Emerson Has a Zoo

Emerson has a zoo. It is in Chicago. It has a green door and admission is a flat $5.00 which he offers to loan me because he thinks I cannot afford it. Emerson’s vendors offer Diet Coke, punch, beer, water, and—depending upon the day—pickle juice. He employs “workers” to mind things while he is here in Nashville with me. Apparently his time in Nashville is nearing an end. He has informed me of recent acquisitions in the Chicago area. A new apartment (with stairs, of course) and a new car. Em’s decision to relocate to Chicago is serious business but also problematic. As I’ve explained to him, the responsibilities are immense. A zoo, apartment, and new ride can be pricey. Especially for a guy with no measurable income. In a recent attempt to dissuade him, I reminded him that the overhead on the zoo alone could be enough to break the average guy But, then my Boy is no average guy. When I say, “Em, if you were to leave me—I just don’t think I could bear it.” Before the words are out, he holds up both hands, shakes his head back and forth with authority. “Daddy! Daddy! It’s O.K. It’s, O.K. You can visit.” It is as if our ages are reversed. And really, he is right—there’s nothing to keep me from visiting. I mean, Fuck! I like a zoo as much the next guy. And with the fin I’ll save on admission, I can head straight for the beverage cart. “One draught beer please, for the owner’s Dad.”

So the night’s getting some late on it and I am eating Tootsie Roll Pops and drinking whiskey. Not as bas as you might think—not that I recommend it, but not so bad. It took 2 ½ hours to put the zookeeper to bed, He is certainly cursed with my sleeping habits it would seem. My patience held tonight—for the most part. There are nights when it doesn’t. On those nights I sit around and curse the ass that I’ve been. What am I if unable to indulge a sleepless son? What am I indeed? A day will come when I’ll long to indulge him just once more. He will likely be cleaning out the lion’s cage, or minding the housefly exhibit (ummm…yep, he has a housefly exhibit), or trying to explain to the patrons why all the zebras died and have no time to be indulged. For now, he and I have an agreement. I will work on my patience and he will work to curtail his tantrums. I mean he will work to minimize his outbursts (that sounds nicer if not nauseatingly PC). I think we are onto something. A compromise, if you will.

How can I be impatient with the likes of an Em? I mean the Boy knows all the words to Todd Snider’s Beer Run, Elton John’s Don’t Go Breaking My heart. And Cookie Monster’s C is for Cookie. He recites dialogue from movies that has nothing to do with the moment at hand—and I just love that. He aggravates the living shit out of older kids. And he owns a Goddamn zoo.

He is all the entertainment I need. You just can’t put a price tag on that. Or a limit to patience. He is a sharp little fucker. It just may behoove me to make sure he isn’t really moving away.

What in the world would I do then?