Alligator Park (11 page)

“What did you do?” I ask.

“Just stood there. What could
I do? Then he tells me to get dressed and go back to the front room. I thought
he rejected me. I do what he says and go into the front room. There’s no one
around so I opens the front door and am about to leave when the desk guy runs
out and asks me where I’m going. I told him the doctor failed me and he says, ‘No,
I want to talk to you.’ He tells me he wants me for a better position, a Navy SEAL.
I didn’t know what a SEAL was back then, but I wanted to join up so bad I
agreed to anything he said. Next thing I know he’s got me scheduled for basic
training and a year later I’m in Iraq. And you want to know something, not once
did they ask me for my age.”

“Wow, what a story,” I say.

“Can I go to sleep now?”

“Oh, sure. Didn’t expect all
that detail.”

“Well now you know
everything,” he says.

I detect he’s getting a
little antsy so I back off. I’d never seen him like this, but it was
understandable. The anxiety of the day was taking its toll on both of us. Will rolls
onto his back and drifts into a deep sleep. I think about how lucky I am to
have a friend like him. He’s generous and kind and asks for nothing in return. I’m
amazed that someone so talented can’t find a place in our society. I really hope
it works out with him and his brother. He deserves better than this.

I feel myself getting sleepy
so I roll onto my side and close my eyes. Random thoughts of no significance stream
through my mind, and then, I doze off into a dream...

I awaken to the rattle of windows and the
roar of noisy engines as the big rigs amble through the parking lot and past
our room on their way to the interstate. Instinctively, I glance at the clock;
it’s 8:00 AM. We had planned to be on the road by eight, but Will is still snoring
away and I don’t have the heart to wake him. I dash out of bed and into the
bathroom taking advantage of the opportunity. I brush my teeth, wash my face,
and prepare myself for the coming day. I select a pair of shorts from my
overnight bag and a tee shirt. It wasn’t exactly balmy outside, but in a couple
of hours we would be crossing into Georgia and the weather would be getting
dramatically warmer.

Will is still asleep so I
gently shake him. He groans, and rolls over, then abruptly sits up.

“What time is it?” he asks.

“Eight thirty.”

“Eight thirty! We were
supposed to be on the road by eight.”

“I know, but we both needed
the rest and if you hurry we can still get the free breakfast.”

Will stands up and he’s fully
dressed. I guess he’s been sleeping in his clothes for so long it feels normal
to him. I’m getting really hungry so I pick up my handbag and open the door.

“I’ll meet you in the
breakfast room,” I say.

“Fine, I’ll be right there.”

“Remember, it closes at nine.”

“I’ll be there!” he snaps.

I rush out the door and make
my way to the breakfast room. It’s an attractive room, with a dozen small, round,
tables, each covered with a red and white checkerboard tablecloth. Each table
has a pair of beige wire-frame chairs. The room sort of reminds me of a French
sidewalk café brought indoors.

Seated at one table is a man
about forty wearing a pair of well-worn dungarees, a flannel shirt, and a
baseball cap with the word “CAT” written on it. I’m guessing he’s the driver of
the big rig that came in a few minutes behind us last night. At another table
is a man about twenty seven wearing shorts and a football shirt. I noticed him this
morning, working on a monster truck that was pulling a trailer loaded with a
motorcycle. I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s a professional racer; he looks the
part. And then there’s this couple, about seventy I’d say, sitting at the table
near the window. They’re registered to the room next to ours and are driving a Toyota,
with Connecticut plates. If I had to guess, I’d say they’re a couple of snow
birds heading to their winter retreat in Florida. It’s a common activity this
time of year among the retired.

The rest of the tables are
empty. Practically all the guests had already checked out by the time I got up,
leaving the parking lot almost empty. It appears that most travelers prefer to
get an early start in the morning, and we are the last remaining guests.

I put together a breakfast
consisting of waffles, bacon, eggs, and coffee, then sit at a table in front of
a large screen TV displaying the local news. Will enters, and joins me at the
table.

