Were you there, the day the lion escaped from the zoo? Actually, it was more like in the zoo, but that doesn’t really matter, does it?

I was there, because I was looking for you. I remember that my back hurt, and then when I went to scratch my face I noticed the sleeve of my shirt smelled funny. I think it’s because Cooper sneezed right next to me when I was in line. On me. I’m sure of it.

I looked up because people were screaming. Wouldn’t you? That means something is wrong, right? We’re all like monkeys if you think about it. Screaming is an instinct; we don’t do it for ourselves, we do it to alert the other monkeys.

People ran and little kids let go of their balloons. I had to fight the urge to watch them drifting off into the air, because I still hadn’t figured out what happened. Holy fuck it was hot. I dropped my cigarette but remembered to stomp on it. I ignored all of the proper receptacles because I figured that’s what you’d do. Everyone was disappearing. There were a bunch of strollers that were knocked over when the moms ran away; I could see that they were shielding their kids’ heads like moms always do in war footage. Like that could protect a baby’s head from a land mine.

I stood still and looked around for you. Just to see you just once. I don’t know why you keep ignoring me. I said I was sorry, didn’t I? How many times? Do you want me to say it again? You say you don’t want anything from me- but what should I do if I still want something from you?

The people left a big mess behind and I was noticing it all. Then I looked up and saw a lion. They look bigger on TV, you know? Even though my TV is smaller. It is easy to imagine lions stomping around on the veldt and being totally gigantic, but they’re not. You know what’s weird? I wasn’t scared, because I knew if I just thought hard enough you’d show up. I knew you would be drawn to that spot.

The lion looked around. She made a noise that was sort of like a humming or a groaning. I wondered if she’d ever even seen this part of the zoo. I didn’t think so, because she was staring awfully hard at the penguins. So I waited. She walked around a little. It occurred to me then, where were the zookeepers, with their hateful hooks and zappers? They weren’t there yet. The lion saw me, and I was standing totally still, just breathing.

For a second I thought I could be in trouble because I thought of all those people at the zoo who go, “meow meow, kitty kitty kitty” to the lions and that must get really annoying, to hear that all day, don’t you think?. Maybe she would think I was one of those stupid people? She walked towards me then, totally silently. I could see her muscles working under her skin and she was breathing “hnngh, hnggh, hnggh” like she was tasting the air that was around me. Was I good to eat? Probably not, I have eaten almost nothing but Ho-Ho’s and coffee since your last email, even though I know you don’t care to hear that. My mom brought me a 96 pack from Costco that she bought before she went on Dr. Adkin’s and I don’t feel like making a proper meal so there you go.

She came up on me and looked really hard. Her eyes were so beautiful, I felt like she was trying to tell me something. I thought what if they made the lassie movies with lions instead of dogs? Dogs always look so vapid on film, don’t they? Their eyes always look so empty and you can see them glancing at their trainer all the time, if you really look. But if they used lions and you could film into their eyes and you would really believe that Lassie was really trying to tell Timmy something, don’t you think?

The lioness sniffed my hand. I was so calm I knew at that moment that it didn’t matter if she bit my hand off; I wouldn’t scream. It would just be a perfect moment. And I just knew you were there out of sight. You were smarter than me and hid behind the bushes, I’ll bet. Her breath was so hot it tickled my hand. If it wasn’t so fucking ungodly hot out I bet her breath would have left vapor on my hand. I wanted to pet her but I thought that would be disrespectful, somehow, like we were equals or she was better than me, even. People shouldn’t pet lions. I was thinking that when she turned around and walked off.

It made me think about how we met on the boat. I felt like you were a person with Strong Convictions and no one could play you out. You were always so flip, you kept all of those dicks from saying mean things to me. You said, “we’re the only two women here, we have to stick together,” and you were right, except for the cook, but I guess you weren’t counting her since she couldn’t speak English very well. Do you remember how she would take vegetables out of the bins and turn them into penises before she’d cook them. A zucchini, with two limes for balls. Sometimes they’d have little smiling faces cut into them. I said I thought it was funny that she fed them to all of us when a lot of the men used to make fag jokes all day.

