This is the memory palace. I'm Nate de Mayo, a postcard from the Central Park Zoo in 1932.

Everyone used to go to the zoo. They cut through on their way home from work where they'd make a

special trip to see the rhinoceros or the African elephant. On a summer day in 1887, the

zookeeper counted 70,000 patrons between 2 and 6 p.m. It was nice. I mean it was terrible compared

to a modern zoo. Sad and angry animals and tiny cages. But it was pretty. After the depression

hit it wasn't and no one came anymore. There was no money to maintain the grounds. The buildings

were crumbling. The city was worried that if a bear or a lion decided he'd had enough, he totally

could have busted through the walls of his enclosure. It couldn't afford to repair the cages,

so instead it paid guys to sit in front of the mall day with rifles just in case. They hadn't bought

a new animal in years. There was a half-paralyzed baboon, a senile tiger, an old puma with rickets.

The rats were the meanest thing there. They'd walk right into the lion's cage and steal his food

with impunity. But there were people who cared about the animals. In fact, the do-goaters at the

zoo had a policy that they had taken any abandoned animal. So there were pet canaries in with the

ostriches. In a row of three cages, in the one on the left, a mountain lion, the one on the right,

a family of leopards. And in between them, a stray-air delterrier.