by R. J. Blacks
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ALLIGATOR PARK
by
R. J. Blacks
.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, companies, organizations, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2015 by R. J. Blacks
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means without prior written permission of the copyright holder.
For inquires: [email protected]
Registration Number:
ASIN (Kindle): Bo165YN8J0
ISBN (Print): 978-1517371005
First Edition
135,000 words.
V-2015-10-28
.
Cover Design
Digital art by Abdou Djouher
Photography by Cathleen Tarawhiti
Model - Rose Wood
cathleentarawhiti.deviantart.com/
www.facebook.com/pages/
CathleenTarawhitiPhotographer/95878166172
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ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
A special thanks to:
The Treasure Coast Writers Group
for their support and assistance.
.
Dedicated to my wife Adella,
whose passion for the environment
exceeds even my own.
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One's philosophy is not best expressed in words;
it is expressed in the choices one makes...
and the choices we make
are ultimately our responsibility.
― Eleanor Roosevelt
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Environmental Protection Agency
Mission Statement
The mission of the EPA is to protect
human health and the environment.
EPA's purpose is to ensure that:
all Americans are protected from
significant risks to human health
and the environment where they
live, learn, and work.
October 6, 2014
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ALLIGATOR PARK
CHAPTER 1
It’s December, and on track to become the coldest on record, but I, Indigo Wells, am a woman on a mission, and I’m not about to let the weather, or anything else for that matter, slow me down.
I dash through huge black-iron gates trying to avoid patches of clear ice. The gates mark the entrance to the university, my home for the last ten years. Up above I can see the naked boughs of mature oak trees ravaged by an early nor’easter. Not a leaf on them. The overnight snowfall had outlined the branches with an attractive white stripe making the whole campus seem like a painting out of Norman Rockwell’s world.
But there’s no time for daydreams. My future will be decided in the next few hours and it’s up to me to make it good. I scurry along the snow-covered path, laptop tucked under my arm, weaving between groups of students engaged in conversation, and workmen clearing off the snow. I feel like a quarterback going for a touchdown.
Up ahead, I can see my friend Ben sitting on a bench. He’s covered with snow, but doesn’t mind. After all, he’s dead; well actually he’s been dead for over 200 years. But from a distance I’m sure more than one tourist was fooled into thinking that life-size bronze facsimile was an actor dressed up to look like good old Ben, the founder of this institution. I often wondered why they didn’t call the place Franklin University after all he did for it. But at least he got a bench and a statue for his efforts. I call him my friend because he’s always there for me whenever I need to chill out. People can be so irrational and mean sometimes, but Ben is always there for me. And to this day he has never insulted or even judged me.
Across from Ben, sitting on a bench, is a homeless man feeding pigeons. I see him from time to time, don’t know how he can stand the cold. He has a red bandana for a hat and a black eye patch. I feel sorry for people like that, but my friends tell me not to. They say those people choose this lifestyle, so it’s none of our business. The homeless man reaches into a bag, throws scraps of bread to a group of pigeons. There must be a dozen, competing among themselves for that essential morsel of nourishment, their lifeline from the cold. He repeats the gesture over and over and the pigeons never tire of it.
I glance at the short black leather skirt I’ve chosen to wear. Would it be accepted? It matched the leather jacket pretty well, but they wouldn’t be seeing that. Only the purple blouse I had picked to go with the skirt. It went along nicely with the blue nail polish that’s been a part of me for as long as I can remember. I always had an eye for fashion. I absolutely hated the drab jeans and ski parkas all the other students wore. How boring. They all looked the same. Boring-boring-boring. It always amazed me how seemingly creative people could dress in those uninspired outfits. I want to make my mark, show my independence. And what better way to display it than by the clothes I wear.
Up ahead is an old clock on a lamp stand, you know, the kind they used to have in train stations. It’s probably a hundred years old—and still works. A quarter to one, it’s later than I thought. I can’t be late; my future depends on me showing up on time. I hurry down the path, making my way between groups of students shooting the breeze. Sometimes the groups take up the entire path so I have to walk in the deep snow. It soaks my boots, but no time to worry. If I get through this okay, I can buy new ones, and much nicer than the ones I have on now, retrieved from a thrift store for five dollars. Actually, all my clothes are from thrift stores. I wasn’t born into a rich family like most of the other students. I’ve always struggled for everything I have. I admit it, I envied them; they had it all without any effort. Even my lunch is on a budget. Money is not something that comes easily to me. But soon that would change, if I don’t mess up.
A group of male freshmen horse around in front of me, pushing each other, and throwing snowballs directly in my path.
One of them calls out: “Hey Blue, how about a date?”
