Alligator Park

by R. J. Blacks

  “Well?” I say. “What happened?”

  “I spoke to Dean Haas,” he says.

  “And?”

  “Do you have your lab ID?”

  “Yes.”

  “May I see it?”

  I retrieve it from my purse, place it on the table.

  “What about the key?”

  I place that also on the table.

  “Dean Haas revoked your lab privileges.”

  I knew he was kidding because without lab privileges I wouldn’t be able to complete my research.

  “That’s not funny.”

  “I’m not joking,” he says.

  “Then how will I complete my dissertation?”

  “There won’t be a dissertation,” he says. “She cancelled the whole project.”

  I didn’t know whether to believe him or not. Logan liked practical jokes, even at the expense of someone else’s dignity. It was all in fun he would always tell me. I decide this is just another one of his misguided practical jokes.

  “Come on,” I say. “I’m not really in the mood for jokes right now.”

  Then Logan does something that annihilates the last vestiges of hope I was clinging to; he picks up my ID and lab key and slips it into his pocket. I feel my heart pounding.

  “You told me all along the dissertation was good,” I say. “I did exactly what you told me to do.”

  Logan gazes right into my eyes.

  “Dean Haas told me something in confidence today, something I didn’t know,” he says. “This is just between us... okay?”

  I nod yes.

  “Remember the older man sitting next to Dean Haas?”

  “Yes, the founder of Global World Industries.”

  “GWI is the reason grad students like you have research projects, they fund most of them. The old man told Dean Haas in no uncertain terms your dissertation was contrary to the agreement GWI had with the university and he threatened to end it.”

  “Science is the search for truth and knowledge. It’s not about opinions,” I snap back.

  “But you’re wrong,” he says. “Science is, and always has been, shaped by ideology... and power. You well know how common it is for researchers to tweak data to fit conclusions.”

  “Is that what you think I did?”

  “No, not at all.”

  I stare at my drink, take another sip. I was so convinced Logan would fix everything I couldn’t even imagine something like this happening. Logan takes my hand, squeezes it gently.

  “I tried everything. Dean Haas won’t budge. I attempted to reason with her. She wouldn’t have any of it. She even threatened my job when I pushed her.”

  I feel myself getting mad, pull my hand back.

  “So in the end it’s just about money,” I say.

  “We’re talking a half a billion dollars. For a university, that’s not just money, that’s survival.”

  The margarita is really making my head spin. I get up, search the complementary snack bar for some appetizers to fill the void in my stomach and absorb some of the alcohol. Nothing left. Out of desperation I ask the bartender for a menu. He tells me the kitchen is closed for the night. I retreat to the table, join Logan. Reality sets in.

  “So what you’re saying is I have to start over?”

  Logan avoids eye contact, rubs his chin. I hate it when he does that. He musters up the courage, stares right at me.

  “What I’m saying is... it’s done.”

  “What?”

  “Dean Haas fired you from the grad assistant job.”

  “Why did she do that?”

  “Right now you’re too hot to handle. They don’t want anything to jeopardize that half a billion dollars.”

  I’m stunned; I don’t know what to say.

  “I’m sorry. Maybe you can get that restaurant job back.”

  I stare at the wall emotionless. Logan gets up.

  “I have to go. The snow’s getting deep.”

  “Call me when you get home,” I say.

  “I don’t think that’s a good idea,” he responds.

  Is he snubbing me? In my time of need, when I am most vulnerable, he is snubbing me?

  He quickly leaves the table, walks out the door without turning to say goodbye, or wave, or anything. This is what I get for totally believing in someone, giving him all my trust? I think about all those years of working with him, he telling me over and over, “I’m here for you.”

  It’s clear now... it was all bullshit.

  CHAPTER 3

  I gulp down the last of my margarita, gather my things, and then slip out the front door. Another couple of inches had fallen. News reports had warned this would be the snowfall of the decade and it was turning out to be true. The gale-force gusts drive the snow sideways forcing me to shield my face. The street is deserted except for a handful of students in ski parkas and wool hats engaged in snowball fights. I cross the street trying to avoid them. A lone woman is always an easy target, even if they are only being playful.

