A DANGEROUS JOURNEY TO THE HEART OF THE ARCTIC
by Capt. Liam McEneaney, Ph.D.
In November 2002, Scientific America gave this reporter $200,000 to lead a team of researchers to the North Pole to see what new forms of comedy I might discover there. Unfortunately, the expedition’s first stop was Atlantic City, where we lost most of the research grant in a high-stakes game of Solitaire. So no Arctic report (my bad!).
Instead, please enjoy this account of a dangerous journey to the dark heart of the Central Park Zoo’s Penguin Exhibit.
Day 1
I find myself standing at a cheap turnstile, waiting as my guide, Sir Frederick Fotheringay of the British Arctic Institute, negotiates our admission to the zoo. As he dickers with the sullen teenage gatekeeper, I can’t help finding the inhabitants of Manhattan - long rumored to be an island of friendly, if strong-willed natives - a rather surly bunch.
I pick up the occasional muttered comment from the line behind us, forcing me to ignore more than one sotto voce utterance like, “Hurry the fuck up,” which I do believe was meant for ears other than my own.
Fifteen minutes later, Fotheringay returns to tell us that the keepers of the Zoo demand that we pay “The Full Price,” or we will not be guaranteed safe passage. As I hand over a large sum of money (they insist we pay in American dollars, much stronger than whatever toilet paper currency they use here), I shudder as I imagine the things they demand of the children who must enter this stronghold.
Into the Heart of Darkness
We walk past the Island of Sea Lions and, using maps, compasses, and the ancient technique of Asking For Directions, make our way through the crowds of adults (nannies hailing from countries as diverse as England and Sweden) and chocolate-smeared children. Then we are upon it: the Legendary Lost Entrance to the Hall of Arctic Life. I find out later that the Hall of Arctic Life is actually in the Museum of Natural History uptown, but by this point it is too late, much too late.
We enter the cavern of Arctic Life. As my eyes grow accustomed to the dark, I spy a glass enclosure containing our quarry - penguins, those Waddling Demons from Nature’s Icy Bowels! Their eyes are full of a kind of blood-lust; a thirst that can not be slaked, and a hunger that cannot be satisfied with a mere diet of raw fish. I tremble as I approach, and I lock eyes with a fierce black-and-white king monster.
I know that this is a key moment; if I look away or in any way indicate fear, then I shall lose the beasts’ respect with undoubtedly fatal results. That is when we lose the first member of our expedition: Carlos, a simple peasant graduate student from Columbia University. He absent-mindedly lights a cigarette; the red glow of the flame playing over his fine Hispanic features.
Just as suddenly a security guard appears from nowhere, gliding from the murky shadows like the Specter of Death. He informs Carlos that he has violated the Code of the Citadel; the Laws of the Ancient Ones forbid smoking indoors. Damn these primitive superstitions! Before any of us can act, Carlos is escorted through a door marked “EXIT,” a final egress from which he was never to return for ten minutes.
The armies of science must march on, no matter how many comrades fall by the wayside. I contemplate the penguin; so royal in appearance, so bloodthirsty in deed. No wonder they’re called the Lions of the Arctic!
(Okay, so I am to learn later that they live in the Antarctic. But I have hard, scientific proof that penguins are originally native to the North Pole, and several thousand years ago they migrated south on crudely fashioned rafts following some sort of natural catastrophe. I shall publish it in an upcoming monograph to be titled, Going With the Floe: Migratory Patterns of the Penguin.)
I know that if I am to study these fierce aquatic creatures, I must get to know them intimately. Which means living as they live, sleeping in their environment, and eating the raw fish they eat.
But how to get past this glass barrier, this force shield protecting the casual traveler from these tuxedoed Birds of Prey? For five minutes I ponder this Sphinx’s riddle, until my group despairs of ever reaching that Nirvana they begin to talk of: the fabled Men’s Room.
Just then, as if guided by the hand of fate, I see it: a native in the uniform of the Penguin Caretaker leaving through a door in the exhibit. One moment, there is naught but seamless wall; the next it is transformed into a void of blindingly muted grey light. With catlike reflexes, I insert my foot into the door and keep it from locking behind her.
Saying a prayer to Saint Algernon, the Patron Saint of Scientists, Cosmetologists and Janitors, I walk in. Through an anteroom I walk, an anteroom that reeks with the twin scents of fish and fear.
Sailing into the heart of the storm
As I enter, the penguins run towards me as if in a feeding frenzy. I recoil, thinking that I am done for; the little monsters would surely tear me apart with their razor-sharp beaks after stunning me with their paddle-like feet.
But seeing that I had not come laden with fish, the watery warriors wander away disinterestedly. From there, they refuse to have anything more to do with me, no matter what sort of entreaties or promises I make.
