The Tiger

A few weeks ago, to everyone’s happiness and excitement, my sister had a baby. So I flew to Chicago to visit her and the rest of my family, who wished me well and congratulated me both on becoming an uncle and turning twenty-two—momentous personal achievements. To celebrate, my parents decided we should get lunch and go to the zoo, something I hadn’t done in years. “It’ll be our special treat,” they teased.

The place hadn’t changed. The exhibits were the same, the animals still looked bored, and the white lights hung loosely on the trees, just as they had when I was a kid. I even recognized the weather—gray and cold, with a drizzle heavy enough to seep through my jacket. But the animals didn’t seem to mind. One zebra chewed grass in the center of a muddy enclosure, eyeing us placidly through a veil of raindrops. I wondered what he was thinking, and I asked my dad if he was wondering too. My dad shrugged, said there probably wasn’t too much going on in a zebra’s head. He suggested we go into the gift shop to warm up.

I flipped through some books and shook a snow globe, tossing it to my mom, who dropped it and cursed. I ran toy stones through my fingers, pulled the tail on a monkey doll, and told the woman at the cash register a stupid joke. She laughed, humoring me. I looked for my dad, hoping I could test the material out on him, but he was gone.

My mom and I started towards the parking lot. Here Dad intercepted us. He pointed to an enclosure down a path we had already walked.

“Go check out the tiger. I’ll get the car.”

We backtracked up the path and down a flight of stairs, stopping behind a crowd looking through a window. Muscular, sleek, the tiger marched back and forth like a torch, baring his fangs, flashing his yellow eyes. He watched me, and I wondered again what it means to be a man. I squeezed my mother’s hand.