“They’ve got a lot of food up
there, but you better hurry, they’re closing in ten minutes,” I remind him.

Will dashes over to the food
counter and comes back with  two plates stacked high with waffles, eggs, bacon,
sausage, toast and a cup of fruit juice. He wastes no time consuming his meal. The
other guests leave one by one until Will and I are the only ones left. A maid
tidies up the counter, glances over at us. She looks like she wants to clean
up.

“We’ll be finished in a few
minutes,” I tell her.

“Take your time,” she says,
in a strong southern accent, smiling. “There’s no rush.”

Southern
hospitality was often talked about up north, but this is the first time I’ve
actually experienced it. I’m pleased to announce it is alive and well.
I sip on my coffee waiting for Will to
finish. I glimpse at the TV news, taking in the local culture. Then something
grabs my full attention.

The reporter announces:

“The remains of a thirty year old man
were found early this morning at a Florida lake, the victim of an apparent
alligator attack. Early reports conclude he was fishing from a row boat and
fell overboard.”

“Will, listen to this,” I
say.

The reporter continues:

“I have here Dr. Brad Kelly, curator at the
‘Astor Alligator Farm’ and an expert in alligator behavior. Dr. Kelly, does
this mean people should avoid boating where alligators are present?”

“Not at all,” he says. “Alligators are
shy animals. They generally avoid human contact unless their natural food
supply has been interrupted or they have learned to expect food from people. We
warn the public never to feed alligators. They begin to associate humans with
food and that creates a danger for all of us.”

“What advice would you give to our
viewers?”

“Alligators tend to stay in or near the
water except during mating season. Never walk along the side of a lake or canal
unless you know for sure it is safe. And most of all, never feed an alligator.”

“Thank you Dr. Kelly. All the experts we
contacted agree on one thing, chance encounters with alligators rarely result
in fatalities. However, a police spokesperson has informed us they have reason
to believe this incident was not entirely accidental. They are investigating to
determine if the victim provoked the animals in any way.

This is Katy Robertson reporting for KTV
news.”

I turn to Will.

“Does your
brother live near water?” I ask.

“In Florida,
everywhere is near water.”

“Are there
alligators?”

“Of course there
are alligators. In Florida, they’re everywhere. Probably two million or more.”

“Two million
alligators?”

“Or more. No one
really knows.”

“Around your
brother’s place, is it dangerous?”

“Not if you don’t
step on one.”

“Why would I step
on one?”

“In high grass
they lie real quiet, blend right in. You might not see it until it’s too late.”

“So then what.”

“If you can, run.”

“Suppose he
chases me?”

“Then run
faster.”

“How fast can alligators
run?”

“Faster than you.
But they tire easily. They use surprise to their advantage. They’ll try to grab
you and drag you under water. If they miss, you’ll probably get away. But they
don’t usually miss.”

I take a moment
to contemplate this. It was hard enough just doing the research; now I had wild
alligators to contend with. But I had no choice. I would have to work near the
water, and mostly in isolated places, away from human activity, exactly the
places alligators congregate. The whole project was getting more complicated.

“What else should
I know?” I ask.

“The most
important thing is not to feed them.
Once an
alligator associates humans with food, he’ll keep coming back. Alligators are
perfect killing machines; they have no conscience. They are single minded and
won’t stop until they get what they want. When an alligator loses its fear of
humans, there’s only one way to deal with it, you have to put it down.”

“What a shame.”

“It’s either you or them. You
can’t reason with alligators.”

Will finishes up his
breakfast and we clear off the table. I wave to the maid and head back to the
room. It’s almost nine so we hastily pack everything into the PT Cruiser. We’re
an hour behind schedule, but the breakfast was worth it and neither of us has
any complaints. I drop the keys off at the office and we’re on our way.

As expected, we cross the
Savannah River into Georgia at eleven thirty. Studying the map, I notice that
Interstate 16 is a straight run from Savannah to Macon, which is near the town
of Butler where Will grew up.

