(The following is a letter I've written to the Dog. You can find the rest of the story in Edward Albee's The Zoo Story.)
Dear Dog,
I promised I would not try to reach you again, but maybe this letter will temper any ill feelings you may have of me from our past.
I woke up today. That's the first surprise. I wasn't expecting to, as I don't really expect much of anything anymore, but I woke up so I have to live with it.
I've been thinking about you. Please don't try and understand my rationale behind poisoning you, just as I don't think about why you tried to bite me all those times, I just thought it may help the process along. Not death. No. That's not really a process I'd pretend to know anything about, I just thought it would help our "relationship" process along. I don't know much about that either, as I have probably proved to you, but here we are.
I'm going for a walk today. I'm going to walk up Fifth Avenue from Washington Square. Where better to start, right? All the NYU people and the top layer of financial garble that lounge around for lunch. Lunch is only an escape from the walls to the artificial sunlight. I say artificial because it fades before it can have any lasting effect on the body. I think I'll begin my walk there and travel up to the park. I'll probably find an NYU in the park too. I think I'll share our story. I don't really know why, we do not try to reach each other any more. I think it will help, though, get beyond the monotonous routine of typing platitudes on this old Western Union Typewriter. The last time I walked up Fifth Avenue from Washington Square to the park I almost died. I was ill-prepared for the jaunt. This is what I remember:
I've been walking up Fifth Avenue all day. What "they" don't understand is that my shoes are stronger because of the holes and give a little extra support by way of letting the foot move around a bit. No. I walk by these people that have the shiny shoes, briefcases, and umbrellas and they could never be as comfortable as I am. Yeah, my feet are beginning to burn a bit, but that is only a temporary sensation soon to be muscled out by another sensation.
When I left the room this morning, one of the children from the Puerto Rican family downstairs had an interesting exchange with me. I looked at him, he looked at me, and then he threw a marble down the hall. I'm guessing he wanted me to run down and pick it up, but I don't understand how to do that, so I smiled and carried on as if I could not see, hear, or comprehend.
The landlady was listening at her door as I left. I knew this because she has yet to understand that her awful body makes a large shadow just underneath the door's expansive opening. To tease her I said in a low, almost secretive tone: "Yesterday and the day before." We'll play that game when I get home. When. What a word. I'm not going to say "when" anymore.
I got to the park. That Zoo. There is the Zoo. I'm not talking about the place where people take children and pay to view animals. No. I'm speaking about the park: It's a Zoo in pure, untainted perfection. My favorite places are those shadows under rock crevices, in trees, bushes, or just below the surface of the cloudy water. What is going on under there? I know, but I can't tell you. You'll have to find out for yourself. Dive in. Dive into the cloudy water and feel around a bit. Nothing bites.
My feet hurt. I'm almost to the Zoo. One more trip. I think that's all it will take, just one more trip to see if my calculations about the ways in which people exist with the animals, the way that animals exist with each other, and with the people too really is the way I perceive it to be. I hate the word calculations, I will never use "calculations" again.
Maybe you want to go for a walk, dog. I'm afraid your infections will spread though. What if I don't pick up on the signs? You can't say, "I need water."
Nah, I'll go for a walk. One more walk to find out what really happens at the Zoo. I'll find the balance between the artificial sunlight and the alternative. Me. Soon I'll know all about the Zoo and so will you.
Jerry
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