Animals roared. Apparently when the visitors leave the animals party. I cold only imagine what the fish were up to.
"There is Betsy." My roommate pointed to the giraffe's striking figure in the dark. "It's go time, bitch." He stared me down. I had to avert my eyes. Something about this didn't feel right. Something felt like a set up.
Betsy ambled gracefully towards Harold, slowly lowering her long neck as she walked to give Harold a familiar nudge. Her black tongue flicking out and licking his face. He giggled like a small child playing with a puppy. All in all, it was a pretty gay site to watch.
A steady whirring noise rolled over the park area. It grew a bit louder as time passed, and soon the group was looking around at one another confused, trying to figure out what kind of animal made such a consistent sound.
"Shit." Tom the Neighbor pointed. There were headlights off in the distance. 200 yards away.
"You sons-a-bitches! I got ya now!" a security guard slammed his souped up golf cart into the chain link fence, knocking a portion of the fence to the ground. The vehicle lurched and bounced over the terrain, gaining speed.
"Yo! Harold, now is as good a time as any to get the hell out of here!" I yelled, shifting the boxed wine to a more comfortable position.
"This way!" Harold was making his way up the ladder, which was leaning against the erect giraffe. He got to the top and swung his leg over. I clambered up behind him, the boxed wine still tucked under my arm.
"You have to let the boxed wine go! We don't have the time!" Harold shouted down to me.
"Never!" I yelled, knowing he was right.
"Just let it go!"
"I love you boxed wine." I whispered, letting the box sail to the ground.
"Tom!" Harold yelled
"Tom! Let's go!" I added, just in case Tom wondered why we were calling his name.
Tom stood down there frozen, his eyes darting back and forth between us and the Super Cart. The cart crashed through a bit of brush roughly 100 yards away over a small hill, the cart hung suspended in midair for a moment. The park ranger gave a whooping yell as the cart came crashing down. Closer it may have sounded intimidating, but as the holler traveled across the open field it sounded like a small child throwing a tantrum.
"I'm tired of this running. I'm so tired. I almost gotten eaten by a lion. I had to punch a Koala Bear. And now, and NOW!" Tom was getting worked up. "You want me to ride a giraffe? No way. No way! I'm just going to tell this guys that it was a huge misunderstanding, pay my dues, and be done with this whole thing." Tom started moving towards the bright headlights with a zombie like gate. He looked defeated. His jacket was torn around his limp shoulders, he moved with a limp. His face was tired and what looked like a black tread mark ran across his face. I have no idea how he got any of these injuries, and kind of wonder when he had time to punch a Koala.
Tom the neighbor raised his hand toward the super cart, signaling for them to stop. Stating, with one gesture, that the entire thing was over. The cart slammed into him at 18 miles an hour, throwing him 15 feet to the side and breaking his pelvis, which I heard is a very uncomfortable thing to break.
"Oh!" Harold and I shouted at the same time but with different looks of horror and discomfort on our face.
"Jerry!" Harold shouted.
"Jerry come on!" I added.
"You know how I told you guys if shit hit the fan I would have to shoot one of you?" Jerry the Cop said, cocking his gun.
"Shoot him first this was totally his idea!" I yelled.
"Well I was just kidding. I'll go talk to this guys, pretend like I'm arresting you, and we'll all take off."
"Wow dude you just totally sold me out for no reason. You look like a dick." Harold informed me.
Jerry the Cop stepped towards the approaching cart, which slowed down as it approached the uniformed officer. For some reason he stumbled, falling forward with his hands raised in front of him to break his fall. He had tripped over the box of wine. I fucking hate boxed wine. His gun went off with a crack, and Betsy, startled, ran like hell.
When looking at a giraffe and their nubby little ears and creepy eyelashes you might not think they can run up the 35 miles an hour. This doesn't change the fact that they can. Betsy passed over the golf cart without breaking stride and before you knew it we were at the busted down fence. She ran right out onto the street and thats where we are now, galloping along. You might wonder how I wrote this, riding on a giraffe.
But who's asking the questions here?
from Chad McKenzie's blog "When I Feel Doomed" |