  Up ahead I see the black-iron gates that mark the entrance to the University. They’re closed. It’s unusual to see the gates closed, except for Christmas, Thanksgiving, and New Year’s Day when both faculty and students return to their families turning the university into a ghost town. But tonight is not a holiday, and they’re closed, creating a pervasive air extraordinaire to this massive storm. I approach the gates wondering if they are locked. I lean against them, trying to get a glimpse of what’s behind, and then, unexpectedly, they move away from me letting out a loud squeal as they open to full width. Good, they’re not locked, I think to myself.

  The campus is dark and foreboding illuminated only by ancient gas lamps. Not a soul in sight. I contemplate the options, cutting through to save time, or going around which takes twenty minutes longer. As freshmen, we were often warned not to travel alone on campus late at night. There had been a couple of robberies and rapes during this past year, but who in their right mind would be out on a miserable night like this? I’m cold and tired and hungry and maybe even a little drunk. Another twenty minutes of this would be unbearable. I make up my mind; I’ll take the chance.

  I trudge through the gates and toward the dark unoccupied classrooms. Shadows appear to jump out at me causing me to skip a heartbeat each time it happens. But it’s soon obvious the place is deserted. The workmen have long since given up clearing the sidewalk allowing two-foot drifts to build up in places. I attempt to step over the drifts, but they’re too high and snow drops into the tops of my boots making my feet wet and cold. I press on, lowering my head to avoid the frigid wind that bites at my face.

  As I pass by the red-brick colonial buildings, memories fly through my mind about all the good times I’ve had over the last ten years. The late-night cramming, the term papers rushed to meet a deadline, the lectures, the final exams, and the parties. Oh yes, the parties. I don’t think anyone in civilian life has ever been able to top a college party. They are the best; I would miss them.

  But most of all I’d miss my involvement with the swimming team. It’s been my passion since I was a junior. I started swimming regularly in the university’s heated pool during my freshmen year to escape the stresses of university life. One day, the swimming coach called to me and said I had a natural talent and should consider joining the team. She said that with regular training I would be able to compete with the best. I never won any awards, but I loved the competitive spirit and more importantly, it was fun. And now, by events beyond my control, my life is being upended and all of this is being taken away from me.

  The alcohol in the margarita is taking its toll and I begin feeling depressed. Up ahead I see a lone gaslight twinkling through the relentless snowfall. It’s right next to the bench with the life-sized statue of old Ben on it and adds a certain warmth to the cold chill of the dark and deserted campus. The light beckons me, guiding me to my secret place of contemplation. The snow is now accumulating at a rate of several inches per hour and there is more t
han a foot on the bench. I push the snow onto the ground and clear myself a place to sit. I look around at the buildings and landmarks I know so well. I would miss Ben if I had to leave this place.

  Leave this place? The reality of my situation wells up inside of me; I have no job, no sponsorship, and no future at this university. Technically I’m not even allowed to sit on this bench. Should I go and see old Sid, beg for my job back? I’m pretty sure he would take me back at the restaurant, but I’d also get a daily lecture about how I should be thinking about my future and not going backwards; and he’d be right.

  Thoughts go round and round in my mind—What will I do? How will I live?—until I can’t stand it any longer. But the one thing that eats at me the most is how Logan, the man I loved and trusted and would do anything for, abandoned me in my most vulnerable hour. How could he do this? How could I be so wrong about him all this time?

  My depression overwhelms me and I explode into loud sobs. On any other night my sense of propriety would have provoked me to conceal my sense of self-pity lest some passerby encounter me in this wretched state. But not tonight. It’s cold and dark and deserted and this miserable weather has erected a wall of isolation around me inducing me to relinquish propriety to the wind. But even should some hapless individual pass this way and happen upon me by chance, quite frankly, tonight I really don’t give a damn.

