Alligators in the Trees

by Cynthia Hamilton

  She was within inches of it when she came to an abrupt halt. She couldn’t stand the thought of leaving without saying goodbye. Yet, if she waited for him to return, she might as well surrender to the idea of staying. But she couldn’t bear the thought of that, either. Making a clean getaway was her only hope. She’d at least have to leave him a note.

  She dragged herself back into the living room and sat down at the piano. She pulled out a notebook, ripped out a sheet and just looked at it, unable to put pen to paper. She made a couple ineffectual attempts at saying goodbye, both of which she balled up and tossed out of sight. She so wanted to get up and run out of there, but she owed him some sort of farewell. She tried another approach.

  There’s a place I’ve longed to go

  That never sees sleet, let alone snow

  A place so warm and clean and bright

  I’d ride a train all day and night

  But everyone who knows where I’m bound

  Is quick to point out pitfalls profound

  It’s as if they believe Florida the gates of hell

  Not even one soul has wished me well

  And all the people say…

  Don’t you know it’s crazy down there

  Illegal drugs and corruption in the air

  There are Haitians on rafts, hurricanes by the dozens

  Cockroaches with wings and mosquitoes always buzzin’

  Me, I think they’re all just jealous

  Else why are they all so overzealous

  To keep me here, where I don’t want to be

  I’ll hop that train, I’ll set myself free

  And all the people say…

  Look out girl, the criminals run loose

  It’s not all beaches and fresh orange juice

  Every manner of reptile runs free as they please

  I’ve heard they’ve even got gators in the trees

  I don’t care, let them all say…

  Look out girl, there’re gators in the trees

  Look out girl, there’re gators in the trees

  Priscilla put the pen down on top of the page and slid off the piano bench. It was not a standard goodbye, but she thought Tobias would appreciate it. She laid her plastic key card next to the song and left his suite as quick as a thief.

  Forty-Four

  Priscilla took her ticket from the clerk and collected her change. She had almost an hour to kill before boarding. Butterflies were ballroom dancing in her stomach, making the thought of food impossible. She purchased the latest edition of The New York Post and a couple magazines, but she was too restless for reading.

  Her mind was going in fifty different directions, all of which gave her acute apprehension. She imagined herself as an escaped criminal dragging a ball and chain, literally yards from freedom. The closer she got, the more desperate she felt.

  She tried to soothe her anxiety with thoughts of balmy breezes and low-key attitudes, sunshine and bright blue skies, but the more she attempted to visualize Florida, the more counterfeit and cartoon-like it became. The negative hype she had received from both Phil and Tobias rang in her ears.

  But worse than that were her own doubts concerning this drastic relocation plan. What did she really think she was going to do down there? Take up surfing, become a deckhand, lay on the beach all day until her money ran out? No, she would get nervous the second she stepped off the train and run to the nearest bar, restaurant, or diner in search of employment.

  The only thing about her life that she’d be changing was the venue. All the quirks, phobias and myths that had plagued her all her life would remain intact. No doubt she would add a few bad habits to her list, like laziness and sloth.

  What was there for her to do in the Sunshine State? She couldn’t sightsee indefinitely. She’d have to come up with some sort of plan for her future. But she’d be doing it in a place that couldn’t possibly offer her more inspiration than New York City—what did Philip call it, the Capital of the World.

  Someone had accused her of running away—either Phil or Tobias, she couldn’t remember which. As different as these two men were, they were brothers under the skin where the subject of her moving to Florida was concerned. It made her smile to think how vehemently opposed they both were to her going.

  Being independent and cocky, she had been urged onward by their appeals for her to stay. What did either of them know about being Priscilla Vanderpool, loser extraordinaire?

  Her throat constricted painfully as an innocent truth hit home. This exodus to Florida was nothing more than a futile attempt to outrun her bad luck. From the age of ten, she had been cursed, doomed to be ungrounded forever.

  This feeling only grew as she got older. Now it was her sole religion, the solitary principle that steered her life: she was destined to lose anything she attached her heart to. She had lost her parents, her cat Otis, her Uncle Bob. After that, she learned to not invest her heart and aim too high—keep her sights on those who would never mean anything to her. And what had she gotten? Losers, just like she imagined herself to be.

