Alligator Park (5 page)

He recited it like it had
been drummed into him since he was a boy. I didn’t think he would really go
through with it—our love was too strong—so I continued to date him. But as time
went on, the realization sank in he was committed to his pledge, that he would
marry that girl in Madrid. It was pointless to go on. I could never be more
than his number two and the more I thought about it the more it skeeved me. I
finally decided I would end it. But the response I received was not what I
expected.

“I’m very pleased you have
come to this decision,” he said, carefully forming the words in spite of his
accent.

The thought entered my mind,
maybe he was seeking to end it also, and this was just the excuse he needed.

“You don’t love me?” I ask.

He thought about it for a
long time.

“True love is not selfish, just
wanting someone for themselves,” he says. “True love is desiring the other
person to be happy also, no matter what the cost. That is what I feel for you.”

It was his way of saying if
it was up to him, he would keep our relationship going. But he was bound by
tradition, and there was no way out for him. It would be better to end it than
for me to always be wanting what I could not have. I took his hand, gently
caressed it. I understood completely and he understood I understood. To this
day we remain friends. We have lunch or coffee a couple of times a month to
keep up on things. But we both know the day will come when he will travel back
to Madrid and be a loyal husband to his wife and we will probably never ever see
each other again.

Rafael finishes up with the
patient then approaches me.

“Coffee?” he asks.

“Well, actually, no,” I respond.

“Then what is it?”

“I need a favor.”

“Of course, anything.”

“A man was brought here last
night. I need to know what happened to him.”

“The desk can help you.”

“No. They won’t tell me
anything because I’m not related.”

“A friend then?” he asks,
with a hint of jealousy.

“Yes, just a friend. He’s
homeless. I’m bringing him some food,” I say, showing him the bag.

“Let me check the log,” he says,
walking towards the back. He signals me to follow him. Rafael stops at a
computer.

“What’s his name?”

“Will.”

“His last name.”

“I don’t know.”

“Last night you say?” he
asks, scrolling down the list.

“Yes,” I answer.

“Ah yes, there’s a Will
Franklin, logged in at 2:30 AM.”

He points to the entry on the
computer screen.

Franklin... I wonder; is that
why he hangs around Ben’s statue all the time? Maybe he imagines himself to
have some sort of kinship with Old Ben.

“I think that’s him. Is he
here?”

“It only says, Transferred.”

A lump forms in my throat. I
worked here long enough to realize there are only three ways out of the ER. You
either get admitted to the hospital, discharged, or transferred to the morgue.
I feel my hand shaking.

“Did he pass away?”

“If he passed away it would
say ‘Expired’. It only says ‘Transferred’.” 

“What does that mean,” I ask.

“I’m not sure. Let me find
out.”

Rafael approaches a male
nurse. I can’t quite hear what they are saying, but I make out Will’s name.
Rafael comes back.

“That nurse was here last
night. He remembers Will. He says Will was dehydrated and his glucose was low.
The combination apparently caused him to pass out. He also suffered a little
hypothermia. They treated him then released him.” 

“Released him?”

“They transferred him to St.
Mary’s.”

I knew St. Mary’s. It was a
shelter for the homeless, only a couple of blocks from here.

“Thanks Rafael. I owe you a
dinner.”

“You owe me nothing. For old
time’s sake.”

Rafael was such a gentleman.
There were no hard feelings between us. He was such a great friend.

I rush over to St. Mary’s,
burst through the front door, and then, dash up to the front desk. St. Mary’s
was not like the hospital. The nuns liked to have visitors for the “guests” as
they called them. They offered not only food, drink, and a bed, but tried to raise
their self-esteem, make them feel like they were special, like they were loved.
I approach a nun dressed in a traditional black and white habit.

“Is there a Will here?” I
blurt out.

“Oh, Will,” she says. “Yes,
they brought him here last night. He’s upstairs.” 

“May I see him?”

“Of course, follow me.”

She leads me up some stairs
to a white-washed room filled with four bunk beds, a crucifix on the back wall,
and little else. All the beds are empty, except one. I recognize Will; his eyes
are closed. The nun approaches him.

“Will, wake up,” she says.
“You have a visitor.”

“Please, let him sleep. I’ll
come back later.”

Will opens his eyes, sees me,
smiles.

“How are you feeling?” I ask.

“He’s doing fine, aren’t you
Will?” says the nun.

He nods his head in
agreement.

“I brought some food; can he
eat?” I ask.