  Then, out of the corner of my eye, I perceive something strange. Almost imperceptibly, the snow piled up on a nearby bench appears to move. I gasp. Was it my imagination? The snow is coming down quite hard, and blowing into my eyes, so perhaps it was an illusion. It moves again causing clumps of snow to fall to the ground.

  And then I see it, a person, lying on the bench, snugly encased in a snow-covered sleeping bag. A white blanket had been pulled up over their head and was now covered with an inch of snow. The person sits up and pulls off the blanket. My eyes are drawn to a red bandana and black eyepatch. It’s the homeless man, the same man I see from time to time feeding pigeons.

  “Now-now Miss,” he says. “It can’t be all that bad.”

  My mind is in complete shambles. I don’t know whether to apologize or rebuke him for scaring me.

  “I’m sorry,” I say. “Didn’t realize you were sleeping.”

  “Quite all right Miss. What more could a lonely man want than to wake up to a pretty face?”

  I stand up.

  “I have to go,” I say.

  “Please Miss, don’t go.”

  I hesitate.

  “It’s all right. We’re just a couple of souls caught up in this crazy world, and trying to make sense of it. Please... have a seat... keep a lonely man company.”

  I sit down again, next to old Ben. The homeless man slips out of the sleeping bag and then proceeds to roll it up, shaking it a couple of times to clear off the snow.

  He reaches under his bench, retrieves a shopping bag and then removes a Thermos bottle and a Styrofoam cup. He unscrews the Thermos, pours coffee into the cup, and brings it over to me. I recoil against the seatback, hold up my hands, and shake my head no. I wasn’t about to drink out of some old dirty cup.

  “Please Miss, the cup’s brand new. Never been used. And the coffee, well, it’s from Sid’s.”

  “You know Sid?” I say.

  “We all know Sid,’ he answers. “He takes good care of us homeless folks. We line up at the back door, right before they close the restaurant, and they fill up our Thermos for free. They also give us whatever food they can spare. Nice folks they are, the folks at Sid’s.”

  If the coffee is from Sid’s, how could I turn it down? I take the cup and sip the coffee. Oh how good it tastes. I feel the warmth go down my throat.

  “Sometimes they give us a slice of this strange blue pie. The color is... kind of like your hair,” he adds.

  I feel the urge to blurt out that the strange blue pie was created by me, but I restrain myself. I’m just not in the mood to answer the inevitable questions that would follow. Funny thing is, in the half dozen times I’ve crossed paths with Sid since leaving the restaurant, he never once mentioned this. I’m not surprised though. Sid was the type of guy who was always looking for ways to help people and didn’t want anyone to know he was doing it.

  The homeless man retrieves a ceramic cup from the bag. It has an image of Ben Franklin on it, a souvenir from one of the many gift shops in the area. He holds it up, proudly shows it to me.

  “They done throw’d this one out. Just because of this little chip.”

  He points to a dime-sized chip-out on the cup, and then proceeds to pour coffee into it.

  “Of course, I washed it twice,” he adds. “Never know what you can catch, I mean, drinking from a cup that’s been in a trash can.”

  The thought of drinking from a cup that’s been in a dirty trash can skeeves me. But in reality, it’s not much different than buying a cup from a thrift shop. Who knows where those cups have been? And I do that all the time.

  The homeless man sips from the cup.

  “I’d offer you something to eat, but I’m done finished everything I had.” he says.

  I quietly sip the coffee secretly hoping he doesn’t ask me any questions. Then I’d feel obligated to answer.

  “Seems like I’m doing all the talking. By the way, name’s Will.”

  I stare into the cup pretending I didn’t hear him. Will waits patiently for me to respond, but I don’t.

  “Well Miss, if I was to guess, I’d have to say no one would be out on a miserable night like this unless theyz either a fool or had something real heavy on their minds. And I got a hunch you ain’t no fool.”

  “The coffee’s good,” I say, trying to change the subject.

  “Nothing like a cup of warm coffee to warm a heart on a cold night like this,” he says.

