Alligator Park

by R. J. Blacks

  Set back away from the water is a chickee, an open-sided hut with a palm-leaf roof and a railing on three sides. On the beach is a fire pit consisting of stones arranged in a circle and a metal grill over them.

  “What is this place?” I ask.

  “My refuge.”

  “What’s it for?”

  “Sometimes, after a long hunt, I stay here for the night.”

  “Are we going to sleep here?”

  “I’m making you breakfast.”

  “I thought we would eat on the trail?”

  “You’re always cooking for us. It’s my turn.”

  Fargo hops out of the canoe and drags it farther up the bank making it easier for me to get out. I step onto the bank, wander around, and see him enter the chickee, pick up an armful of logs stored under the roof, and then start a fire. He fills a pan with water, places it on the grill, and retrieves two aluminum cups from his backpack. He cuts two oranges in half with his Bowie knife, squeezes the juice into one of the cups until it’s full, and then hands the cup to me.

  “Florida’s finest,” he says.

  I take a drink and it’s the freshest and sweetest orange juice I’ve ever tasted. The water in the pan is now boiling so he goes back to the chickee and cuts a string hanging from the roof that has a small bundle of leaves and twigs attached to one end, and then, drops the twigs and leaves into the hot water.

  “What are you making?” I ask.

  “Indian tea.”

  “Is that indigenous?”

  “Actually no, but it grows well here if you plant it on dry land. The Indian name is Chʼil gohwéhí, Navajo Tea. My ancestors, the Creek, brought it back from Oklahoma, when they escaped the reservations. It’s a holy tea. Before they pick the stems, they say prayers to thank Mother Earth, express their great appreciation.”

  I watch the water turn to a rich gold color. Fargo picks up a short branch and holds it in the fire until it starts burning. He removes it, blows out the flames, and then rushes off into the woods carrying the smoking branch in one hand and a small aluminum pan in the other. He returns a few minutes later with something in the pan.

  “What’s that?” I ask.

  “Honey.”

  “There’s a bee hive around here?”

  He points to a dead tree trunk that was struck by lightning.

  “In there. The smoke confuses the bees while I break off a bit of the hive.”

  He asks me for my cup so I gulp down the last few drops of orange juice and hand it to him. He fills it with the golden tea and adds a bit of honey to sweeten it. Then he slices a lemon in two, squeezes a few drops into the tea, and hands me the brew.

  “Thank you.”

  “In the Creek language, we say, ‘Mu-toh.’”

  “Moo-Toe.”

  “No, not ‘moo’ like a cow. ‘Mu-toh.’ Shorten up on the ‘u’ and the ‘toh.’”

  “Mu-toh,” I repeat.

  “En-gah.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “You’re welcome.”

  “En-gah,” I repeat.

  “That’s it. You’ve got it!”

  He fills his own cup and then we toast, clinking our cups together. I take a small sip and it’s marvelous, sweet and pungent, and thicker than normal teas, almost like a soup. But I love it and go back for another sip.

  Fargo retreats to the water’s edge to clean the fish, first slicing them up the middle, pulling out the guts, and then, rinsing the body under the clear water. He dresses them with some lemon pepper he had stored in the chickee, and then places the fish on the grill. Ten minutes later, they’re done and he scoops them up and puts them on two aluminum plates he brought with him. He smashes open a coconut and scrapes some thin shavings onto the trout, enough to almost completely cover them. Then he sprinkles a few drops of lemon juice on each one, peels a mango, slices it, and then meticulously arranges the pieces around the perimeter of the plate. Finally, he finishes with a garnish, a fresh green herb he cut along the way and then hands me a plate. It’s a work of art.

  “Grilled Coconut Trout.”

  “Mu-toh,” I say.

  “Well, what do you think?”

  I balance the plate on my knees, pull off a bit of the delicate white meat, and take a bite.

  “A French restaurant couldn’t do better.”