“Oh I’m sure he can. He’s
been sleeping since last night. How about it Will? Ready for lunch?”

Will nods his head again.

“I have to get back to the
front desk. Spend as much time as you wish,” she says, and retreats from the
room.

I set up a folding tray next
to his bed and place the Styrofoam box and coffee cup on the tray. I open the
box revealing the most excellent slice of prime rib money can buy. Will’s eyes
light up as the aroma of the food permeates the room. I put a knife and a fork
on the tray and he wastes no time slicing off a piece and placing it in his
mouth.

“What happened?” I ask, as he
gobbles down the steak.

He carefully finishes chewing
and then says: “I was feeling real cold so I got up and started walking to the
shelter. The next thing I know’d I was in the hospital.”

“You passed out. The guard
found you.”

“I guess I owe him one. I’ll
thank him when I get back.”

“Don’t you realize, if the
guard hadn’t found you, you could be dead?”

“He’s a nice guy,” Will says.

“You can’t go on like this, sleeping
on that bench in this blistering cold,” I say, scolding him. 

Will ignores me, wolfing down
the steak like it’s his last meal. I know he hears me, but there’s no way out
for him. He knows it and I know it too. He has no money and no job. It’s an
endless cycle like a carousel with no way off. I sit with him another half
hour, until he finishes the coffee.

“They say I can leave
tomorrow,” he says, eking out a smile. “I’m feeling better already.”

“Where will you go?”

“Where can I go? I need to
return to my family.”

The family he was talking
about were the pigeons he fed religiously every day. They depended on him, or
so he imagined. It was the only family he had, except for his brother in
Florida. His whole life revolved around that snow-covered bench across from old
Ben. It was the only life that made any sense to him. 

Heading back to my apartment
I think about guys like Will. Men at the top of their craft, military men, trained
for the unimaginable. Then sent to foreign countries, to protect us from our
enemies, and now just abandoned, a relic of the past. We used them when they
were useful and now they are refuse. There was something wrong with that
picture and it disturbed me greatly.

But what can I do about it? Just
like millions of other people, I’m so wrapped up in my daily life, dealing through
my own problems; I don’t even have time to think about it.

The next morning, after a breakfast of
oatmeal and eggs, hastily thrown together, my future haunts me. Even if I get a
job, it doesn’t solve anything. I’d just be an undergrad with a low-paying job
that leads nowhere. I need a plan, a long-term plan, to get back to my studies and
earn that most sought-after prize, the Holy Grail of education, a PhD. The
problem is, I’m toxic right now, both to universities and to industry.
Universities depend on grants to fund their research and to pay for laboratories.
No one is going to risk millions of dollars in future grants by helping a
nobody like me. The stakes are high and the task formidable. What to do? 

I think about what went wrong
on that fateful Tuesday when I was giving my dissertation. I go over it step by
step trying to figure out what I could possibly do to get back into Dean Haas’s
favor. It wouldn’t be easy, but what choice did I have? If I applied to another
university I would have to supply a transcript. And a transcript at that level
would have to be signed by Dean Haas. What about scholarships, or even tuition
assistance, which I desperately need? I would need a letter of referral from Dean
Haas to be even considered. I don’t imagine she would be in any mood to give me
a glowing report after her tirade at the dissertation. How would I explain to
the Director of Admissions of a prospective university that the reason I was
kicked out was because I pissed off the biggest producer of environmental
chemicals in the world? I’m sure that would go over well. Yes, the key was obvious;
I needed to get back into Dean Haas’s favor, but how?

I think about it over and
over until my head hurts. I switch on the TV for a distraction, surf through
the channels, but there’s nothing worth watching. I’ve seen it all before. I
pick up a magazine, thumb through the pages, but nothing grabs my interest. My
thoughts turn to Will. I wonder if he made good on his determination to return
to his bench today. Then I get an idea. I retrieve the second Styrofoam box
from the refrigerator, the one from Sid’s. It contains Lasagna from a recipe I
developed over five years ago and was still being used by the new cook. Sid’s
customers still praise it as the best outside of Italy. I had cut off a small
slice for dinner last night, but there was still a large piece left. It would
make a good lunch for Will. I pop it in the microwave then retrieve a couple of
bread sticks to go with it. I place the whole thing in a plastic bag then head
out the door.