He’s referring to my blue hair. I often get teased about my hair, but I don’t care. My friends think I dyed it blue to reflect my birth name, Indigo. I let them think that, but that’s not the way it happened. The real story is I dyed my hair blue on a dare, when I first entered college, almost a decade ago. I liked the way it looked, and the reactions it would get, so I kept it that way. The same freshman confronts me again as I approach him.
“What’s the matter Blue, too good for me?” he squawks.
I walk off the path into the snow avoiding eye contact. A few feet past him I feel a snowball crash into the back of my head. I stop, turn, and glare at him. He stands there grinning, tempting me to return the favor. But I won’t. It’s no use. You can’t argue with an ignorant bastard and besides, there’s no time. I have to hurry. So I just let it pass, and continue to my destination.
Finally, a sign, “Lecture Hall B” attached to a red-brick colonial building. I head right for it, sprint up the stairs, open the massive wooden door, and go inside. Oh, the warm air feels so good. I wish I could take off my boots and let my frozen toes thaw, but there’s no time. I have to hurry.
I search the room and there he is, wearing a tweed sports jacket with elbow patches, the quintessential college professor, Dr. Logan Smith, the love of my life.
He’s not really my lover; I just fantasize about it sometimes. I first met him when I was a freshman taking a course he was teaching, Chemistry 101. The high school I attended was severely underfunded in the sciences, and I lacked the prerequisites to keep up with his class. When Dr. Smith (what I called him back then) realized how much I was struggling, and what an uphill
battle it would be for me to pass the course, he offered to stay a half-hour after class to teach me what I lacked. As a result of his kindness and special attention, I not only aced the class, chemistry became my favorite subject.
We became close friends during my undergraduate days frequently having coffee and lunch together. My interest in him grew as I learned more about him. He was sensitive and really cared about his students, every one of them. He would go out of his way to help anyone who asked, doing whatever it took to help them pass the course. And then, when I entered Grad School, it was the happiest day of my life when he agreed to be my mentor. I would now have a legitimate reason to spend even more time with him.
Of course, we always maintained a professional distance between us and still do. We have to; my future depends on it. I mean, how would it look if I was sharing my bed with the same person that was marking my papers? And there are university rules against that. But sometimes, when I’m listening to a particularly boring lecture, I write down the name, “Mrs. Indigo Smith” and fantasize how glorious it would be to arrive at a reception, with all the university bigwigs present, and be able to say: “Why yes, my name is Indigo Smith and this is my husband Dr. Logan Smith.”
My friends caution me about starting a relationship with a guy ten years my senior, but hey, we’re both in good health, share a passion for the sciences, and ten years isn’t really all that much of a difference.
But fantasy is fantasy and reality is reality and today is my special day when everything will change. Our relationship will transform from that of student-teacher to one of academic colleagues, equal partners if you will, unencumbered by stoic rules and guidelines. We will be free to pursue our passions to the depths of human fulfillment, to explore every nuance, to engage in all those things I’ve waited a lifetime for. And all of this will finally come to pass on this very day... if I don’t mess up.
I wave to Logan. He smiles, signals me to join him. I rush to his side; he gives me a hug, like he always does. I always feel safe when I’m with him; he has a way of making me feel relaxed, even when I’m totally stressed out.
I reach into my purse and retrieve a pair of black thick-framed glasses. I only wear glasses when I need to, in the classroom or when I’m driving. My friends tease me about the glasses; say they’re too big for my face. I know they’re not attractive, ugly even, but that’s all I can afford right now. And I’m not here to win a beauty contest. When this is over, and I get a better job, I’m going to march into that exclusive eyeglass boutique on Main Street and demand the best pair of designer eyeglasses money can buy.
About thirty tenured professors and a handful of university VIP’s, “suits” as my friends call them, shuffle down the aisle and into their seats. I see Dean Haas enter the room accompanied by two men. Dean Haas is a standard of the university, a battle-axe of a woman. She looks maybe fifty-five-ish, but rumor has it she was around when Ben founded the university. Okay, that’s an exaggeration, but no one seems to remember a time when she wasn’t around. Even the best students tremble when they need to see her about something, even for a routine procedural request, like applying for a research grant. And you certainly don’t want to get on her bad side. More than a few students have felt her wrath when they inadvertently violated university regulations. She would sit you in a straight-back chair and circle round you for maybe five minutes without saying a word. Then she’d peer over those tortoise-shell reading glasses and grill you like a Nazi interrogator grilling a British spy. One session with her is all it ever took. There was no second chance; if it happened again, you were out. And everyone knew it!