  Fargo smiles and I can see that he’s pleased. Personally, I’m amazed. It’s the first time he’s demonstrated his cooking skills and what an accomplishment.

  “And all this from the wild?”

  “I try to use whatever’s available,” he says.

  My mind flashes back to my early days at college when I would improvise meals with whatever was in my kitchen. What a coincidence, it was a trait we had in common.

  “How did you learn to cook?” I ask.

  “From necessity. When you’re in the wild, alone, and you get hungry, you have the greatest motivation in the world.”

  “Yeah. It was like that for me too, except I was in the city alone. When I got my first apartment, I used to buy cheesesteaks all the time. But that got expensive... and boring. So I had to learn or starve.”

  “Funny, I always imagined you went to school for it.”

  “That’s a nice compliment, but no, it was totally out of necessity, and hunger, like you.”

  I take another bite of the trout, and then, in a moment of daring, feel the urge to ask the question I’ve wondered about since the day we first met.

  “How did you get the name Fargo?”

  He laughs. “It’s a long story.”

  “We have time.”

  “Okay then, this is the way it was told to me: In the eighth month after conception, my mother decided she wanted to be with her parents for my birth. Her husband, my father, had gone away with no promise of return, and the only help she had was my brother Will, who was ten at the time. So she loaded up this old station wagon with a couple of suitcases, and then, she and Will set off for Florida, a trip that would normally take less than a day. She always took the back roads; didn’t like the Interstate.

  But then, as she’s driving through a remote area near the Georgia border, by the Okefenokee Swamp, the contractions started. She pulls into a local fire station to get directions to the nearest hospital, but it was too late. The EMT’s had no choice but to deliver the child right in the station. At the exact moment of birth, when the pains were at their worse, she notices a sign across the wall, ‘Fargo Fire Department.’ You have to understand one thing: Indians don’t give random names to children like white folks do. The name has to carry significance. My mother believed there was a reason she stopped at that particular fire station and that was the significance she needed. And that’s how I got my name.”

  “Amazing story.”

  “What about you?”

  “Oh forget it. It’s silly.”

  “I want to hear it.”

  “My parents lived in Philadelphia, in a neighborhood with brown-stone row homes and trolleys. They didn’t own a car because you could get everywhere on public transportation. When my mother started having contractions, they called a cab, as was the custom. It was the fastest way to get to the hospital. But twenty minutes later, the cab gets trapped in gridlock from all the traffic going to a major football game. The cabby panics and calls in on the radio and the dispatcher calls police. Special policeman on horseback were common in center city Philadelphia because they could get into places where cars couldn’t. So having no other option, they sent in a female officer with EMT training. Right there, in the back of the cab, with newspapers over the windows, she delivers the baby, which turned out to be me.”

  “So where does the name ‘Indigo’ play into all this?”

  “The name tag. When the officer was helping my mother, she had a name tag prominently displayed on her jacket. On it was written, “Indigo Ramirez,” the woman’s name. She was so nice; stayed with my mother all the way to the hospital, helping her, and giving her support. When they
asked for the baby’s name, Officer Ramirez was still there, holding me in her arms, with the most contagious smile you would ever see. She had wrapped her jacket around me and was holding me close, to keep me warm. My mother looked at the name tag, and without hesitation said, Indigo.”

  “It’s a nice story.”

  “Thanks.”

  I turn away and gaze out over the swamp, and in an instant, my entire life flashes through my mind. Sadness overwhelms me.

  “What’s the matter?” he asks.

  “I was just thinking; isn’t it ironic? I was given life in the back of a cab. And then, ten years later, my parents lost their life in the back of another cab.”

  “I didn’t know.”

  “They were taking a cab to the airport for a wedding in Boston. I stayed with my grandparents. The cabby was driving too fast, weaving between traffic. And then this truck comes out of nowhere. They never knew what hit them.”

  “I’m so sorry.”

  “I was devastated for a long time. But after a while, I picked up the pieces and went on. What else could I do?”

