Alligator Park

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ALLIGATOR PARK

by

R. J. Blacks

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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.

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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

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.