This is the part that maybe you didn’t see? The lion went around the corner and I followed her. I said “what is it Lassie, is Timmy down the well?” and I went after her. If you heard me you would have thought it was funny. I thought maybe she was trying to show me something. She went back to SavannaLand or whatever the fuck they’re calling it now. I was very surprised to see her going that way, since that’s where the lions are locked up. The lioness turned to look at me and she whipped her tail a little, very softly, like she was thinking and then I watched her disappear back into her cage.

It was a good thing, too, because about four zookeepers came around the corner in a golf cart and jumped out and asked “where is it?” and I pointed back to the cage. They shut it and murmured about how lucky everyone was not to have gotten hurt and sent me out. They said I could get a refund, even though it it’s always half price when the temperature’s over 100.

Do you remember what you said about the veggie penises? I do. You picked up a big crab and whacked it in half and threw it on the pile. I remember you were ripping the legs off as punctuation for what you were saying. You said, “SJ, I guess you have penis art envy.” We laughed so hard I thought we were going to fall off the side of the boat. You can write and tell me if you were there, but if you don’t that’s OK because I know you were.

Always,

SJ

PS Cooper says he wants his scarf back, even though he never uses it. (Don’t tell him I said that.)

Wherever I go I meet lots of people who find my story fascinating. They often ask me, how did you end up where you are today, in your extraneously large house with your genteel husband and your nanny? How is that you have achieved the position of being driven around all day by someone you barely know? They ask, how can I hitch my wagon to a star that will result in my straddling a foreign European ex-model every morning before I have breakfast on the veranda? They don’t usually say this part, but the implication is, did you get where you are just by being an Asshole?

Well, friends, I wasn’t always an Asshole. My story is a very humble one, and if you have the time and inclination I will reveal it to you in all of its glorious detail. You will, Gentle Reader, pardon the feebleness or my adverbs and the awkwardness of my subjunctive clauses; if only I had experienced the multitudinous life-long privileges and education of the women I go to lunch with twice a week and go on Princess Cruises with thrice yearly (it used to be Carnival Lines ONLY but they’ve gone utterly downhill since they had that engine room fire in the Gulf back in 1999). But I digress.

People look at me (frankly, the years of my early life have taken their toll) and they look at Mr. Husband and they just shake their heads in confusion. They have no idea how a wealthy, European ex-male model with all of the charm and vivacity of someone like…Bob Barker… could end up with a deadweight cow like me.

Once, before I had four mewling little tit pirates and a suburban drug and shopping habit I was very, very beautiful. Men stopped on the street and broke into verse when they saw me passing by, my eyes modestly downcast as I effortlessly balanced my fruit basket on my head as I walked to the local market. Now that I am so far away it is an easy pleasure to miss Cuba–I indulge myself in nostalgia now that my hands are uncallused and tipped with coral pink acrylics.

I was proud to be part of the Youth Army; they needed our strength and idealism to keep Cuba strong. I was fit for so many things; I could have been a painter, a writer of great histories, even a burlesque girl like my childhood friend Tenalita who was called up as a pleasure and distraction for the American GIs who were given free reign in Havana in those days. I cried when the officiales took her away, when they read off their clipboard that my place was in the fields, while Tena’s place was to dangle her breasts in the laps of the Capitalist diablos. My father said, “Who cares about a lazy eye when you could balance a martini on her ass?” but it didn’t matter how he protested, the officiales heartlessly turned away, one of them with his sweaty hand clamped around Tena’s arm as they walked back to the Jeep.

The work was hard, but satisfying. I can never remember how long I was at it, if it was months or even a couple of years, since the days passed and I dropped into bed each night and dreamed only of the neat rows of corn and sugar that had whipped at my brown arms all day when the hot breeze stirred them.

Some of the selected didn’t want to work for the cause; I suppose they thought that someone else was going to build a great nation while they laid up all day under a tree and drank rum. This didn’t sit well with the men who watched over us and the officiales. Eventually, they had to hire more people to come out and coax the more reluctant members of our work team to contribute equally to the cause.