  I find myself gazing into his eyes with no inclination to look away and am overcome with the impression he feels the same way. I feel captivated, without an escape, as if there’s a bond building between us, an unseen force drawing us together. His impeccable physique is irresistible, the well-developed biceps, the tight stomach, the glistening white teeth when he smiles; they call to me. But I resist the overwhelming temptation to move closer, keenly aware if I let myself go, and submit to my natural instincts, it would lead to a place I am not prepared to go. It would be a place that would come back to haunt me; make me sorry I ever crossed that line. My work must come first. I must stay on course. I must finish the race!

  I turn away, stuff myself with a mouthful of fish, chew obnoxiously, and think about the upcoming trial, trying desperately to break the magic of the moment, and he responds.

  “You look worried,” he says.

  “We can’t win.”

  “Of course you can.”

  “No, we can’t. They’re too big. They have resources, unlimited resources. We don’t have a chance.”

  “But you have perseverance. Never underestimate the power of determination. Have faith in yourself, and you will prevail.”

  I turn to face him.

  “Thanks. It’s nice to have someone rooting for me.”

  “En-gah,” he says.

  “Mu-toh,” I respond, and then we both laugh.

  We finish breakfast, rinse off the plates, and put everything back in its place. Fargo puts out the fire, loads up the canoe, and then steadies it as I climb in. He pushes off and paddles deeper into the swamp.

  “Where are we going?”

  “For a turkey.”

  “We have food at the restaurant.”

  “I need to do this.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “If I stop hunting, it will be bad for me.”

  I stare at him confused and he notices.

  “It’s our DNA. I can’t explain it. Only an Indian can understand.”

  “I am trying. I really am,” I say.

  “Perhaps someday it will come to you.”

  We arrive at the grasslands and Fargo beaches the canoe like he always does. I step out as he retrieves his bow and quiver from its storage place inside the canoe. He joins me on the bank and then we hike about a quarter of a mile down the trail. He suddenly lies on his stomach holding himself up with his elbows and signals me to do the same. We both inch along the waist-high grass on our elbows, with scarcely a sound, creeping up on a tree with about a dozen wild turkeys roosting. The grass is stiff, and is scratching my skin, but I bear the pain and remain quiet lest I scare away the birds.

  Fargo sets an arrow in the bow keeping it low to the ground. He pulls back on the sting, and then, lets it fly. A turkey falls to the ground and the remaining ones explode into a frenzied mass of wings, disturbing the serenity of the meadow as they flutter away. He runs up to the turkey and it’s already lifeless, an arrow through the chest. He pulls out the arrow, cleans it on the grass, and ties the turkey to his belt. He takes out a pinch of tobacco, holds it up, says some Indian words, and then releases it to the wind. I’m always touched when he does this. It’s a feeling of respect for the land that is sadly lacking in our modern world.

  It’s been a successful hunt and we head back to the place where he keeps the canoe. Fargo drags it to the bushes where he usually stores it, turns it upside down to keep out the rain, and then places the spear and arrows under it, ready for his next hunt. We hike back to the airboat, launch it, and arrive at the cabin just before noon. It’s been a wonderful day and I’m glad I went. It has allowed me to reconnect with the land and share the passion Fargo has for it. I thank him and we go our separate ways. We’re back in the real world now.

  CHAPTER 31

  For the next two weeks, I go about my usual routine, my day job at Semi-Environmental on Monday, Tuesday, and Wednesday, and helping out at the restaurant the rest of the time. But I’m worried. The seven day deadline has long since passed and Berkeley hasn’t called, and that can only mean one thing, he hasn’t heard anything either. I can’t stand the tension any longer so I decide to call him.

  “I was starting to get concerned myself,” Berkeley says. “It’s not unusual for legal proceedings to take time, but in this case, I was sure they would move fast. Tell you what; I’ll call them right now, and then call you back.”

  I hang up the phone and wait for his return call. An hour later it rings and it’s Berkeley.

