Confined

I’m jacked on espresso shots listening to the same song over and over again. It has been making me cry for over a week now. But the repeat button has been firmly pressed down by my heavy fingers. I’m thinking about putting masking tape over it. My hand is tired of holding it down.

I’m tired. I’ve been hunching again in that depressed way. My body is advertising to the world my dissatisfaction with life since the sun has slipped behind winter’s flat, gray veil. James is getting ready to go to the zoo with his son. I think the zoo is sad enough in the summer.

“I hate Z-O-O-S,” I spell so little Ian cannot understand what I am saying. He’s hopping around naked making monkey sounds.

“You hate everything,” James says.

Last night, we had to go to the Hollidazzle parade, a feast of blinking Christmas lights affixed to floats advertising local businesses. Mascots with twisted faces waved violently at the kids. I don’t know why they kept laughing and didn’t run away. The man behind me smoked a cigar the whole time and kept taking pictures with his digital camera while his son drooled in the stroller. I played with my cell phone like I had important phone calls to make. Volunteers in plush costumes acted out fairy tales. The Pied Piper lulled little kids dressed up in rat costumes. They held onto one another’s tails that looked like strips of bacon.

“Gross! They look like they’re squeezing slabs of meat,” I said. James turned, little Ian fastened tightly in his arms.

“You get freaked out by the weirdest things. They’re cute,” he scowled. I was ruining their fun father-son adventure. Standing in my fur coat and combat boots, I looked out of place in a crowd of parents and kids clapping and shouting wildly. I wondered where all these people lining the downtown sidewalks come from. They looked mass produced, all bundled up in fleece hats and ski mittens. Mass produced people producing more people who thought the Wicked Witch of the West wasn’t scary as she waved her sickly skinny fingers and rode an adult sized tricycle.

“How do they keep their instruments from freezing to their lips,” I said to James as the U of M Alumni Marching Band marched past. I felt like a little kid pulling on daddy’s jacket for attention as he turned and rolled his eyes.

They are finally gone to see the animals locked in cages. The safari animals are surely confined to some desert dome. I wonder if monkeys like the cold or where Sparky the Seal goes when his summer splashing shows are on hiatus. The only thing I liked about the Como Zoo was the crappy carnival rides with rusty bolts and tattooed carnies. I heard that they rehabbed the place since then with shiny new machines that take tokens instead. The toothless guys have been replaced with college kids and stay-at-home moms who don’t want to stay at home anymore.

I listen to the same song that retells the story of a relationship taking its final gasp of air. It reminds me of how when you die, you can still expel air from your lungs. James won’t listen to the song, doesn’t understand why I repetitively do if it makes me cry and curl up and go to sleep at 9:00.

This weekend was the first time he has had his son in over a year, and all I can do is cry. He doesn’t understand why I hate parades and zoos and tinker toys.

Either do I.