  I gaze at Will, wondering, how he came to be what he is. He sits there on the snow-covered bench wearing a pair of worn-out boots and a blanket wrapped around him. His ears are tucked under the red bandana, shielding them from the chill. The black eye-patch gives him a threatening look, like he lost his eye in a gang fight or something. His nose and cheeks are red from the cold, but he doesn’t complain. I know he must be suffering, but there he is, eking out a smile with those parched lips, just happy he has someone to share the moment with. My heart softens.

  “I got fired,” I say.

  “People get fired all the time. There’ll be another job.”

  “No, you don’t understand. It wasn’t just an ordinary job. I was doing research... so I could graduate.”

  “Well I’m sure your folks will help you out.”

  “No,” I say, shaking my head. “They’re not around anymore. They died in a car accident... when I was ten.”

  “I’m sorry. Were you adopted?”

  “No, my grandparents took me in, raised me. But now... they’re gone too.”

  “Any brothers or sisters?” he asks.

  “No, it’s just me,” I respond.

  “Well I wouldn’t be too concerned. I bet there are lots of jobs for an intelligent girl like you.”

  “I got reduced tuition with that job. Do you have any idea how much it costs to go here?”

  “No,” he says.

  “Either you’re rich, or you have a scholarship. And right now, I have neither. I really needed that job.”

  “I bet if you thought real hard, you’d find a way to get your job back.”

  “There’s only one way I could get my job back. I’d have to prove Dean Haas is wrong. And that would be impossible,” I blurt out.

  “When I was in Iraq, my commander used to say, ‘Nothing is impossible, if a fella puts his mind to it’. And he was right.”

  “Iraq? You’re a soldier?”

  “Forty ninth division. Nine years of living on K-Rations and getting shot at.”

  “I bet you were happy to get out,” I say.

  “No Miss. I was damn proud being a soldier. Expected to spend my entire career in the mil
itary. Then I got injured. They sent me back here, said there was jobs waiting for us. Well, I still waiting for that job.”

  The wind picks up. I fold my arms, shiver.

  “Here Miss, take my blanket. I can see you’re cold,” he says, holding out the blanket.

  “No, that’s okay. I have to go now,” I say, standing up.

  “My brother lives in Florida,” he says, totally ignoring the fact I’m about to leave. “Tells me to come stay with him. Always says how warm it is in Florida.”

  “So why don’t you go?”

  “’cause I’m the one he always looked up to when we was kids. What would he think if he saw me like this?”

  “Don’t you get anything from the government?”

  “Yeah, Social Security. But it’s almost nothing. Goes on food before the next check arrives so there’s never nothing left over for rent.”

  I finish the coffee, toss the cup in the trash. I reach into my purse to retrieve a one-dollar bill. As I tug on it, a ten note is dragged along with it. I separate the bills, and then catch a glimpse of Will sitting there on the bench. The parched lips, still in a smile, and the bloodshot eye fill me with compassion. I hand Will the ten.

  “What’s that?” he says.

  “For the coffee.”

  Will sits back, puts up his hands, shakes his head no.

  “Please... take it,” I say.

  “No Miss, wouldn’t think of it. Tonight’s my night to help you. Gives a man a warm feeling, knowing he can do someone some good. Please, come visit me again sometime. It’s all a man like me has to look forward to.”

  “Sure,” I say, “I promise.”

  CHAPTER 4

  I awaken to the sun glistening through ice crystals formed on my window during the night. Outside, I see a winter wonderland, snow drifts everywhere, students skiing and sledding down the impassible streets, and evergreens so laden with snow the branches bend toward the ground. The morning TV News reports three and a half feet, not quite a record, but enough to completely disrupt university life. Finals week is now in full swing which means the university will be closing Friday afternoon for winter break. It’s already Wednesday, leaving only three days to catch up. At the end of the week hordes of students will be leaving the area to spend Christmas with their families, and for the ones with means, vacation in the Caribbean. Some of the smaller businesses even close during winter break due to the lack of customers.