  “I had a nice little chat with Ellis and he’s not buying your report. He had his experts review it and they told him they have the isomer thing under control. They test for that and have never had a problem. Check your email. I just sent you the reports. Bottom line, he’s convinced he can win and wants to move it along quickly. Trial in six weeks.”

  “Is that possible?” I ask.

  “If the judge allows it. They’ve already filed for a trial date making the argument that uncertainty is costing them millions a day in sales, not to mention what it’s doing to their stock price. They found a sympathetic ear in Baltimore who’s willing to put it on the fast track.”

  “Can we challenge it?”

  “We could, but do you really want to? Unless you have some compelling reason why we should delay it, we might as well get it over with. I mean, would an extra month or two really make a difference?”

  “What about discovery?”

  “We talked about that. He’s of the opinion there’s nothing more to gain on either side. You’ve stated your position and presented your evidence and they’re convinced your case is weak. He was quite emphatic that he intends to crush us, make us an example for any other fool that wants to take them on.”

  “Are you worried?”

  “It’s too late to take the $2.6 million. We quit now and we get nothing.”

  “But what about you personally? Aren’t you afraid?”

  “I’m at the end of my career anyway, by my own choice. Might as well go out with a bang.”

  “I appreciate your commitment.”

  “All I can do is apply the law. It’s up to you to figure out the science.”

  “What happens next?” I ask.

  “I’m going to push for settlement, but if they insist on a trial, I need that girl to testify, the one that was with Kevin and saw the whole incident.”

  “I don’t know who she is.”

  “I’ll contact Detective Bolt and get a copy of the police report. That should have her name and contact information. He won’t refuse a lawyer.”

  “Did you want me to contact her?”

  “No, I’ll take care of that. You just work on putting together a bullet-proof argument, why they have a problem with the isomer. Assume a trial in six weeks.”

  “So you agree they have a defective product?”

  “A product liability lawsuit is the only chanc
e we have. You better find some reason why it’s defective, or we’re sunk.”

  Berkeley’s arguments are irrefutable so I thank him and conclude the call. I peer over the reports he sent me, rack my brain, but there’s one thing that stands out and it bothers me. Ellis had told him they have the isomer thing under control. What does that mean?

  I conclude they either don’t believe the S-form isomer really exists in nature, or if it does, it doesn’t have any adverse effect on wildlife. It’s a huge difference and one I have to resolve.

  When this goes to trial, their legal strategy would be simple; use their expert witnesses to discredit me, show the jury how my analysis was flawed, and then show how the S-form isomer didn’t really exist and was caused by sloppy lab work, an inexcusable crime for a researcher. The sheer weight and apparent authenticity of their testimony would incite the jury to rule in favor of GWI, and the world would never hear the complexities of the case.

  It’s exactly what Ellis wants, a simple win, because the public understands a win. They don’t care about isomers, and theories, and the subtleties of the analysis. They would just hear that I lost, and he won, and he could flaunt it all over the news and no one would ever dare take him on again. It was the victory he lusted for.

  Even though the reports submitted by GWI appear on the surface to be rigorous, I decide it’s time to do my own experiments. Perhaps the experience will enlighten me to what’s going on. I discuss the possibility with Fargo and he suggests we visit his friend that owns the alligator farm.

  “He’s in tight with the local universities. Always sponsoring students for field work. I’m sure he’d let you set up some experiments, as a favor to me.”

  We get into his jeep and drive over to the attraction. He sneaks in the service entrance and parks in the employee parking lot. We stroll along a pathway, past some exhibits, and then, approach a black man wearing goggles and rubber coveralls. He’s working inside one of the concrete pens.

  “That’s him, over there,” he says.

  The man sprays what appears to be bleach on the walls, scrubs them with a long-handled brush, and then rinses off the residue with a garden hose. He sees us coming, shuts off the water, and removes the goggles. He’s got short hair and a slightly greying beard and I recognize his face from the TV news report back at the motel in South Carolina. He smiles and greets us.