OPRAH AND THE ORANGUTAN
MICRO STORY
Oprah owned an orangutan only once. It was years ago when she
was feeling low and needed a friend. The other Oprah, all famous and fluctuating in weight, made her sad by basically being everywhere, so she went to the zoo hoping to chase away her blues.
The gates creaked on rusted hinges as Franklin Park opened to absolutely no fanfare. It made no difference to Oprah. She was happy for the solitude. The crane, sensing her mood, angled for a smile by following her along the fence line. “It’s okay buddy. Flap on, I’m fine,” Oprah said as she veered left off the fence toward the simian house. Dry, pale colored leaves danced in the wind and collected in the doorway. Oprah pushed her way in, bringing a half dozen along for the ride. Dark and cool, the air in the simian house reminded Oprah of her parents’ basement back in North Carolina. There was a smell of damp metal and moss and Oprah noted how yellow the lighting was.
“Hell of a place to be a monkey,”
she mumbled to herself.
“Sure is,” came a voice from seemingly nowhere. Oprah did not take another step and, for a moment, wondered if the deep, gravely voice was her own. Then the yellow lights
quickly washed away as Oprah’s leaf companions blew around her ankles. The rush of cool air braced Oprah as she turned to see the entrance open. Sunlight stabbed in at a sharp angle through the door frame and the air began to fill with grunts and hoots and screeches. A disjointed symphony of monkey sounds
grew ever louder and frantic as Oprah leaned forward on her toes and sprinted through the door, leaving the leaves alone. By the crane’s fence now, the distance and Oprah’s own breathing, heavy with fear and worry, drowned out the simian symphony.
“What? What?” stammered Oprah. She stared through the wire holes hoping the crane would bring answers or at least a zoo worker. “What...shall we do now?” came a voice from above her. “Is that what you’re trying to ask?” The fence shook in Oprah’s hand as she looked up, through the sun, to see a mass of autumn-colored fur sitting atop it.
“Here, let me come down,” said the fur; and with a thud and a shuffle,
an orangutan was standing next to Oprah. “Is that better?” he asked.
Oprah’s mind raced as she took two big steps back. “Is he talking? To me?” she thought, “Why is he talking at all? What does he want? Are orangutans dangerous? This is an orangutan, right? Baboon? No, no. Orange means orangutan. Like in that old Clint Eastwood movie.”
“Look,” said the gravely voice, “this is different. I know. But this joint is sooo slow, and you looked a little lost. I’m good with ‘lost.’ I feel that way a lot.”
Oprah just stared, mouth agape.
“C’mon. Let’s see if we can both
get found.” With that the orangutan shuffled past the trees where the fence ends and onto the western path of the zoo. “Well?!” called
the orangutan, the sun blurring
his outline.
“Awright then,” Oprah said to herself, her head shaking a little as she took the first few steps toward the path, just past the trees. “Here we go.”