I pass through the black-iron
gates and head for Ben. The paths are now clear, aided by the sunshine, and the
usual bustle of the university is back to normal. The weather reports predicted
a high of only twenty today, but it doesn’t feel that cold. The wind has died
down and the sun makes it feel warmer than it is. I see my friend Ben, and
there is Will, on the bench he calls home. He’s doing what he enjoys the most,
feeding the pigeons, his family, as he calls them.

“Hi Will,” I say.

He shushes me, holds up his
hand to keep me away; he doesn’t want me scaring his pigeons. I sit on another
bench, the one with Ben. Will finishes his daily task then shakes the paper bag,
emptying the remaining crumbs onto the snow. The pigeons dash for whatever
morsel they can get before being pushed aside by a more aggressive pigeon. Then
in one fell swoop, they all take to the air at once. They circle once then head
for the nearest church roof to roost.

Will waves me over.

“How do you feel,” I ask.

“Better.”

“Hungry?”

“I’m always hungry,” he
replies.

“Look what I brought you,” I
say, opening the Styrofoam tray. Will examines the contents, breaks into a
smile.

“I love Lasagna. How did you
know?”

I don’t know quite how to
answer that so I just fake it.

“Everyone loves Sid’s Lasagna.”

“Oh, it’s from Sid’s.”

I hand Will a plastic knife and
fork and he doesn’t waste a second. He digs right in, giving the impression he
hasn’t eaten in days. But I guess a warm meal on a cold day is enough to
stimulate any appetite. Will takes out his Thermos, pours himself a cup of
coffee. He puts his coffee cup aside, retrieves a paper cup from his bag, fills
it, and then hands it to me. I hesitate; he reads my body language.

“It’s new. Wouldn’t give you
a dirty cup.”

I feel my face getting red,
embarrassed that I questioned his integrity. But he is so wrapped up in his
meal, I know he doesn’t care or even notice. Will chomps down the breadsticks
then finishes up the last slice of Lasagna. He tosses the empty container in
the trash.

“That really hit the spot. How
are you making out?”

“Not good,” I say.

“What’s wrong?”

“I’m between a rock and a
hard place. There’s nothing for me here, but there’s nothing for me anywhere
else either. I don’t know what to do.”

“My commander always used to
say, ‘When you hit a brick wall, blast through it.’”

“Good advice for a soldier. But
what about me?”

“He also used to say, ‘If
you’re out of options, make some.’”

“There’s no use. There’s
nothing I can do.”

“There’s never nothing you
cannot do.”

Will thinks for a moment.

“The other day, you told me
the dean said your report was lacking proof. Said it was based entirely on
speculation. Am I right?”

“I presented papers
supporting my theories,” I say, defending myself. “That’s legitimate science.”

“It may well be,” he says.
“But it’s not the same as proof. Those scientific reports were created by
another scientist for different purposes. The evidence you attempted to use was
just coincidental. Hardly convincing to a hostile audience.” 

I’m amazed at his depth of understanding.
He rolled it off his tongue so fluidly, I had to believe it was something he
picked up in the military.

“What do you suggest?” I ask,
desperately seeking a solution.

“You need to get your own
proof. Then you would have solid evidence that no one could discredit. They
would have no choice but to believe you. If they tried to smear you, it would be
them that look foolish.”

“What you say is correct. But
I would need samples, and a laboratory to analyze them in. That’s all been
taken away from me.”

“If you’re out of options,
make some,” he says.

“Where would I get samples
around here? I’d have to be near farmland. There’s no farmland around here. And
even if there was, it would all be frozen. I couldn’t do a thing for at least
six months.”

“Who says it has to be around
here?”

“Sure, I could do a field
trip. But an extended field trip, one that could take a year or more, requires
funds. That’s what university grants are for. Who’s going to give me a grant?”

“So you move, to where the
evidence is.”

“You mean relocate?”

“Didn’t you say there was a
professor in Florida? You used her paper or something? I remember you telling
me that.”

“Yes, Jessica Parker.”

 “For what you need to do, Florida’s
perfect this time of year.”

“It may be. But I still need
resources.”

“If she’s a professor, then
she has resources. Give her a call, you never know.” 

Suddenly the task didn’t seem
as formidable. Will was right; there are other options out there. I just have
to find them.

“Will, you’re a genius.”

He cracks a smile and I
detect a slight blush.

“I wouldn’t say that. But I have
learned how to survive in this mixed up crazy world. I’ve had to do that all my
life. You either learn... or die.”

