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Printed from https://www.writing.com/main/books/entry_id/604873-The-Zoo-Keeper
by Shaara
Rated: ASR · Book · Fantasy · #1469080
These are some of the many short stories I've written for the Cramp.
#604873 added September 1, 2008 at 4:33pm
Restrictions: None
The Zoo Keeper
Sometimes it takes a push and a shove to start all over again.



NEW PROMPT: (read carefully) Write a STORY where the main character/protagonist is a female zoo keeper who has a life changing or "coming of age" experience. Your story must include a bowling ball, and be set in a large hotel in Las Vegas.


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The Zoo Keeper



         When Donald threw the monkey’s leash at me, that was the end. I quit my job at Zella’s Zoo, slipped on slinky nylons and a short skirt, and headed over to Harrah’s. One good thing I’ll tell you about Vegas, there are always other jobs.

         It was hot as lava pits outside, but as I walked in, the cold air cuddled me. I walked up to the information booth ignoring the idiots on both sides feeding machines like they were hungry babies. A dreadfully handsome guy, with muscles, a mustache, and a body tight as an armadillo, gave me the directions for the correct side door for Employment. I gave him a smile and traveled on.

         Filling out an application is never a sweat. I could probably write novels I’m so good at it. Address, uh, where would I like to live? Sure, 1356 Piedmont Court, apt. #65. Age? I wonder if they’d believe 32? I nibbled at my pencil a moment. All right. 33. (Give or take a few.) Occupation: That was easy. Zoo keeper for a run-down, smelly dump. Well, the monkeys were always talking to me, and I got along with old Pete, the camel. I suppose I could say…consultant. Yes, that sounds good.

         The rest of the application went on for two pages. I used creativity. The manager of Harrah’s kind of choked on my list of former jobs: school teacher, librarian, legal secretary, ballerina, but he hired me anyway. Vegas never has enough dealers. He said he’d try me out for that, and then see about letting me work my way up to being concierge. (Actually I wasn’t sure what one of those did, but I’d checked that box as my choice of employment because the word looked kind of interesting.)

         So I got a skimpy costume – the kind a French maid wears with black fishnet diamond stockings. Carl asked me if I could start the next day. “Sure,“ I said, relieved because I hadn’t wanted him to suggest starting that afternoon. I had the bowling ball in the trunk of my car and planned to use my spare time working on raising my bowling score.

         Carl and I shook hands, and I returned to the outer furnaces of Vegas. I was just in time for an eruption from the fake volcano. Crowds of people oohed and aahed. I walked faster, holding my breath.

         In my car, I sailed down the boulevard, turned left into the Bowling Palace and had me some fun. It was about time. The way things had been going lately, I’d started thinking I was as trapped by life as Henry, the old, lazy lion, sitting in his lonely cage.

         A couple of guys tried to pick me up. I brushed them off and kept rolling the ball down the lane. I hit a strike three times in a row! I sipped at my beer and put my feet up while I finished the cold fries.

         “Hey, I saw you at Harrah’s,” said a voice slightly behind my right shoulder.

         I didn’t look up. I jabbed a fry in catsup and crammed it into my mouth. Beer and fries go down real fine together. “Yeah, so what,” I mumbled, licking the salt off my fingers.

         “You asked me a question in Harrah’s, remember?”

         I looked up then. It was Muscle Mustache. He looked even better in a bowling shirt. I took in the rest of him and smiled.

         It was enough invitation for him. He slid into the seat beside me and started jabbering about some fancy maneuver in black jack. He lost me on the first card shuffle. He didn’t seem to mind. He kept right on talking.

         Steve, he said his name was. Well, Steve had pretty teeth. One of them was the tiniest bit crooked. It was adorable. I reached out and brushed Steve’s hair out of his eyes. His hair was soft and brownish gold. It felt like corduroy.

         “Can you tell me how to deal?” I asked. “I start work tomorrow.”

         Steve almost fell off the bench. “You’ve never dealt? Don’t tell me Carl hired you without checking your card knowledge.”

         Over a second round of beer and fries, Steve and I went over lots of ground. He managed to get most of my story – at least the one I’d decided to give him. Steve turned out to be a real nice fellow. I agreed to follow him to his house for some instructions on dealing cards. It was the least I could do for my new boss back at Harrah’s.

Ending One:

         Well, turned out that Moustache Man was the light of my life. His swimming pool was big enough for a whale to take a dip. Let’s just say, I moved in that night.

         I conquered Black Jack and learned to deal almost as good as my Steve. And when he and I got hitched at the Elvis Chapel five months later, all the dealers gave us a new set of bowling shoes and a box of sealed decks.

         I won’t tell you that I never miss the monkeys, the camel and Old Henry, but there are times when you just have to move on, and sometimes it ends up mighty nice.


Ending Two:

         Well, I guess it won’t surprise you much that Mustache Man ended up being a real cad. He jumped on me like I was in a wrestling match, and he tried to pin me down. But nobody who’s dealt with the stubbornness of a camel is ever intimidated again. I booted Steve and split --happily I’d been given some lessons about cards first.

         The next day, my new boss was rather unhappy to find out that I wasn’t real skilled at dealing cards, but he turned out to be a good sport. He gave me daily lessons on Black Jack for awhile, and one day he even told me what a concierge does.

         I signed up last Thursday at hotel management school. Carl says there’s money for scholarships from Harrah’s, but I think the money’s really coming from Carl. He’s kind of sweet on me. He says I remind him of his granddaughter.

         I won’t tell you that I never miss the monkeys, the camel and Old Henry, but there are times when you just have to move on, and sometimes it ends up mighty nice.


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© Copyright 2008 Shaara (UN: shaara at Writing.Com). All rights reserved.
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