We're proud of our zoo. As Wendel appreciates this, he turns to
check for press before crossing the moat to Calliope's habitat. No writers.
No cameras. Proud zookeepers give him the thumbs-up. With one leg over the
wall Wendel slips. How disappointing. Wendel will be replaced.
	A man is brought in to help our kangaroo have a good baby. Zoo sec-
urity have been assigned the task of naming the kangaroo before its baby
arrives. They cannot agree. Half the kangaroo is named Ethel, half Sergio.
Our baby consultant grows restless. We do not blame him. Our patience for
kangaroo babies was already taxed, but a man from the Federal Park Service
prevailed on us. The consultant arranges an excellent baby for Ethel/Ser-
gio.
	Programmers handling Calliope demand raises, or else they will give
the dailies blueprints. No journalist alive could recognize the blueprints
to a robot chimpanzee, we say. Blueprints can be labelled, the programmers
say. We ask the programmers about the bodies police found under the over-
pass. They agree hastily to remain at their present salary, but insist on a
credit in the liner notes of our next musical project. This is satisfactory.
	Artists have colonized the pathway alongside our tortoise area.
Patrons do not wish to purchase necklaces or 30-second portraits while in
contemplation of the mighty tortoise. Wendel's replacement informs one art-
ist that taupe is light brown, not blue-green. That one leaves in shame,
but the others begin imitating tortoises in protest. The patrons, bless
their hearts, see right through the scam and continue looking at actual
Chelonids. A laudatory note will appear in the patrons' file.
	Half a chicken chimichanga left on the zoo-office counter can be
traced to Wendel's replacement. We will take no action.
	The radio brings news of Heliogabalus and Kepler. We believed both
to be dead. Neither one, according to the radio, is expected to visit our
zoo. How disappointing.
	Old Jake must be dispatched to handle patrons who persist in feed-
ing the animals. They wear wigs so that no animal can identify them, but
Jake catches them in the act. Jake's brutality catches the sneak-feeders by
surprise. He is a bald man and they are three criminals with comical rain-
bow afros, yet the battle is quick and decisive. Afterward Jake tells us
that he did not even need to put his teeth in. With no stated policy on
teeth, we do not comment.
	Ethel/Sergio is among the overfed zoo residents. Her baby's name is
mired in reams of paperwork. The programmers snicker among themselves over
the misfortunes of Ethel's family. They do not understand the living. We
sing "He Ain't Heavy, He's My Brother" and "You're So Vain" to the program-
mers, but they will not see reason.
	We have the man from the Federal Park Service replaced.
	Television shows Wendel in his new career as a rock-climber. Wendel
is about to attempt K2's most difficult face. His faithful companion stays
at the second-to-last checkpoint, saying You'll know to yell if you need
help, right? We laugh into our sleeves. Wendel almost certainly does not
know to yell.
	Heliogabalus would like a complete tour. We are quite unprepared,
but patrons escort him through the primate zone, the snake house, and the
petting zoo. We find ourselves insensate with pride. It occurs to us that
our patrons deserve a second zoo, one with a real chimpanzee and better
radios.
	Though it is beneath us, we apply for a grant. Gratitude must be
studied, for it comes naturally to none.

written for Chris S and Vickie H at my kitchen table 10/25/01

I'll admit I gnashed my teeth a little when I opened the sheet of paper and saw ten long, unrelated phrases. I came up with a vague idea about people in afros causing trouble at the zoo and started typing. This is *very* coherent for the amount of advance planning that went into it; it felt like the first couple of stories I did, where I was consciously trying to use what few improv skills I have in order to avoid needing to know where I was headed.

Result: several good parts and a pleasing lack of intrusion by the real world into whatever's going on.

I am thinking of forbidding dialogue in the word lists, though. It's always awkward, and I like to think I'm already taking on a sizable burden without people actually writing dialogue for me. I guess the problem is not the words themselves, but the fact that I don't feel as comfortable changing or only implying a spoken sentence as I do with everything else I'm fed.

But there's nothing worse than a prima donna with a typewriter and three dozen pages of fiction in his dossier. Perhaps I will keep my objections to myself.

- everything is by Aaron Mandel; please ask first if you're about to steal something -

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