by R. J. Blacks
“You’re an exterminator?”
For a moment I’m taken aback by the question.
“Oh, you mean the sign on the Cruiser. No, actually we’re not exterminators. The vehicle came that way.”
He stares at me with a look of bewilderment.
“The dealer wanted a thousand to repaint it.”
He continues to stare.
“We decided it wasn’t worth it.”
Still no expression from him.
“We took it as-is.”
“I see,” he says, then wanders back behind the counter.
“Any dogs or cats?”
“No.”
The man reaches under the counter, places a pair of scissors next to me, and then points to the coupon. I cut it out and place it in front of him. He picks up the coupon and the scissors and places them under the counter.
“Credit card and driver’s license please.”
I hand him what he asks then watch him type the information into the computer. A few minutes later he hands me a key.
“Room 114.”
“Thanks,” I say, and then, grip the key between my thumb and forefinger. But he doesn’t let go!
“If you like room, you give me good review on Trip-Advisor, okay?”
“Sure, of course,” I say, with trepidation.
He smiles, and then releases the key. Relieved, I gather my things and approach the door.
“Complimentary breakfast from six to nine,” he says.
I turn, nod, and then exit the office. Will is already in the passenger seat so I get back in the Cruiser and drive over to room 114. Fortunately there’s a parking spot right in front. Will grabs his backpack and I get my overnight bag, specially packed for stops like this. I open the door and go inside. Will follows me in. We detect a slight musty odor but everything is clean and that’s the most important thing.
“Not bad,” he says, looking around.
The furniture is old and the carpet a bit worn, but no worse than the furniture in my apartment. I pull back the sheets on the king-size bed looking for bugs, but everything is as it should be.
“It’ll be fine for one night,” I say.
I open my overnight bag and empty the contents into the top drawer of the dresser.
“Do you need to use the bathroom?” I ask.
“No.”
I grab a toothbrush and a change of clothes.
“I won’t be long. Then it’s all yours.”
“Take your time.”
I lock myself in the bathroom and treat myself to a hot shower. Afterwards, I dry my hair and put on a sweatshirt and sweatpants. I feel refreshed, a new woman. I gather my things, unlock the door, and then, exit. Will is lying on the floor on his sleeping bag, propped up on one elbow, reading his little black book.
“What are you doing?” I ask.
“Reading my Bible.”
“No, I mean, why are you on the floor?”
“What’s wrong with the floor?”
“I’m totally okay with you sharing the bed,” I say, “as long as you stay on your side.”
“No, I’m fine right here.”
“There’s tons of room on the bed.”
“Well, actually I prefer the floor.”
I gaze at Will, perplexed by his answer.
“It’s like this,” he says, “I’ve hardly ever slept in a proper bed... so I’m not missing anything.”
Will notices his brief attempt at explanation has done little to ease my confusion. He continues:
“I don’t remember much before I was five or six. But after that we moved around a lot. And when you have to depend on other folks for a place to stay, you take whatever they offer. If I got lucky, I got to sleep on the couch. But most of the time it was on the floor.”
“I’m so sorry,” I say.
“Don’t be. After I joined the military and we were out in the field, which was most of the time, the other guys would complain about sleeping on the ground. But I was okay with it because it was no different than what I had done my whole life.”
It’s funny how Will could always turn a negative into a positive. I think about my own life, and how I had to struggle after my parents died. My grandparents did everything possible to give me a normal upbringing, but they didn’t have a lot either. I think about the times my friends would come over and show off their new clothes and all I had were clothes picked up from the local thrift store. There was never enough money for new clothes. Sometimes, late at night, I would lay in bed feeling sorry for myself, crying about the loss of my parents and how life had cheated me. I didn’t think anyone could be worse off than me.
It wasn’t until years later when I turned thirteen and transferred to a new school that my perception began to change. On my daily walk to school, I would have to pass by the projects, dilapidated homes paid for by the government. Out in front, in the poorly kept grass, would be young unsupervised children playing with broken toys or whatever else they could retrieve from the trash. These kids had dirty unkempt hair, wore tattered clothes, and from their emaciated looks, were perhaps even hungry. They would stop playing for a moment and gaze at me as I passed by. Over time it began to sink in that they were envying me, wishing for what little I had. Even though they were only five or six, they were old enough to perceive a difference between us. They could not conceive that I was far less affluent than their perceptions allowed. From their perspective I came from a nice neighborhood, had clean clothes to wear, and was not lacking in anything. And that’s all that mattered to them. It taught me that Einstein was right; in life and nature, everything is relative.
Will puts his book away then slides into his makeshift bed turning onto his side. I turn off the light, get into bed, and then pull up the covers. I lay there restlessly, staring at the darkened ceiling. Occasionally, lights from a passing car flash across the room through the semi-open blinds. I try to sleep, but my mind keeps reliving the day’s bizarre events.
“Hey Will, you were going to tell me how you learned to fight like that,” I say.
“Fight like what?”
“Like the way you decked that guy today.”
“Basic training.”
“They teach martial arts in basic training?” I ask.
“They do if you’re a SEAL.”
“You were a SEAL, a Navy SEAL?”
“Is there another type?”
“You never told me that.”
“Didn’t think it was important,” he grunts.
“What made you want to be a SEAL?” I ask.
“I’ll tell you tomorrow.”
“Tell me now. I can’t sleep.”
“You know, for someone who’s been through all you have, I would think you’d be sleeping like a baby by now.”
“I can’t. I’m too pumped up with adrenalin.”
“All right, it happened like this. When I was sixteen, high school was not agreeing with me too well so I decides to join the Navy. I was always a tall kid for my age so I figures I can pass for older. We was living in Georgia so I takes the Greyhound to Savannah and go right to the Navy recruiter. There was about ten other guys in there; they looked to be about eighteen or nineteen. I was the youngest. So the guy at the desk takes us all into the back room. Then there’s this guy in a white coat with a... whatever it is, hanging around his neck.”
“Stethoscope?”
“Yeah, stethoscope. He tells us to strip to our shorts which we all do. Then he listens to our heart and tells us to cough and do stuff like that. Then all of a sudden the guy from the desk tells me to drop to the floor and do thirty pushups which I do with ease on account of me loading the fruit.”
“Loading the fruit?” I ask.
“Yeah. There was this farm, a real big one, about two mile down the road from where I grew up, near a town called Butler. It was mostly family farms ‘round there so there wasn’t a lot of jobs to be had. But this farm shipped a lot of fruit to supermarkets up north and they always needed hel
p. I would jog down there each day—I was about ten at the time—and they would pay us a dollar an hour to put peaches in these wooden boxes and load them into trucks. They didn’t care who you were or how old you were because they paid you every day and in cash. Fifty dollars a week buys a lot of neat stuff when you’re ten.”
“Or drugs,” I say.
“I was never into that scene. But some of the boys were. I never hung around with them. Anyway the desk guy now tells me to do ten pushups with just one hand which I also do with ease. Lifting those heavy boxes all day long put a bit a muscle on a fella so it was no problem for me. Then the two guys at the recruiter walk over to the corner and start talking in a low voice, so no one could hear them. The doctor guy comes over to me and start poking at my neck and back and feeling this and that.”
“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...
CHAPTER 11
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.
