Alligator Park (7 page)

I drop Will off at the black-iron gates
and make my way to my apartment. Fortunately, parking is a breeze since many of
the students had already left for winter break. I manage to find a spot only two
blocks away, a miracle any other time of the school year.

It’s five o’clock so I pull
out some ingredients for dinner. My cellphone rings. It’s Logan; what could he
possibly want? I don’t want to talk to him, but then I think, maybe he’s got
good news. Maybe he convinced Dean Haas to give me another chance. I answer the
phone.

“Hi Logan. What’s up?”

“Can you meet me at Ricky
Stinks?” he says.

“When?”

“At 5:30. Dinner’s on me.”

“You have news?”

“Sort of.”

“Can’t you tell me now?”

“No, it’s better we talk over
dinner.”

My curiosity is piqued, and
maybe he does have good news, so I agree.

“Okay, 5:30’s fine.”

“Good,” he says, and then
hangs up before I have a chance to say anything else.

I freshen up a bit, redo my
makeup, then dash out the door. The sidewalks are clear now so it’s an easy
thirty minute walk to Ricky’s. I follow a group of students through the front door
and into the pub. Logan’s all the way in the back, in the quiet area, where
students pull all-nighter’s. I sit down on the opposite side of the table,
facing him.

“How are you doing?” he asks.

“Fine,” I say.

“Let’s order dinner first.
Then we can talk.”

He hands me a menu and a few
minutes later a waitress stops at our table with a pen and scratchpad in hand.

“What are you having,” she
asks.

“A flounder sandwich and hot
chocolate.”

“Instead of the hot
chocolate, make that two Bailey’s Coffees,” Logan interjects. “And go heavy on
the Irish Cream.”

The waitress notes it on her
pad, and then, turns to Logan.

“And for dinner?”

“I’ll take the T-Bone with a baked
potato.”

The waitress scribbles it down,
then heads to the kitchen.

“What’s with the Irish
Cream?” I ask.

“Just want you to enjoy
yourself. You’ve been through a lot lately.”

“So you have news?”

“You’re moving?” he asks.

“How do you know?”

“When there are ads all over
campus with your name and number on them, and you’re selling off furniture, it
doesn’t take a genius to put two and two together.”

“Yes, I’m
moving,” I say.

“So you got
admitted to another university. How did you manage that without a referral?” he
says with a sneer.

“I’m just taking some time
off.”

“You should be trying to get
back into Dean Haas’ favor. Not screwing off.”

“I know, I know. I need a
change of scenery. There’s nothing for me here right now.”

“Never say never. There’s
always a way.”

The waitress places our Baileys
on the table. I take a sip; it’s strong as usual. They don’t hold back on the
liquor at Ricky’s.

“What should I do,” I ask.

“It’s complicated, but I have
a plan.”

“Tell me.”

“Not now. Let’s just enjoy
the moment and talk business later,” he says.

I take another sip. I can
feel the alcohol go right to my head. I need some food to sop it up.

“I wish she’d hurry with the
food,” I say.

“It’ll be here soon.”

Logan takes a gulp of his
Baileys; I do the same.

“Where are you going?” he
asks.

“Florida.”

“Vacation?”

“Just to clear my head. And I
got a hunch something might pan out for me there.”

“A hunch?” 

“New places, new faces, you
never know.”

“You’re making a big mistake.”

“Mistake?”

“Your place is here. And with
the right influence, you can be back in the lab,” he says.

“Influence? Isn’t it too late
for that?”

“Not necessarily. Dean Haas
and I go back a long time. She trusts me. If I work on her a bit, tell her what
a good candidate you are, she’ll eventually come around.”

“You already tried that and
she blew you off.”

“She did. But it takes time.”

“How much time?”

“I don’t know. Whatever it
takes. I’ll prod her a little, do what I can, but there are no guarantees of
course.”

“So you want me to hang
around here indefinitely while you whisper in her ear what a great candidate I
am hoping she changes her mind, but she might not?” I say.

“No need to get upset. Let’s
enjoy the evening. Lay back, have a few drinks. We’ll go over it later, at my
place.”

At my place? He has never
invited me to his place before. We couldn’t, that is, under university rules.
Normally I would have jumped at the chance to spend an evening with him, but
something didn’t smell right here. Was he offering to trade influence for... sex?

“Can’t we just go over it
now?” I ask.

“This is not the place to
discuss business, this type of business.” he says forcefully.