We often saw Americans pass by while we toiled dilligently during the scorching Cuban afternoons; they were usually GIs bouncing along in their little Jeeps but were occasionally wealthy turistas who drove out to our isolated field so they could see the glory that was Communism in action. They took many pictures, not knowing that their film would be confiscated before they could board their return flight, haha. I spent so many hours bent over in those fields that I began to feel that the ground, my hoe, and myself had become one, like the machines that they use in fields now. If I could still bend like that…I suppose it doesn’t matter now, since someone else cleans my floors. And I have looked through the imitation Gucci that is her ratty, cheap, off-season handbag so I know that I have soup tureens that are worth more than she is. I have exquisite taste; everyone who is invited to take tea at my house admires my extensive collection of serving dishes and flatware while we are in my dining hall. I let all of my guests handle my collections until they have had enough. As much as I hate, no, loathe, seeing fingerprints on my precious objets, I know that it is a charitable deed to keep the servants from becoming too idle.

I have lost my point again.

As one particular summer progressed, I remember seeing one turista repeatedly. I always knew he was there even before I turned around; his piercing European blue eyes cut holes into my back, through the rough fabric of my cheap (yet flattering and revealing) dress that was the standard uniform of female comrades in the Youth Army; to him it was as if I was wearing nothing at all. I often turned around to match his gaze and he would glare at me compellingly over the fence that marked the border of the farmland and the main road.

Finally, summer was ending and my team and I were in a state of agitation because we knew there was to be a brief respite between the summer harvest and winter planting season. The weather was getting more reasonable and I wasn’t even breaking a sweat until midmorning.

Suddenly, over the horizon I could see a cloud of dust; I figured it was one of the overseers coming to issue new instructions for how the day’s work was to progress. As it came closer I could see that it wasn’t a government vehicle. Several of us stopped picking ears of corn to stare since it was very unusual to see a civilian truck on communal property. The truck came skidding to a halt on the loose gravel road that was on the edge of the fields, several feet away from where our team stood gawking.

Three local men jumped out with automatic weapons and machetes looped to their belts, waving their guns carelessly while alert to any trouble from us. They spit and shouted and I could smell the rum off of them when the wind picked up and carried the fumes over to where we stood trembling. As was befitting the position of lowly fieldhands, we were quite unarmed except for our farm impliements. Behind the men I recoginized emerged the handsome European turista, who I assumed had already departed since summer was winding down. He, supernaturally tall and manly, strode over to me with the same air of conviction that he had exuded when he had undressed me with his eyes all summer long. He seized me by both of my arms and covered my face with kisses made by his impossibly sensual lips.

He said something to me then, but I didn’t understand him as my grasp of English at this time was limited to useful phrases such as “for three dollars only” and “you go now”. One of his gun-wielding companions translated for him.

“His name is Jean-Paolo. He wants you to marry him and go back to America with him.”

America! Ever since I was a little girl in Aldea de la Cabra, I had heard stories of America. It was a legend to most of us who knew we would never go beyond Cuba’s shores.

You will have to forgive me at this point in my narrative, Dear Reader, because I made a decision– the first decision of my life that was not in the best interest of my country; it was in the best interest of myself. You must understand, I was tired. I was callused. I was baked brown from the blazing Cuban sun when by rights I should have been under the cool stage lights with Tenalita at Etapa del Sexo. I did what any sane, healthy young woman with childbearing hips and an exotic European man’s tongue down her throat would have; I dropped my dull machete and walked away. This is the end of the beginning of my story.

I often reflect on that early time. Fortunate am I to have been selected as a fieldhand; I toiled tirelessly and have come to my reward (though I doubt part of my reward is the fact that you could park a Cadillac in my vagina after I whelped those ungrateful brats of his). Fortunate am I to spend my days engaged in whatever activity amuses me currently, whether it’s equestrian pursuits or finding the perfect solid oak sofa table to go underneath our newest Bougereau. Fortunate am I to be surrounded by a sea of formica in a kitchen I don’t know how to use (it is so modern!) instead of up to my ass in chiggers and horseflies and manure. Fortunate am I.