“Let’s go see your mother,” I
say.

“She’s not there anymore.”

“Did she move?”

“She passed away, five years
ago.”

“I’m sorry.”

“She was living with my
brother in Florida,” he says. “Didn’t like it much in Butler. After my father ran
off, the folks around there kept their distance. And the fact she was Seminole
didn’t help any.”

“Your mother was Native
American?”

“She met my dad in Florida;
he was a ranch hand at the time. They got married and moved to Georgia where he
was originally from. He was Creek. Seminoles came from the Creek, but they
broke off and developed their own culture.”

“Did she like Georgia?”

“We were happy, or so I
thought. Then, one day, when I was ten, my dad left and never came back. I
would ask my mother where Dad was and my mother would always say he’s on a
business trip. My mom would leave the light on every night waiting for him to
come home, but he never did. Then, a couple of years after I joined the Navy, she
and my brother packed their belongings and moved to Florida. She told me once
she just wanted to be around her own people.”

“Where is your dad?”

“Probably dead. He drank a
lot, didn’t take care of himself.”

I didn’t know what to say. I
had opened a can of worms and didn’t know how to close it.

“Your mother, was she happy
in Florida?” I ask.

“I think she was. She met up
with her old friends and went back to practicing the Native American culture
which made her happy. She raised my brother in the customs of the tribe so he could
pass on the family traditions. I think she always regretted leaving Florida after
she got married but felt obligated to follow her husband. When we was living in
Georgia I could tell she longed for the old country and it pained her. Maybe it
all worked out for the best in the end.”

“How long was she in
Florida?”

“Well, I was nineteen when
she moved. I’m forty four now, and figuring she passed five years ago, that’s...”

“Twenty years,” I say.

“Yeah, twenty years.”

“Is your brother younger or
older?”

“Younger. My dad ran off just
before he was born. Life was tough after that. My mother couldn’t support the
three of us by herself so I had to work. When the other kids would show off
their sneakers or some other new thing they got, I would pretend I was happy
with the old ones I had. I knew my mother couldn’t afford it so there was no
point in even asking.”

It occurs to me
how strange this is; two people, me from the city and he from the country,
separated by more than a decade and a thousand miles, brought together, under
the most unlikely of circumstances. We have absolutely nothing in common, yet
have everything in common, two souls, trying to make sense of the fog of life.
And now, we’re helping each other reach our goals with nothing to give except
our friendship. It boggled my mind.

“And after you
left, what did your mom do?” I ask.

“Well my brother
was six so he could pretty much take care of himself. He wasn’t working yet,
but I would send them my pay from the Navy, all except fifty bucks for myself. That
money paid the rent on that small house they was living in, and there was even
a little left over for some new clothes. When I would come visit, which was
about every six months, they would tell me how much they appreciated it, and I
could see it in their eyes.”

I do a quick calculation;
Will was ten when his brother was born. That puts them ten years apart making
his brother thirty four.

 “What’s your brother like?”
I ask.

“He’s about my height, dark
hair.”

I’m five foot three and Will
is a foot taller, so that would make him six foot three.

“Oh, he has a bit of a
temper,” he adds.

“Is he mean to you?”

“Naw. If he starts to yell I
just remind him I changed his diapers and that usually shuts him up.”

“What does he do?”

“He’s got this business where
he takes tourists out on a boat and tells them about nature.”

“Is he married?” I ask.

“Doesn’t have time for a
wife. Tells me the business takes up too much of his time.”

I decide I’ve taken this far
enough so I change the subject. “Hungry?”

“I think we should keep
going,” he says. “I’m fine with snacking. We’re running out of time, and I want
to get there before dark.”

“How much further?”

“I’m figuring about five and
a half hours including gas stops. That gets us there about five o’clock, about
an hour before sunset. Plenty of time to get settled.”

We cross into Florida at a quarter
past one. The first thing we come to is a rest stop with this huge sign: