Authors: R. J. Blacks
“Help yourself.
What am I going to do with a dead gator?”
Fargo backs up
the jeep and then gets a couple of police investigators help him load the
three-hundred pound reptile into the back with its tail hanging over the
tailgate. As he pulls out onto the main road, his curiosity gets the better of
him.
“What are you
going to do with it?” he asks.
“I need you to
dissect it,” I say.
“You want ME to
dissect it?”
“Don’t worry. I’ll
show you what to do.”
“Why don’t you do
it?”
“You know how I
feel about blood.”
“Maybe you should
get used to it,” he says.
We cover a couple of miles
and he doesn’t say a word. It appears he’s deep in thought, but I have a stake
in this so I feel compelled to break the silence.
“Are you going to tell me
what you saw back there?”
“It’s nothing,” he says.
“It can’t be nothing or you
wouldn’t be thinking about it.”
“How do you know I’m thinking
about it?” he asks.
“Because you just admitted
it.”
“Alright... and this is
confidential by the way... I saw some tracks with eight toes, and they were
big.”
“How many do they normally
have?”
“Five. The strange part
was... it looked like the smaller gators were grouping around the big one.”
“The leader?”
“Alligators don’t have
leaders. Yes, large males have harems. But the females don’t exactly follow
them around. They just hang out in pools of water and the dominant male shields
them from other males.”
“But don’t they attack in
groups?”
“It only seems that way because
they’re opportunists. If a gator gets some prey, the others sneak in hoping to steal
part of it. It’s every one for themselves.”
“So what’s bothering you?” I
ask.
“I’m seeing the same tracks
and the same behavior as this morning.”
“Why is that a problem?”
“That was fifty miles from
here. To cover that distance undetected in less than a day would require
extraordinary planning and coordination. There would be no time for mistakes.
That gator would have to know every lake, every stream, every canal, and every
culvert between here and there. It would require a photographic memory.”
“And you don’t believe
alligators have sufficient mental capacity to do that.”
“Look, I respect your
education, your theories, and whatever else you do, but I live with these
creatures every day. I know where they live, what they eat, how they behave,
and even how they think. There’s a simple explanation for this. It doesn’t take
a scientist to figure it out.”
“Okay, sorry, didn’t mean to
offend. I was only trying to look at it from all angles.”
“Tell me then; what do you
propose?”
“What I’m alluding to is this:
The eight toes may be a relatively insignificant manifestation of a far greater
internal transformation.”
“Can you put that in
English?”
“What I’m saying is there
might be something major going on with the brain of the eight-toed alligator,
something that has caused modifications to its instinctive natural behavior.”
“Why do you say that?”
“The fact that only one gator
was shot. And he was clamped onto a man’s foot making him an easy target.
Alligators are not known for being skittish. They’re not easily spooked. It
appears to me, when the police cruisers showed up, the gators were tipped off
they were in imminent danger. Remember, it was dark. I think the only thing the
cops saw were the tails of the gators slipping under the water.”
“And the eight-toed one
tipped them off.”
“Could be.”
“Because of changes to its
brain?”
“There’s a natural tendency
in nature for animals to gain intelligence over time. Survival drives it. But
it could also be external,” I say.
“External?”
“Didn’t you say the water
started to change after they built the factory to make pesticides?
“That was thirty years ago.”
“Well, these things take
time. The effect might be incremental, over many years.”
“How would that affect the
gators?”
“Certain drugs are known to
affect intelligence.
Ritalin is one of them. It’s
normally used to treat Attention Deficit Disorder, but also has the potential
to enhance mental ability.”
“You’re saying the water has
Ritalin in it?” he asks.
“It doesn’t have to be
Ritalin. Something could be leaking from that factory that has the same effect
on wildlife as Ritalin has on humans. No one has studied this because no
company will fund it.”
“Both the senator and the EPA
said the plant was clean.”
“Maybe it was, at one time.
When was the last time anyone tested the water?”
“Twelve years ago.”
“A lot can happen in twelve
years,” I say.
I peer out the windshield and
into the dark road ahead, my mind drifting, and then, Fargo breaks the silence.
“There’s an Indian legend
about an eight-toed alligator?”
“What’s it about.”
“It speaks of death, an
omen.”
“And you think it applies
here?”
“My mother was convinced it
was true.”
“I do see a pattern,” I say.
“What do you mean?” he asks.
“There’s an old saying, ‘Bad
things happen in threes.’”
“Go on.”
“Well, the first incident was
eighty miles away, the second, thirty miles. The next one might be close to
home.”
Fargo glares at me and I
perceive his mind going a million miles an hour, and then he scoffs: “That’s
ridiculous. It’s superstition, just silly superstition.”
Neither of us says a word the
rest of the trip and then he pulls into his driveway and parks the Jeep. We
stroll to the house, enter, and approach Will who’s sitting on the couch
watching TV. He turns to greet us.
“What’s up?”
“Help me get this
gator out of the jeep,” Fargo says.
“A live one?”
“No, he’s dead.”
“Before you do
that, can you set me up a table outside,” I say. “I need a place to sterilize
the gator before we do anything with it.”
Fargo turns on
the outside spotlights, stacks a dozen cinder blocks on the ground, and then
puts some eight-foot planks across them forming a platform about two-feet high.
I cover the top with a clean plastic sheet giving it a nice smooth surface.
He and Will drag
the gator from the jeep and place it on the platform. I hose the gator down
with cold water and brush it vigorously to wash off any contamination and then
spray a mild concentration of bleach over the entire back. After a few minutes,
I rinse it off with distilled water.
“I need you to
put on these rubber gloves and a surgical face mask. Are you okay with that?”
“Sure,” he says,
and puts them on.
I hand Fargo a
brand new scalpel and instruct him on what he needs to do.
“Remove the brain
and place it in this specimen jar. Make sure it doesn’t contact anything other
than the inside of the jar or it will be contaminated.”
Will and I stand
back to give Fargo some space as he makes an incision along the back of the
head and then peels away the thick skin making an opening large enough to get
his hand inside the skull.
“We’re lucky. The
officer’s bullet only severed the spinal cord. The brain is intact,” he says,
and then uses the scalpel to separate it from the surrounding tissue. He brings
it out and drops it into a specimen jar. It’s about the size of a walnut.
“Okay, let’s get
some muscle tissue now,” I say, and instruct him how to do that. He cuts out
some tissue from the massive muscle alongside the jaw and then some from the
legs. I explain to Fargo how I want him to expose the spine and then use a
hypodermic needle to extract some spinal fluid. Finally he cuts away a small
piece of the liver and the kidneys, and then I get him to take a blood sample
from a main artery.
“Okay, that’s
it,” I say, and then seal all the jars.
“What’s it for?”
asks Fargo.
“I may need it
later. For now, it goes in the freezer.”
“What about the meat?”
“It’s yours. Do
what you wish.”
“Okay, we’ll have
it for dinner, next week.”
“I never had
alligator,” I say.
“Tastes like
catfish.”
“Never had
catfish.”
“Tastes kind of
like snake.”
“Never had
snake.”
“Ever had
chicken?” he asks.
“Yes, of course.”
“It don’t taste
like chicken.”
Will cuts in:
“You’ve had lobster, right?”
“Sure.”
“It’s kind of
like lobster and kind of like crab, but not exactly like either. Get what I’m
saying?”
“Fine, whatever
it tastes like, I’ll have some,” I say, and scurry back to the kitchen to place
the jars in the freezer.
Fargo skins the
alligator, butchers the meat, and places it in a large freezer he normally uses
for fish. After cleaning up, he slips out the front door and returns with the
pine cones I had collected for trimming the tree. They
have a sparkling gold tint to them. We
tie them to the tree in random locations and stand back to admire our work.
“Fantastic!” I say.
“Time to celebrate,” Fargo
says, and then he opens the sea grape wine and pours out three glasses. He
hands one to Will, one to me, and then holds the third glass up into the air.
“A toast.”
“A toast for what?” I say.
“A toast you find what you
came for.”
“Well, with your help, I know
I will.”
“I’ll drink to that,” says
Will.
We finish off the wine and by
nine-thirty I’m ready to crash. What a day it’s been. I can’t recall a single
day when I’ve had more excitement, and that includes my college days. I bid
everyone a good night and retreat to my bedroom. I slip on a nightshirt, crawl
under the covers, and within minutes, I’m asleep.
I lie in bed half awake,
daylight streaming through my window. As my thoughts come together, I realize
it’s Christmas. A cold snap had blown in during the night, and with no heat in
the cabin, my room is cold. I snuggle under the covers savoring the warmth of
the bed, putting off for as long as possible the inevitable, taking a shower in
that chilly bathroom. But there’s a turkey to clean and fish to scale so I can’t
waste time just lying around, even though I really feel like doing that right
now. I mentally prepare myself for a long day in the kitchen and then dash into
the shower and do what I have to do to get ready.
When I enter the kitchen, I
see a large box on the table covered with the same colored ad pages we used to
decorate the bucket under the Christmas tree. There’s a tag on it, a tag with
my name on it. I pick up the box and rush to the porch. Fargo is in the
clearing, plucking the bird. He turns to face me with a grin he can’t hide.
“Is this for me?” I ask.
“It’s from both of us.”
“I’m sorry, I didn’t get you
guys anything.”
Will steps out the front door
onto the porch.
“Go ahead, open it,” he says.
I sit down in one
of the beach chairs and carefully remove the wrapping paper. Inside is an
elegant brown box with the name ‘Seminole Sales’ imprinted on it. I lift off
the top and inside is a two-piece outfit made of the finest deerskin I’ve ever
seen. I pick up the top and hold it up against me.
“It’s beautiful,” I say.
“Look, I’ve got to square
with you,” Fargo says. “We had intended to give it to our mother, but never had
the chance. It was too late. She passed soon after.”
“But it’s brand new,” Will
adds. “And since you’re her size, we want you to have it.”
“Try it on,” Fargo says.
I rush to my bedroom and slip
into the outfit. It fits perfectly. The skirt reaches to my ankles with frills
along the bottom and the top has frills on the sleeves and along the neckline.
There are red, blue, and brown Native American designs embroidered on both the
skirt and the top. I put on the shell necklace and place a feather in my hair.
Then I slip on the moccasins and return to the porch, modeling the outfit for
them.
“You look great, like a
princess,” Will says.
“I love it,” I say, and then
give Will a hug and peck on the cheek. I scramble down the stairs, approach
Fargo, and give him the same.
“I’ll always cherish it,” I
say.
“I’m glad you like it,” he
says, and then goes back to plucking the turkey.
Will saunters into the
kitchen and I follow him in. He picks up the three fish and a large knife.
“I’ll take care of these,” he
says, and then strolls out the door to clean the fish.
I prepare the sweet potatoes
and place them in a pot to boil. I do the same with the swamp apples and
dandelion roots. Fargo walks in and hands me the turkey.
“Needs rinsing off,” he says.
I do as he says and place it
in a large pan. I do a quick brining, use some bread to stuff it, and then
place it in the oven. It’ll take several hours to cook so I turn my attention
to creating a blueberry and mango pie, improvising as I go along.
Will strolls in and hands me
the fish, filleted and ready to cook. It’s well known that fish are best cooked
right before the meal, so I place them in the refrigerator and continue
experimenting with my desserts. It’s kind of exciting preparing a meal with
foodstuffs gathered in the wild. It reminds me of those women in the book,
“Little House on the Prairie.” I always wanted to live like those pioneer women,
even though life could be hard at times. And now, my childhood fantasy has
become reality.
By 3:00 PM, the turkey is done
and I grill up the fish. It’s going to be an early meal, but no one’s eaten all
day so I don’t think there will be any complaining. Will helps me set the table
and put out the food. And what a feast it is. Fargo wasn’t kidding when he
enticed us with the merits of the swamp. We could’ve invited ten more people
and still have enough food.
Fargo opens his best
sea-grape wine, and then dials in some Christmas music on an old radio he
hardly uses. It’s not exactly high-fidelity, but it sets the holiday mood and
that’s all that matters. We eat our fill, devour a couple bottles of wine, and
then retreat to the porch to relax to the orange, red, and purple glow of the
setting sun intermingled among random cloud formations over the vast and
unspoiled lake directly in front of us. It’s a display that always inspires awe
to those who are fortunate enough to witness it.
The afternoon air is starting
to get chilly as the sun drops below the horizon and a bit of a wind is picking
up, but I’m feeling really mellow, and have no desire to go indoors right now.
I gaze out over the lake and daydream about what it was like in this very spot,
a hundred years ago, a thousand years ago, or even ten-thousand years ago.
Would it have been any different than now? Did the previous inhabitants have
everything they needed to survive, just like we do? The present world could
suddenly disappear, but right here, at the edge of this lake, we would hardly
notice. Sure, we wouldn’t have gas for the airboats, but we’d still have the
canoe. And when there’s nothing to rush for, what difference would it make how
fast we arrived at our destination? Who would be checking?
I pour myself another glass
of wine, settle back, and enjoy the view. I let my mind drift to a state of
total relaxation, unfettered by anxiety, or by abstract concepts of pointless
speculation. After all, today is Christmas, and I’m entitled to enjoy every
minute of it... and that’s exactly what I’m going to do.
...
Saturday morning arrives, and
as I eat breakfast, reality sets in; I still don’t have any prospects for a
job. I need to do something soon or I could be stuck in this rut for months.
But first I need to get my specimen jars to Jessica for analysis. I give her a
quick call to see if she’s available for a weekend pickup. She agrees to meet
me at noon at a Gainesville mall, so I grab a quick breakfast, let Will know
where I’m going, and then set off to meet her. I’m getting used to driving
around these parts so the two-hour trip is uneventful.
As I drive through the mall
parking lot, I spot her black BMW and pull alongside it. She’s sitting in the
driver’s seat wearing the same black dress she wore before. We both get out and
I hand her the jars conveniently hidden in a generic plastic bag like you would
get at any department store. To a casual observer it would look like I just
handed her something I had bought at a nearby store. She tells me to check back
with her in a week and that’s it. She drives away and I do the same, returning
to my temporary home with the satisfaction that the jars are in good hands and
will soon reveal their secrets. Once I get experimental data, I can form a
hypothesis which would lead to a theory, and finally, publication. It would be
the first step in getting myself readmitted to the university and finishing my
PhD.
When I get back, Fargo’s
parking lot is half filled with vehicles and the airboat is missing. I decide
this is a good opportunity to set my sights on finding employment. I enter the
cabin and find Will in the kitchen cleaning up.
“Any ideas where I can find a
job?” I ask.
“How about those local
restaurants?”
“Would they hire an
outsider?”
“Can’t hurt to try.”
I freshen up, redo my makeup,
and then join Will in the kitchen, making myself a sandwich.
“I’ll be back before dark,” I
say, and Will nods in agreement.
I finish up my meal, gather
my things, and slip out the front door to my car. I make my way out to Route 40,
the only two-lane road from Daytona to Ocala. It’s a well-traveled highway for
both truckers and tourists and there are about a dozen small restaurants in our
area. But the big rigs and the tourists seldom stop so they cater mostly to
local farmers and migrant workers.
I pull into the first
restaurant I come across, a small brightly painted building with the words, “Comida
Mejicana” painted in large red letters along the roof. It translates to:
Mexican Food. I enter the front door and am overwhelmed by the blare of accordions,
trumpets, and Spanish-language singers, blending in the style of classic
Tex-Mex.
About two-dozen burly men
dressed in jeans, flannel shirts, and wide-brimmed hats are either immersed in
conversation with their neighbor, playing pool, or standing around with a beer
in hand. Every one of them stops what he’s doing and stares at me with a most
piercing gaze. I notice not a single woman in the place so I stop in my tracks,
turn around, and exit. I sprint to my car, hastily start the engine, and race
out of there expecting at any moment the entire male crowd to file out the
front door and run after me. But nothing happens, and I conclude this place is
definitely off the list.
The second place I stop at
looks similar to the first place, so before going in, I remain in the Cruiser
watching the clientele come and go. The mix is more family oriented with
children occasionally accompanied by two or more adults.
I follow an elderly couple
into the restaurant and approach a woman at a counter. She’s speaking Spanish
to her workers, but I try addressing her in English. She understands what I’m
saying, but her English is broken and she shakes her head letting me know in no
uncertain terms she has no work for me.
I get the same response from
the other ten restaurants I stop at. They’re all just small family-owned
businesses barely making expenses. Even if they wanted help, I doubt they would
be able to afford it.
It’s starting to get dark so
I head back to Fargo’s place. Will is on the porch in his favorite chair
watching the sunset.
“Find work?” he asks.
“There’s not a single
restaurant between here and the interstate that can afford to hire anyone.”
“Don’t be so pessimistic.”
“I come from a different
world. I don’t fit in.”
“It’s only been a week.
Remember what my commander used to say, ‘When you’re out of options, make
some.’”
“The only options I have are
those restaurants by the interstate... and that’s an hour from here, each way.”
“You’re not thinking outside
the box.”
I gaze at the sunset and
then, slowly, insensibly, an idea begins to take shape.
“Will, I have a solution, something
that might just work.”
“Does it involve me?”
“Actually, yes.”
“Oh boy, now I’m in trouble.”
“Well, do you want to hear
it?”
“If I say no, you’re going to
tell me anyway, so go ahead.”
“How about this: we start our
own restaurant.”
“You’re crazy.”
“It’s not that crazy. I know
how to cook and you can be the server... until we get big enough to hire someone.”
“It’s the money I’m worried
about. It costs plenty to rent those buildings by the main highway. We could go
broke before we’ve made a dime.”
“Not by the highway. Right
here!”
“That’s even crazier. No one would
come here, drive all this way, just for a meal.”
“Well, we could combine the
restaurant with the airboat rides and then... add some canoes, nature trails, a
petting zoo...”
“Stop. It would never work.
Fargo only tolerates the crowds to pay his bills. He’d never go for this.”
“Let’s ask him.”
“I can tell you, I know my
brother. He’ll never go for it!”
“Well let’s just say he
agrees, are you in?”
“If he agrees, I’m in. But I
know my brother, he’ll never agree.”
I hastily put
together a meal using leftovers from the Christmas dinner. I trim the table with
a tablecloth, light the candles, and then turn on some Christmas music. Fargo
will be tired and even a little cranky when he returns, but perhaps
a good meal and a little wine will uplift his spirits. Then,
if all goes well, we’ll ask him to approve our plan.
Fargo returns right on cue
and heads to his bedroom to freshen up. He joins us at the table a few moments
later.
“What’s all this? I thought
Christmas was over,” he says.
“It only comes once a year.
Might as well enjoy it,” I say.
Fargo shrugs, then digs in.
Will knows what I’m up to and I see his eyes glance in my direction. He shakes
his head almost imperceptibly letting me know he doesn’t think it will work. I
smile in return and he gives me that ‘we’ll see’ look.
Fargo starts working on the
dessert so I use the opportunity to test his mood.
“How’d it go?”
He grunts a few imperceptible
words.
“Get a decent crowd?”
“Not bad,” he says.
“I was looking for a job
today.”