A week or so ago I was sitting at my desk going through my calendar. Up until this point in my life I have not ever had a calendar because, before now, I haven’t needed one. Several things struck me. First, I was surprised at how apparently busy I’ve become. The transition from sea-bum to aspiring writer was a sudden one. Second, I wondered how I let that happen, so much for my foot-loose-and-fancy-free lifestyle. And third, I noticed that, for the foreseeable future anyway, I still had three hours and seven minutes unscheduled. Each week. For as far out as my calendar went. 

What was I going to do about that?

I’ve talked about my other abortive attempts to keep my activity level up and get to know my new community and its residents better. There was tango and joining groups and my not-yet-abandoned plans for Kingship. Despite how badly they were all going I figured that there was probably something else I could find to fill my idle hour, something that would let me learn even more about this wonderful place I now call home. Which is when the light bulb went on.

I know, I thought to myself. I’ll become a volunteer.

In the past I have always looked at volunteerism the way most people look at something goopy stuck to the bottom of their shoe. Sure, it’s there but I am so not touching it. While I respected people who would take hours out of their busy schedules to the benefit of those less fortunate or to address unmet needs in their community I knew that that wasn’t for me. I always got stuck in the conundrum that if we were here to serve others, then why were the others’ here?

No longer. I picked myself up, dusted myself off, and there stood the new me – a volunteer. I quickly sat back down and typed “seattle volunteer opportunities” into my search engine of choice. (Which is currently Alta Vistabecause I am so over Google.) A long list of web pages was returned. I scrolled though and found, as expected, that many were “church supported” organizations. Then there were others like the Northwest FolkLife Festival, the Seattle Center for Sensory Deprivation, the Seattle Aquarium, and, oddly enough, the City of Seattle itself. I clicked on the City’s link and up popped a short list of volunteer opportunities. Most seemed to involve actual work: cleaning storm drains, walking-trail maintenance, seawall construction, stuff like that. But buried in the middle was a link for the Woodland Park Zoo. Yes! I clicked.

“Volunteer at the Zoo!” proclaimed the headline. The words were surrounded by images of friendly looking people cuddling snakes or baby tigers, or just standing there with an eagle or penguin perched on their shoulder. This is it. I read more and found out that to volunteer at the zoo all one needed to do was to show up at the volunteer orientation session and sit through a brief presentation.

So, yesterday morning, just before the appointed hour, I disembarked from my bus at the zoo. As I walked across the parking lot a young woman in an SUV came screeching into the lot, turned into a space, slammed into the parking block and bounced off. She backed up, revved the engine and shot forward until, once again, her vehicle rebounded off the block. She killed the engine, hopped out of the car, and hurried off toward the entrance. She was wearing a deep rose-pink pair of those sweatpants that have the brand name appliqued in large letters across the butt. Hers said “Hollister”. The way the applique was positioned the first part of the name, “Holli”, moved independently from the “ster” part as she walked. “Holli”-“ster”, “Holli”-“ster” all the way across to the entrance. She seemed very fit.

Coincidentally, she and I arrived at the ticket counter at nearly the same time. She asked for directions to the volunteer orientation. She was pointed to the education building and off she went. I told the ticket-taker my purpose and was told “Follow her.” You betcha. Off I set in pursuit. Halfway across the entrance area my guide turned around and started walking backwards.

“Hi,” she said. “Are you here for the volunteer thingy?”

“Yes.”

“Me too.” She extended her hand. “My name’s Holly.”

I’m sure it is. I thought as I shook her hand.

“Mine’s Jim,” was what made it through the filters.

She said “Great, see you,” and then turned away and “Holli”-“ster”ed her way into the building. I shook off a few dozen indecorous thoughts and followed her in.

The orientation was being held in the zoo’s auditorium. I took a seat at the rear. A woman with long straight hair walked to the stage and informed us that we would be delaying the start to give some stragglers a chance to straggle in. They did so and at once we were underway. 

The theme of volunteering at the zoo can be summed up in one word: Process. When the presentation started the oh-so-adorable slides of the oh-so-happy zoo volunteers snuggling with the oh-so-precious residents of the zoo were replaced by slide after slide of very corporate looking procedures, outlines, and – dare I say it – Rules. This is going to be fun.

The first discussion centered on the process for actually getting through the door. There were about seventy people in the room and the first words out of the presenter’s mouth were: “Only twenty of you will make the cut.” She went on to describe that students – a large percentage of the crowd – were usually ill-fitted to volunteer because of the requirement to commit to a minimum number of hours for the various volunteer positions. Most of those hours were needed during the busy what-passes-for-summer-in-Seattle months. She detailed the steps.

