Page 22 of Guitars and Cages

My eyes narrowed, ’cause he had me there. “No, I didn’t. Grew up on a ranch, or what used to be one, anyway.”

“You ride horses?”

“I did when I was younger; now I just ride that green-and-black hog outside.”

“That’s a nice bike.”

“Yeah, she is,” I said, grinning. I helped for a couple hours, until it was hard to keep my eyes open and I was reminded of my promise to take Rory to the zoo. I knew that would mean he’d be up and bouncing me first thing in the morning. The least I could do was try and sleep for an hour or two.

“Hey, uhh, I gotta get to bed, but you should stop by Jokers tomorrow night. I’m bartending, but I can point ya in the direction of some easy pussy if you want.”

He paused and gave me a look, grimacing a bit. “I wouldn’t mind a couple drinks, but I’m not really a fan of pussy.”

Okay, what the hell, who isn’t a big fan of... oh....oh, I thought to myself, eyes widening. Damn, didn’t see that coming. That, uhh, that... I couldn’t make my mouth work, and I sure as hell couldn’t tear my eyes off him now. Of course he took this to mean something completely different, and his hands clenched into fists as he glared at me.

“Do you have a problem with that?”

I blinked. I guess I was supposed to have a problem with it—I mean, if Cole were there, he’d have a big problem with it, and Michael, too, so at the very least I was gonna be leaving before I admitted I didn’t have a problem with it at all, because that might lead to me admitting other things that weren’t ever gonna be safe to admit.

“I, uhh, gotta go,” I said, putting down the coffee table I’d just finished building and straightening up. He stood there watching me as I walked toward him, while I tried to look anywhere but directly at him. I slid past, careful not to brush against him, and was headed for the hall when I heard his footsteps behind me.

“Here,” he said angrily, shoving my toolbox at me as soon as I turned around. I grabbed it awkwardly, looking at the floor, before I turned around and fled back inside my apartment, the slam of his door following me.

Chapter Nine

The other side of the cage wasn’t real. For all the effort that went into placing the stones around the water and lining them with snow, it was still a pitiful attempt at the homes the animals were taken from. The penguins slipped into the water, but where were the fish for them to chase? The pool was clear and empty, stealing some of the joy from their swim. At feeding time the keepers appeared and doled out their rations, robbing them of their ability to hunt, of the choice of how much to have, of the freedom of just being able to live.

Rory watched, the look on his face one of childish wonder. To him, it was a joy to go there—to walk from exhibit to exhibit, peeking at the snakes behind the glass, the tigers behind the bars, the gorillas on their fake stone mountains, and the zebras wandering along imported sand. He saw Madagascar and Afro Circus; I saw creatures robbed of their right to be wild.

The other side of the cage wasn’t living, it wasn’t life; it was existence in a tiny box, a glimpse of tattered beauty for $17.95. For what other reason did we bring them so far from home, place them on display in cramped enclosures and stifling cages, and show them off under the guise of protecting them? Was it any better life to place them in a cage than to let them take their chances with hunters and poachers and the ever-changing elements? Who were we—walking, talking animals in our own right—to think what we did was what was best, simply because we had the power to do it?

Wasn’t that what it was all about anyway—power? It sure as hell wasn’t about right and wrong, not in a world where right could be bought and sold like a six-pack and a Snickers bar. It wasn’t a good day. Hell, it wasn’t a good night, either, and after staring at the ceiling for a while, hating the web of lies I lived in, I’d found a small measure of peace in thin, sharp metal and the stinging pain it had brought me. Relief that faded and melted in daylight, leaving me to scrub the blood from my skin and hide the scars. At least those were scars I could hide.

For all my efforts to try and lighten up the dreary days of the child that had tagged behind me from home to the gym to practicing with the band and back again, I simply didn’t want to be there. Especially after last night. I still felt like an asshole, and there wasn’t a goddamned thing I could dare do to change that. I think Rory sensed my reluctance, because he took my hand and all but dragged me to see the seals.

“Hey, Uncle Asher?”

“Yeah, Rory?”

“Do you think they like it here?”

“Who?”

“The seals?”

I sighed. No, I didn’t think they liked it there. I thought this place had to be the sixth rung of hell for animals who swam hundreds of miles in the freedom of the ocean, basking on rocks and feeding on the food of their choice as they raced to outrun the sharks that fed on them and the men who would bash them to death with bats and clubs to steal their fur. But what’s the right way to say that to an eight-year-old?

And how the fuck was I supposed to know what the right way was?

In the dead of the night I’d burned up the phone lines trying my brothers’ numbers over and over, and yet still the messages and the answers were the same. No one else wanted the responsibility, no one else had the time, or no one else answered at all. No doubt at least one had turned off their phone or “lost it” so he didn’t have to hear the messages I left, the pleading for someone with a goddamned clue to come get this kid before I said or did something that would traumatize him for life.

I wouldn’t mean to; it’s not like I planned to hurt him. I’d never lay an angry hand on my brother’s son, though it had been tempting at times, with all the mischief he’d gotten into. Fear and the memory of running out on my own child drove me to try and push this one away even as I did my best while he was there to find some form of atonement by engaging in the things he loved.

So far I’d cleaned the skinned arms that had come as a result of learning to skateboard, in full helmet and gear and with approval from his overprotective mommy north of the border. I’d tried teaching him to throw the football with a spiral and he’d almost got it, just a little more oomph on the release and he’d do fine. Though I wondered what good it’d do, up there where she planned to take him. Did they even have football in Canada, or did everyone just skate around beating each other with sticks while looking for the little urinal cake sliding around on the ice?

Maybe I should’ve been teaching him street hockey, but around that place, the streets were too dangerous to play in. Too many idiots going far too fast while living that hurry-to-your-death lifestyle without ever taking a moment to truly live.

That was the real cage. No wonder they couldn’t see what they were doing to all those creatures, not when they were already living their lives behind bars, slaves to their alarm clocks, prisoners to the daily grind of working a hated job in a field they loathed for pay that was barely enough to survive on. How could you see the bars that imprisoned others when you couldn’t even see the bars that imprisoned you?

---