I watch Dean Haas take a seat near the front of the room. Her companions sit in adjacent seats, the older man in the seat next to hers. He’s dressed in a Brooks Brothers corduroy sports jacket over an elegant pink shirt, unbuttoned at the neckline. He appears to be about seventy. His semi-gray beard and hair are groomed to perfection giving him the distinguished look of a man who knows what he wants, and more importantly, knows how to get it.
The other man is much younger, about forty, and is wearing a pin-striped blue suit. He’s fully decked out with a vest and tie which makes him look out of place against the casual wear the university crowd usually embraces. He’s clean shaven and slightly balding, but from the stern look on his face I’d say he’s not exactly enjoying himself here.
Dean Haas and the older man begin chatting as if they’re old friends. I’ve never seen either of the men on campus before, but it’s not unusual for industry scouts to attend these sessions to find new recruits to work in major corporations. The thought of working for a Fortune 500 company kind of excites me, but my heart is really in academia. My ambition was cast a long time ago, to earn a professorship at the university and be a good wife to the man standing beside me.
Logan glances at his watch and says, “It’s time”.
A lump forms in my throat.
“I’m scared,” I say, gazing into his blue eyes.
“Don’t worry,” he responds. “You’ll do fine”.
I squeeze his hand for reassurance.
“Remember, I’m here for you,” he adds.
I love it when he says that. It makes me feel so... well... loved. Logan pulls away and strolls up to the podium.
“Welcome friends,” he says. “Most of you know me well, but for the benefit of our guests, I am Dr. Logan Smith, Professor of Microbiology. I would especially like to thank the board for attending today, and allowing me the opportunity to mentor this bright young mind. I am truly honored that she will be presented with the distinguished opportunity to join our esteemed profession. If she looks a bit, well, unconventional, I assure you that behind those glasses is all genius. Please, give her a warm welcome. I present, Indigo Wells.”
Logan claps enthusiastically, but the response from the audience is restrained. My heart pounds. What’s going on? No time to think about it now. I must do what I came here for.
I stand up, retrieve my laptop, and then approach the podium. I gaze into Logan’s eyes; he rewards me with a wink.
“You’ll do fine,” he says, then leaves me alone in front of all those eyes. I place the laptop on the podium, open it, plug in some wires. I set the height of the microphone, and then tap on it making a “thump-thump” sound over the public address system. Just to convince myself it works, I blow into it a couple of times causing a “whoosh-whoosh” sound in the speakers.
I glance at the faces in the audience. Not a single smile, except for Logan. I imagined they would be mellow after a lunch at Ricky Stinks. I must explain.
Ricky Stinks is the sine-qua-non of university life in Philadelphia. It’s the de-facto watering hole for suits, intellectuals, and students. The Stinks family—yes, that’s their real name—has claimed ownership for over 300 years. Elijah Stinks, who built the tavern, was a personal friend of William Penn, founder of Philadelphia. He received a land grant in 1682 for services to the struggling colonial government. The ancient deed, signed by Billy P himself, is still displayed on the wall behind the bar. The place reminds me of an English pub, dark, noisy, with the overwhelming odor of dried beer. No one leaves Ricky Stinks without consuming at least a couple of pints.
But not this time; luck is not running my way. Those suits are dead sober, and I’m up here, gazing at their faces, all alone. There’s no one to lean on, no one to help me. I have to make it happen all by myself.
“Thank you Dr. Smith.”
I look around the room seeking some encouragement, but the crowd sits there stone-faced, with no reaction.
“Hello everyone. My name is Indigo Wells, and the title of my dissertation is: ‘The Effect of Environmental Toxins on Wildlife Behavior.’"
A few of the suits fidget, making me more nervous. I push a key on my laptop starting a nature video on an overhead projector.
The audience gazes at a series of videos of:
- Whales beaching themselves,
- Monarch butterflies over a
field,
- Arctic seals in the tropics,
- Dead sea turtles on the beach.
I continue my presentation.
“According to U.S. Government reports, every year, over a billion pounds of pesticides and herbicides are sprayed on American farmland. Where do all those toxic chemicals go?”
I notice a couple of the suits whispering to the person next to them. I press on.
“Conventional wisdom says they break down in the soil. But do they really? What happens when they accumulate in streams and pools of water?”
The fidgeting intensifies, but I try to ignore the distractions.
I continue: “Many have asked that question, but no one has conclusively answered it.”
Unbelievably, some of the suits get up and walk out. And then my worst nightmare happens; Dean Haas stands up!
“I’m going to stop you right there honey,” she says. “If you’re going to lecture us on how pesticides are killing off wildlife, those issues were settled in the sixties, during the DDT scare.”
I respond as respectfully as I know how. “Yes, Dean Haas. The bestseller, ‘Silent Spring’ was a breakthrough in its time, but my dissertation is different.”
“Different? In what way?”