First, there was the not-mandatory-but-might-as-well-be orientation presentation that I was sitting in. You didn’t have to attend one but preference was given to those who did. Then there was the application which consisted of two pages of information about yourself and your opinions on zoos and their purpose. The next step was the completion of a “Criminal Background Investigation”. Now, you can call me naïve, but I’m pretty sure that the zoo doesn’t give a rat’s patootie if you knocked over a liquor store in the distant past or turned a lid or two for your friends while in college. What they care about is if you were busted for pedophilia or kiddy-porn or having inappropriate images of flightless waterfowl on your computer. But they won’t just come out and call it a “Pervert Check”. Because, and this part cracks me up, the perverts might be offended by that terminology.

OK, enough editorializing, let’s get back on topic.

The penultimate step is an in-person interview. There were no real details about the interview process and I couldn’t swear that she actually used the words “straps” and “electrodes”, however, their use was strongly implied.

At last, now culled from the legions of perverts, you are set to begin your training to become a Zoo Ambassador. The title filled me with the expectation of travel to exotic foreign places on assignment from the zoo. The reality is less romantic. All volunteers are required to begin their service as a wandering information unit to provide zoo visitors with answers to questions like “Why does that lemur have two tails?” and to discourage happy parents from holding their toddler over the moat and saying “Go ahead Kyle, pet the big kitty” while recording it all in HD for sharing on YouTube. You could see a wave of discouragement wash over the crowd. No animals. Sniff.

Once you complete your training as a Zoo Ambassador you are allowed to select further specialization in the volunteer community. To wit: work with the animals. Our plucky presenter passed that question on to the audience. “Who wants to work with the animals?” Everybody’s hand shot up. There were two ways to do so.

First you could work in an “Animal Unit”. “Unit”, as used here, means “gastrointestinal tract”. Your mission, should you decide to accept it, is to mix up the food for the animals to take into the front end, wait a while, and then clean up the results that came out of the back end. We were informed that we wouldn’t be able to “feed the animals, or pet the animals, or play with the animals, or hug the animals.” Just feed and scoop.

But there was another job in which you could actually work with the animals. This job was titled “Docent”. If you selected this job you would be subject to a set of classes, secret handshakes, and mystical rules that would put the Masons to shame. Training is held once a year, beginning in January – I’m guessing at the first new moon of the New Year. It begins with a sacrifice and ends at the equinox some months later. Now initiated into the mystic rites of Docentship – Docentary?, Docentcism? – you begin your path up the ladder to the secret knowledge. And, like all such paths, this one is strictly controlled.

The Docent’s initial step in working with animals is to work with arachnids, i.e. spiders. Then, if successful, you would move on to reptiles. It had started to sound like an episode of Fear Factor. Next you would graduate to raptors and learn to deal with their needle-sharp claws and tearing beaks. Then finally you break out onto the plateau of knowledge and can work with innocuous, venomless, nonaggressive animals like woodchucks, lemurs and koala bears. A slide of a happy woodchuck lying in the sun filled the screen. The first question was posed to the audience.

“Who’s afraid of woodchucks?” One or two hands went up. “Birds of prey?” The slide clicked over and showed a bald eagle holding what looked like a severed thumb. More hands went up. “Reptiles?” An image of a hapless retiree flailing around on the ground with several coils of a reticulated python wrapped around her neck filled the screen. Even more hands. Finally, “spiders?” The slide changed again and showed a hand that looked like somebody slipped with the needle while they were pumping up the basketball. The rest of the hands shot up. In the front somebody fainted. All attendees now had at least one hand in the air. All, that is, except me.

The presenter noted this and pointed my way. “And what are you afraid of?”

“Beautiful single women with young children.” I replied.

The room went silent and all hands dropped. The meeting had apparently just ended.

So, I filled out my application and turned it in. I even returned the highly collectible zoo pen I had borrowed for the task. I left the building and stepped into a pleasant, bright day. The entrance plaza was filling with families. In the not-so-distance there were the noises of animals and birds calling to their kind. I’m hoping that honesty was the best policy for my answers to the questions on the application. I hoped I would pass the interview and the “Pervert Check.” And I hoped that I would make the cut to become a Zoo Ambassador in Training. Because standing there in the midst of the sounds and smells of the animals reminded me of the wisdom contained in the old Simon and Garfunkle song:

It’s all happening at the zoo.