The Jungle Gardener

Here’s something from the early Nineties.  From the Wild Dog Chronicles.

I have respect for the wild life.  Which is why I applied for a job at Jungle Gardens in Sarasota.  Providing On-Premises Graveyard Shift Security.  That’s what I do.  I’m a hired gun.

In return for punching a clock from eleven p.m. to five a.m., six nights a week, I was to receive the minimum national wage.  That’s $7750 annually, if you take two weeks off.  That’s a full-time job.  Gross.

I called the moment I saw the ad.  I was in General Manager’s office the next day.  On time and dressed for work.

A studio apartment goes with the job.  All utilities – including phone – are paid for.  THE PERFECT JOB.

I’m thinking, eleven p.m. to five a.m.?  I’m never busy then.  Might as well become nocturnal psycho-journalist BARKER AJAX, DARK PRINCE OF THE NIGHT. KING OF THE JUNGLE. WITH HIS WONDER DOG, THE BLACK GANG.  I can tell him about Hiawatha when she shows up.

My jungle woman and I would have the whole day.  She could write fiction the same hours I’m out walking the dog.  Which we already do fifteen hours a week.  How tough could the job be, I wondered.

Basically the gig is this: stay up all night and don’t lose any stuff.   In return, I get one hundred and twelve hours a week living on the set of RAMAR OF THE JUNGLE and six hundred dollars a month in cash.

A mile from the sandy beach.   A mile from the liberal arts college.   A mile from the Ringling Museum.

I could do that.  Stay up all night protecting rare flora and fauna.  In another situation, in another set of circumstances, I could even see myself signing up for two-year “commitment.”

“On my rounds, what would I be looking for?,” I asked.

“They stole an alligator,” Gen. Manager told me.  I almost laughed out loud.  This might be a tougher gig than it looks.

“Are pets permitted?,” I asked.  “I have a dog. An actual security dog.  Large, dark and quiet, so you don’t even know he’s out there.  Nobody gets a gator by us, I can promise you that.”

“German Shepherd?”

“Better,” I told him.  “He’s an ex-DEA K9.  They washed him out.  Refused to sniff for marijuana.  His idea of heaven is sleeping in the warm shade during the day, then sitting alert all night, surveying the spread.

“We’re perfect for this.  Nothing happens my dog don’t know about.  You get the both of us.  We’ll bite anybody you tell us to.”

“Does your dog chase pelicans?

“Nossir. He couldn’t care less about birds,” I asserted.  “He’s a cat man.”

“Oh, and an occasional bunny,” I blurted, ashamed.

“Flamingos? Herons?

“Not into them.  You will love this animal, I guarantee it.  We can do the job.  Trust me, I’m a writer on a bicycle with a laptop and a shotgun and a woman and a van and a dog and I can only commit to, umm, three months.  That’s my final offer.”  Gave him a stony look.

“Does your dog chase snakes?”  General Manager’s question struck me as odd.  I’m thinking, now what kind of nut would chase a snake.

“Why would he want to do that?,” I said, “To tell you the truth, he doesn’t even see snakes.  He pretends they’re not there.  They always go away.”

“That’s too bad,” Gen. Manager seemed genuinely disappointed.  “We get some snakes in here…you know about coral snakes?”

“They’re beautiful and poisonous and they’ll munch on your nose if they think you’re going to step on their back,” I said.  “I like that about them.”

Right there was when I came up with WRITERS FOUNTAIN OF YOUTH PROGRAM.  The Florida Arts Council, in conjunction with the Tourism Industry, should provide opportunities to visiting artists to enjoy a temporary residency in The Sunshine State.

We could teach an hour of humanities in the schools, PROMOTE TOURISM as an integral part of the art itself.  Get publicity back in our hometowns.  Write books and plays and movies about the place.  IT’S WIN-WIN-WIN FOR EVERYBODY, the way I look at it.

Gen. Manager wouldn’t even let me take a look at that apartment. Which sounded like a closet with a sleeping loft for a shorter man.  I’m thinking, truthfully, this would be a step up. How much worse could it be than where we’ve been?

We don’t get the job. They gave it to some guy with twenty-five years as a prison guard.  Figures.  I’m all about keeping folks out, he’ll be all about keeping creatures in.

There’s gotta be an comfortable empty boat where a writer could set up in the off season.  In the middle of a zoo.  A bike ride away from the sunset.  The perfect beach.

I’d stay up all night for a place like that.