“But your apartment is?”

“Look, you’re in a bind and
I’m offering to go out on a limb for you. Be realistic, I’m the only option you
have.”

“So you’re offering to help
me... if you get something in return. Is that what you’re saying?”

Logan softens his tone.

“It’s what we both want,
isn’t it? Why hold back? Let your heart go. Fulfill those desires you’ve always
held inside. It’ll be good for you.”

This was starting to get
weird. I was seeing a side to Logan I never imagined. He was trying to use me,
take advantage of my hopeless situation.

“You know Logan, all of a
sudden I’ve lost my appetite. If you really want to help me, you’ll do it,
without any special favors. And if not, screw you!”

I throw the napkin on the
table, get up and walk out the door. I wasn’t about to be a mistress for
anyone, even Logan.

I head for the black-iron
gate, enter the university, and on to my friend Ben. I see Will up ahead,
feeding the pigeons as he always does about this time of day. He sees me
coming, but senses I’m in no mood to talk. I sit in solitude next to Ben
staring at the trees avoiding eye contact with Will. Will finishes the bag of
bread scraps then empties the remaining crumbs onto the ground.

“Who’ll take care of your
family when you’re away?” I ask.

“I’ve already made
arrangements with my friend Moe. He comes by here every day anyway, and we both
go to the same places, so he said he would pick up the bread scraps for me and
feed the pigeons.”

“I bet that eases your mind,
that someone will look out for your family.”

“Moe’s a good guy. He’ll do
anything for you, if it’s possible. I trust him completely.”

“When do you want to leave?”
I ask.

“Oh, any day’s fine. I can be
packed in an hour.”

“How about Sunday?”

“Sunday’s fine, as long as we
make it after twelve o’clock noon. I always go to the Chapel on Sunday mornings
and I want to say goodbye to my friends.”

“Okay, settled. Sunday it is,
at noon. Meet you right here.”

“I’ll be waiting,” he says.

It’s Saturday, and my apartment is getting
sparse. I’ve already sold off the couch, TV, bed, dresser, and a few
miscellaneous cabinets. My bed now consists of a Yoga mat rolled out onto the
floor. I’ve made arrangements with the landlord to leave the remaining items in
the apartment and he was fine with that. He said he would sell, give away, or
leave the items for the next tenant. He offered to send me money for the items
he sold, but I told him to keep it. He’s been a good landlord, and I was not going
to worry about a few dollars.

I spend the day packing my
clothes, books, cookware, and knick-knacks in cardboard boxes and sealing them
with packing tape. It’s amazing how much stuff a person can accumulate over the
years. I throw out what I can, but there are certain things I just can’t part
with, so into the box they go. I come across a framed photo of me and Logan at
a faculty dinner when he first agreed to be my doctoral advisor. He wanted to parade
his new protégé in front of his colleagues so he had me do a short speech about
how much I appreciated having him as my mentor and what an honor it was to be
part of the post-graduate program. And I was glad to do it. Dr. Logan Smith was
my hero, the quintessential professor, the man I looked up to.

But that was then, and now is
now, and it’s time to move on. I’ve seen another side of him and I don’t like
what I see. I slide the picture out of the frame, grab some scissors, and then,
with surgical precision, cut out his image. I gaze at the excised image and
reflect on the past, how he had captivated me with his charm, and then abandoned
me in my time of distress. With a burst of independence, I tear it into a dozen
small pieces and throw them into the trash. It’s pointless to hang on to broken
promises or brood about what might have been. It’s over, and he has no place in
my life. How amazing it is that a person of distinction could degenerate into an
opportunist when they surmise you have nowhere else to turn. It occurs to me: the
truly great people of the world are those that, when presented with temptation,
have the moral conviction to turn away. It’s a life lesson I will never forget.

And then I think
about my friends; should I call them? It’s not like we chat all the time, in
fact, I haven’t seen them in weeks. The demands of finals week are so
overwhelming we become effectively isolated behind a wall of time. No one has
time for anything except the essentials and meeting those long-term commitments
that move us closer to our goals. Add to that the pressures of the Christmas season,
where everyone scurries around seeking out those perfect gifts, and we’re left
with an atmosphere of mass confusion.

But what if I did
call them; what would I say? What could I tell them when they wanted to know
why I was leaving the area? How do I avoid revealing the truth, how I was fired
from the university, and am leaving in desperation, trying to find some way to
get back in? And what about those inevitable questions that would follow? Tough
questions. Questions that would evoke their sympathy, and place me in the
uncomfortable position of having to make up answers to avoid embarrassment.