Will’s logic was unarguable. I
make up my mind to call her, Dr. Jessica Parker, of Florida University, and
find out if there is any way I can schedule time at her laboratory. It’s a long
shot, but if it has a one-percent chance of success it’s worth the call.

“Thanks Will,” I say, then give
him a peck on the cheek. He recoils in surprise, then grins from ear to ear.

“Got to go now. I’ll let you
know what happens.”

I rush back to my apartment
to call Dr. Parker. It’s Thursday already and I don’t have much time. Around
the holidays, all universities pretty much run on the same schedule and on
Friday afternoon the university would close. If Dr. Parker’s schedule ended
early, and she decided to leave, I would have no way to contact her for at
least a couple of weeks. I couldn’t wait that long.

I dial her office number; it
rings... and rings... and rings.

“Oh please, somebody be
there,” I plead.

Finally, an answer, a male
voice.

“May I speak with Dr.
Parker,” I ask.

“Who’s calling.”

“My name is Indigo Wells.”

“Do you have business with
her?”

“Actually, I’m a PhD
candidate and I’m interested in the work Dr. Parker is doing.”

“I’ll transfer you to the
lab,” he says.

What luck, she’s still in
town, I think.

A female voice answers the
phone.

“Hello, I’m Dr. Parker.”

“Yes, hello,” I say, my hand
shaking slightly. “I’m a PhD candidate and I’ve been studying your work.”

“You mean someone is actually
reading my stuff,” she quips, laughing.

“Oh yes, it was interesting. I
was wondering; could you use an intern, to assist you in your research?”

“Well, actually yes.”

I feel a sense of exhilaration.

She continues: “I’ve been
asking for one for over a year, but unfortunately there’s nothing in the
budget. I’m sorry.”

“You wouldn’t have to pay me.”

“You have the means to
support yourself?”

“I’m pretty versatile. I’m
planning to get a part-time job.”

“How much time do you have
available?” she asks.

“At least a year. I’m taking
a leave-of-absence.”

“When can you come in for an
interview?”

“When’s good for you?”

“I’ll be hanging around here
a couple more days. Do you think you could come in Wednesday?”

Wednesday? That would give me
less than a week to get there, drive all the way to Florida. And what if there
were delays?

“Sure,” I answer, not wanting
to sound unappreciative.

“That gives us time to get
the formalities out of the way and hit the ground running at the beginning of
the term.”

“Sounds good.”

“Okay, take this down, here’s
the address... ”

I couldn’t believe this was
happening. She was actually giving me a chance. I would be working with a
renowned microbiologist who not only shares my interests, but my philosophy as
well.

“Did you get all that?” she
asks.

“Yes. Wednesday, in the lab,
on Orlando Avenue.”

“Wonderful. One more thing.
On the university website, there’s a standard job application. Would you fill
it out? It’s just a formality, but I have to do it. Make sure you enter my name
as supervisor. That way I can give you a reference for Human Resources.”

“Sure, no problem.”

“Okay then, see you on
Wednesday,” she says.

“Wednesday it is, and thanks.
Goodbye.”

I hang up the phone and fill
out the form as she asked. As I click on the “SEND” button, reality hits me; I
have only five days to move to Florida, a state I have never been to, for a job
that doesn’t pay. What was I thinking?

Okay, maybe I don’t have to actually
move to Florida. I could leave all my stuff here and just go live in Florida
for a year or so. But then I would have to pay double rent and still pay for
the heat and utilities up here. No, that wouldn’t work. I look around my
apartment. Most of the furniture was second hand, acquired from thrift stores.
I had owned it for almost the entire ten years I was enrolled here and it was
beginning to show its age. It would be pointless to move it, probably cost more
than what it was worth. An open house, that’s what I would do. I would post a
notice on the many bulletin boards around town offering the furniture for sale.
Then I could travel light and start out new. The plan was coming together.

I feel myself getting excited
and that was making me hungry. I whip up a quick meal of my own special
burritos then throw in a couple extra for Will. He wouldn’t be eating until
much later, when the restaurants give out the left-over food, so I knew he
would be hungry. I was planning to visit him anyway, to let him know the good
news. So why not just bring him something? It would save him the trouble of
drifting from restaurant to restaurant, late at night, seeking out the ones
with enough leftovers to provide for all the homeless people in the area. I wolf
down my meal, then pack the two extra burritos into a plastic bag. I add a
handful of tortilla chips just to round out the meal. I can’t wait to see him,
tell him the news. I grab my coat and, in seconds, I’m out the door.