Soon the truth hits me like the smell of half-rotted herring: Although I have always considered myself half-mountain man (my spirit having always been that of the untamed animal), the other half enjoys too closely the comforts of the academic life. It must be that which they could sense, this too-civilized scent that lays upon me. And it must be this scent which is keeping them at bay.
As quickly as I come upon my plan of action, I decisively spring to action: I remove all remnants of civilization from my person. Shoes, socks, glasses, shirt, belt, fanny pack, pants, and upon reflection, yes, even my underwear are swiftly removed. By this point, there is a large crowd gathered around the glass enclosure (who says that John Q. Lunchpail is uninterested in academic inquiry?).
I can see that the foreign nannies, having spied their first example of the American masculine form, are leading their wards away in a fit of intimidation and sudden cultural self-loathing. I then position myself on the simulated ice, cross-legged and extending my hand in interspecies friendship.
Literally.
Sacrificing all for science
Imagine me, sitting naked, holding my rapidly-bluing hand out to the horde of curious man-eaters. I try to fill my entire being with the same sense of peaceful purpose that radiated from my spiritual forebears; Mahatma Gandhi, Martin Luther King, Jr., and Jesus Christ. Just as these great men extended the olive branch to their enemies, I was constructing a bridge of understanding across the gulf separating man and his natural enemy, the penguin.
Just when a breakthrough in human/penguin relations seems within my grasp several security guards enter the enclosure; ugly brutish cousins to the first we had encountered. Within seconds they are dragging me from the scene of my scientific conquest to a small office deep in the bowels of an unnamed Parks Department building.
As I am being viciously manhandled by these savages I explain my scientific credentials in a loud voice, calling out to my comrades to verify the truth of what I say. In a moment of cowardly self-preservation, they act as if they have never heard of me, or, indeed, met each other before this moment.
The surly teen gatekeeper is summoned to verify that I am, indeed, the “troublemaker” she had complained of, and I am banished from the Central Park Zoo. I am told to never again attempt shining the light of Reason, Rational Inquiry, and Scientific Study into their dark Cave of Ignorance.
Day 2
Needless to say, I am now forced to wear a disguise if I want to penetrate the zoo’s perimeter. I blend in seamlessly with the rest of the crowd wearing a large beard, movie star-style sunglasses, Bogart fedora, and long black trenchcoat. I pay the gatekeeper - who stares at me for a long time before suspiciously pressing a ticket into my palm. This one may be brighter than she appears, and bears further scrutiny.
The rest of my company has quit with typical cowardice; they complain of their fear that they will not “get paid,” and demand an “advance.” This, of course, being moneys I will not be able to spare until I receive the kind of “Hollywood cash” I’m sure the movie rights for this exciting narrative will fetch.
But that’s the thing I’ve learned about vultures: they would draw blood from a stone if only they could. So I press on alone. Striking camp in the confines of the gift shoppe, I make my plans for the day’s assault. I know that the door to the penguin exhibit will be jealously guarded by zookeepers; my natural rapport with the animals apparently having an invidious quality. There is no need to look up the word “invidious;” it is real and I have used it correctly.
I have given up all hope of ever continuing my research when a chance light - as if a guiding Finger from Heaven - falls upon something small, and soft, and white. A doll. And I am filled with an innate understanding of this divine message. Kids prepare to meet their best friend.
Onwards to the Polar Bear Environment
I first attempt to befriend the beasts by stroking their fur lovingly from the observation deck, but a natural chasm (probably caused by an earthquake long-forgotten by all but the most aged and revered greybeard) keeps me at arms’ length.
Since the bears are ignoring my earnest petitions to come closer (note to self: is deafness an inherent trait in the species?), I pull out my secret weapon: from the depths of the trenchcoat, I produce several fish I have laid in store in the event of just such a contingency. The bears respond at once, coming so close that the tourists behind me flee for fear of their miserable and ignorant lives. Nature’s Furry Friend preparing for his next round of hugs.
Unbeknownst to me, the same team of brutes who had persecuted me the day before have been trailing my expedition from a discreet distance. I am halfway over the rail when they tackle me to the ground. This time, they call the police. Although the coverage on the New York Post’s front page will undoubtedly help me in obtaining funding for future expeditions of this type, the mug shot splayed prominently all over the tabloid will undoubtedly help park police enforce the 50-foot restraining order the judge slaps on my person that very afternoon.
Thus ends my exciting narrative of both scientific and self-discovery. Check these pages next month for my stimulating and educational travelogue: Around the World in Eighty Dollars: Exploring Global Cultures in Epcot Center.
Liam McEneaney is a captain of the Leonard Rothstein & Sons Accounting Firm Softball Team. He owns several sweatshirts from Harvard and Princeton.
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