Painted by an Elephant
HANNAH NATHANSON
Here is a sign that reads “PLEASE DO NOT ANNOY, TORMENT, PESTER, PLAGUE, MOLEST, WORRY, BADGER, HARASS, HECKLE, PERSECUTE, IRK, BULLY, VEX, DISQUIET, GRATE, BESET, BOTHER, TEASE, NETTLE, TANTALIZE, OR RUFFLE THE BUFFALO ZOO EMPLOYEES.” It isn’t meant to be taken seriously.
We have gone inside the zoo, which is still outside. I am with Stella, who has never left me for people with better bodies or closer relationships with Jesus. We have been greeted by a cameraman who can turn a picture of us into a magnet in the matter of minutes and $30. I should heckle, bully, or ruffle him.
Stella calls me facetious and I make a mental note to ask Stella what facetious means. Perhaps to vex me, she gives the man thirty of her dollars. Last night, in my dreams, I watched my dad die and then ate an entire bag of Cheetos without logging the calories.
Stella and I met in the strange enclosure of eighth grade. Maybe annoy, torment, worry, or nettle, but she has never intentionally disquieted me. Then, we all went through our eating disorders and breakups and half of college.
“We can’t be related,” Stella tells me. She says this because I like to go inside and see the birds near the rainforest exhibit. “We aren’t related,” I tell her.
This is a joke we have because my mother once told Stella that she was the favorite daughter. Once, my mother asked me how I could possibly be her daughter if I don’t like to eat chicken.
Stella waits outside as I look at toucans and capybaras. I find her on a bench with small dots of hard frozen ice cream.
“The rainforest was very facetious,” I tell her. She looks at me disapprovingly. Okay, so not that.
I think I would like small dots of hard frozen ice cream. I would like them bought for me as a child at the county fair. I would like to have them near goats and horses and other animals we are allowed to touch. We walk toward the elephants and I don’t eat.
The elephant has paint all over her right foot and is about to step on a piece of paper that will be sold in the gift shop for $150. This torments and irks me, but is admittedly a pretty good trick.
While Stella is afraid of birds, it turns out I think the scariest part of grief is that I might eat junk food as part of the coping. Stella tells me that’s crazy. “Don’t be facetious,” I say. I’m getting closer. Last week, Stella picked me up in the middle of the day because I fainted at work again.
Walking this far in the sun without crying would be an impressive feat if I was still a baby. I have often thought of my life as something that would impress my baby self and I have often been correct. Exhibit A: near the seals, I use my own money to buy myself a lemonade from a table underneath an umbrella. Then, I pray to God the sugar doesn’t kill me, which is basically like asking God for nothing.
Stella and I play at if we would rather live in the zoo without paying rent or live in our dream apartment for 85 percent of our income.
I have a vivid picture of myself in a few short years. I will stop dying my hair and spend only 20 percent of my income on rent and I will buy frozen fruit and fresh vegetables and eat them normally. I won’t be dizzy half the time and I will be making good music, real music. I can’t give that up.
Stella says she might pick the zoo, if her friends can still spend the night. This makes sense to me. Stella used to have this habit of forgetting to sleep because she was watching video blogs of other people’s lives in Toronto, where we still have yet to get up and move to.
We see the lions and polar bears and tigers and snakes until we feel sure that this was a good use of a Sunday. We exit through the gift shop and every candy bar reminds me that one day my dad will die. Here is a thing I hate: my greatest fears are all muddled into sludge at the bottom of my soul. A candy bar is nothing like my dad dying. Neither is it like grizzlies or accidentally joining a cult or never falling in love again. It all makes me lightheaded. I imagine I look painted by an elephant.
There are always these clear moments right before I faint where I imagine not fainting and decide it’s better to just get it over with. I have chosen now as the first time I might try to hold it all together, but I have warm lemonade in one hand and that stupid magnet in the other.
HANNAH NATHANSON is a writer in New York. She is head poetry editor at Eleventh Hour Literary. She is currently an MFA candidate at Stony Brook University. She wrote this story while reading Mary Robison's Why Did I Ever.