 I decide against
it, after all, I can always call later, when I’m settled and things are
beginning to look better. Yes, that’s what I’ll do. I’ll call later.

I spend the rest of the day hauling
the sealed boxes from my second floor apartment to the trunk of the Cruiser. The
trip is now only eighteen hours away and the excitement is building in me. I’ve
already had the car checked out: oil, antifreeze, tire pressure, and filled it
up with gas. Tomorrow will be the beginning of a one-thousand mile trip, and I
want everything to go smoothly.

It’s almost dark
as I place the last box into the Cruiser and lock all the doors. I don’t have
anything to cook with so I head down to Sid’s. He already knows I’m leaving,
but I need to say goodbye. Even though I’m only going for a year, it would be
rude to just leave without saying anything.

I walk past the
university and my eyes well up as I glance at the buildings I’ve known so well
for almost ten years. I remind myself it’s only temporary, but still I have
difficulty keeping the tears back.

Finally, I see the
sign for Sid’s. I go inside and see him in his usual place, greeting customers
as they walk past him. He sees me enter, waves, then slides into a booth
inviting me to join him. I sit directly across from him.

“This is it,” I
say.

“When are you
leaving?”

“Tomorrow, noon.”

“Why Sunday?”

“Well Sid, there’s
nothing more for me here, and besides, there’ll be less traffic around
Washington DC.”

“Good point,” he
says, and raises his hand to attract the waitress.

“Bring us a
couple of the best steaks,” he tells her.

“Sid, you don’t
have to.”

“Quiet, I know
what you like.”

“Okay, but I’m
paying.”

“I wouldn’t think
of it,” he says, as the waitress places a couple of coffees in front of us.

The steaks arrive
in about twenty minutes and I eat in silence. What more can I say to him that
he doesn’t already know. I methodically slice the meat into chunks and nibble
on the periphery rather than chewing them whole. Occasionally, I glance up at
Sid’s sad puppy-dog eyes. He knows why I have to do this, but it’s obvious he’s
not happy with my decision. I finish off my meal, take the last sip of coffee, then
stand up.

“I have to go.”

“Keep in touch. I’ll
be rooting for you”.

“Okay,” I say,
and then give him a hug.

I make my way
through the restaurant just as the Saturday night crowd pours in, and then, quickly
leave. If I had stayed another minute, I would have cried. But as I step onto
the sidewalk, the chill of the night air snaps me out of it. I stroll through
the town, just to give it one last look. The colored lights around each
storefront, and the piles of snow at the curb, give the place a festive look,
but tomorrow it will all be behind me.

I walk slowly
back to my apartment, my mind full of memories from the past. I never thought
it would end like this; failure is not part of my lexicon. But then I remind
myself; it’s what I do going forward that will shape my destiny. Why fret about
things you can’t change? My future rolls out in front of me like a team of
galloping horses; and I hold the reins. I can guide them to despair, or to
victory; I am in control. It’s time to forget the past. I must look ahead, set
goals, and make new memories.

I arrive at my
apartment, unlock the door, and go inside. I sit in the only chair that’s left and
look around for something to do. It’s not that late, but I have no TV, and my laptop
is packed away. I pick up a pen and nervously fiddle with it, clicking it on,
then clicking it off, on, then off, a dozen times, in rapid succession, until I
get bored and throw it into a box. I pick up a travel magazine and thumb
through the pages, but nothing interests me, so that goes in the box also.

I feel my eyes
drooping so I roll out my Yoga mat, throw some covers on it, and slip inside.
As I lay there in the dark, I realize I’m more exhausted than I thought. I must
have been running on adrenaline because in minutes I unconsciously close my
eyes and fade into a deep sleep.

My alarm clock wakes me at
seven AM. I hit the snooze button and reality sets in. Am I ready for this? I’ve
completely uprooted my life and will be traveling to a far off land, a place I
know nothing about. It’s a place of swamps and snakes and alligators and
poisonous spiders and the only creature I’ve ever had to deal with up to now is
a cockroach.

I start having reservations,
doubts I can pull this off. But challenges always seem formidable when I’m
lying in bed and feel helpless, so I get up and make myself some coffee. It’s
still early and I think about going to the local Chapel for the nine o’clock
service. I’ve never been there—it’s mostly for the homeless—but I could meet up
with Will and be introduced to some of his friends.

I get there at a quarter to
nine and there’s a lady at the door inviting everybody in. Inside it’s nothing
more than an old store-front dressed up to look like a church. The walls are
white with posters of Jesus and the apostles scattered around the room. In the
front is a large wooden cross attached to the wall and next to it an organ. An
old lady plays some hymns while the people file in and take a seat. I see Will
third row from the front and join him. He’s surprised to see me.

“I didn’t know you go to
church,” he says.

“I don’t,” I say. “This is
the first time.”

“Your first time in a
church?”

“No, first time going myself.
My grandparents took me almost every week when they were raising me. But when
they passed, and I was on my own, it just didn’t seem relevant anymore.”

“Well I’m glad you’re here.”

The organist leads the people
in a song and Will enthusiastically joins in. I’m amazed at his powerful and
melodic voice; in another life he could have been an opera star. The pastor
approaches the pulpit and delves into the complex writings of the Bible. But my
mind drifts. I’m overwhelmed and begin to think about the thousand-and-one
details that need to be worked out in order to make this trip successful.

Before I know it, the service
is over, and people are filing into a back room. Will takes my hand and leads
me into the room. It’s been set up with a dozen tables scattered about in
various places. At the head of the room is a row of tables holding a pair of
black-iron soup pots each manned by a volunteer brandishing a ladle. Further
down the row are some coffee urns. The people follow a time-tested routine;
they line up along one wall, and wait for their turn at the soup pots. There’s
two kinds, chicken noodle and beef barley. The people point to one or the other
and the volunteer fills up their bowl. Then the people help themselves to a
slice of bread and a cup of coffee at the next table. Will and I do as the
others, and then, he leads me to a table with some empty seats.

As I sip the steamy soup,
careful not to burn my mouth, he points out his friends. “That’s Anna,” he says,
then tells me the story about how she ended up on the streets. He repeats this for
more than a dozen friends, one by one, until the whole experience becomes
surreal to me. I begin to realize that every one of these people had come from
a life not unlike the rest of the population. That life had been torn from them,
in many cases, through no fault of their own. In some cases it was a disease,
in others loss of a job, while in others rejection by their families. They had
become the outcasts of society, left only to each other, and to the too few
volunteers that give up their weekends to make them feel human again. And the
scary part was... I was now just like them!

Will and I finish our soup,
then he goes around the room, one on one, shaking hands and saying goodbye to
his friends. Each of his friends gives him a personal note of encouragement,
and I can see he values every single one.

It’s 10:30 AM and people are
now filing out the door. I ask Will if he needs to go back to his bench.

“No, I’ve got everything
here,” he says, pointing to a backpack on the floor.

“How about your family?” I
ask, referring to his pigeons. “Do you want to see them one last time?”

“No. I know they’re in good
hands with Moe.”

“Shall we go then?”

“Lead the way,” he says.

Will and I follow the line
out the door and into the bright sunshine. The temperature is still in the
twenties, but the sunshine takes the chill out of it. We stroll briskly back to
my apartment. Arriving, Will helps me load the rest of my belongings into the PT
Cruiser. Then, as I slam closed the back hatch, I feel the need to take one
last look. I dash up the stairs and unlock the door, opening it to a bare room with
flat white walls, devoid of all my possessions save for those few bits of
furniture I had decided to leave behind. It reminds me of the first time I
crossed the threshold, eight years ago, when I was being shown the apartment. I
had seen the ad in the school newspaper and made an appointment to see it. When
the landlord opened the door, I was overcome by the repugnant odor of fresh
paint, hastily applied just hours before. I almost didn’t take it, but he liked
the fact I wasn’t going to share it with a roommate so he offered me a free
month. “Compensation for putting up with the smell,” as he put it.

The smell faded by the end of
the first month, and by then, I had already covered the walls with posters of the
faraway places I wanted to visit: Paris, London, Rome, Barcelona, Amsterdam, and
Athens, to name a few. Within a year, so little of the plain white wall was
showing, I had little incentive to repaint it, so it remained as it was, and as
it is today.

How exciting those days were.
I had just been accepted to the university honors program and was full of
ambition. I felt I could do anything if I just put my mind to it. Leaving here
without a PhD in hand was completely incomprehensible. How could it be that when
someone follows the rules, works hard, and meets their commitments; how could
it be, that forces beyond their control can completely upend their life? It’s
just not fair.