  She glanced nervously about as she discretely wiped tears from the corners of her eyes. Why did this have to come up now? Couldn’t it have waited until I got on the train? she asked herself angrily, embarrassed by this moment of insight.

  If what she was thinking was true, she had been solely responsible for the course her life had taken—not the underachieving boyfriends, not the mean-spirited bosses or the dead-end jobs. It was her own view of herself that had dictated her path.

  As confirmation of this theory, she remembered Tobias questioning why she didn’t learn music. She had spent twenty-plus years penning lyrics, yet she wouldn’t give herself the chance to possess a whole talent. She preferred, consciously or not, to remain in a state of frustration, doubting her self-worth, keeping herself tied to failure.

  Her bottom lip trembled and she bolted off the bench, practically running to the restroom. She found an empty stall and let the dam burst. She cried hard for about a minute until the absurdity of bawling her head off in another bathroom struck her as hilariously funny. Maybe it was time for a change of scenery; she was starting to become tiresome in her habits.

  She had a good, wet laugh, blew her nose and made her exit, refreshed and rejuvenated by her purge. Now that she understood what motivated her, surely she would be ready to make a fresh start anywhere she landed.

  An announcement went out over the P.A. system that her train was ready for boarding. She moved along with the crush of fellow travelers she had managed to overlook while she killed time. The sight of the Florida-bound folks would’ve given her further ammunition against her choice in destination, if she had paid them any mind.

  There was nothing wrong with them as people; they just weren’t her kind of people, that’s all. She had nothing in common with her countrymen at heart, and that was precisely why she made such a good New Yorker. She was semi-maladjusted, semi-malcontent, a little arrogant and snobbish, and thoroughly bullish about her adopted hometown.

  She stepped out of line, letting the colorful backpacks and tropical prints slowly ebb past her. Florida was not the answer. But God help her, she didn’t know what was.

  She stood on the platform watching as the train pulled out of the station. She felt as empty and directionless as a corked bottle at sea. She could end up on any shore, yet she felt almost rooted to the ground where she stood.

  If she had truly abandoned everything in her life—possessions as well as beliefs—then she was a blank slate. All she had to do was make the first mark. It would all grow from there of its own accord.

  But how to make that first mark? She was too frightened to even think about it. Taking action would require answering a question she had never faced before, namely, what did she want from her life?

  In a blinding moment of clarity, she saw what her next move should be. Funny how long it had taken her to reach the conclusion that was right in front of her face all along.

  Scarcely a
ble to breathe, with knees wobbling, she walked zombie-like to the nearest phone booth. She fished the business card out of her bag, and with shaking hands, she pounded out Philip’s cell phone number. She held her finger above the hook, ready to disconnect if she lost her nerve.

  “Philip Glessner,” he said. Priscilla held her breath, her throat closed tight in fear, while she summoned every ounce of strength in her body and soul. “This is Philip Glessner,” he repeated.

  “Is this the same Philip Glessner who had a job opening this afternoon?” Priscilla asked. She could hear Philip’s breathing over the din of station traffic.

  “As a matter of fact, it is,” he replied.

  “Good. I think I might have just the person for you.”

  Golden State

  A NOVEL

  By Cynthia Hamilton

  Copyright 2010

  All Rights Reserved

  One

  “Carly, put that magazine back,” the distracted shopper barked before resuming her phone conversation. Roxanne’s gaze roved warily from the scraggily child with a penchant for tabloid rag sheets to her unruly little brothers, one of whom was kicking the front of Roxanne’s checkout stand for all he was worth. The other boy, a toddler no more than two, was seated in the front of the cart, eying Roxanne with menacing glee as he chomped on a grape-flavored candy stick, wrapper and all.

  As if suddenly tuning into the scene in front of her, the woman yanked the candy out of the boy’s hand and thrust it at Roxanne, who reached for it with the tips of her forefinger and thumb. She passed what was left of the wrapper over the scanner and handed it back to the woman, who in turn stuck it in the mouth of her squalling child.

  “The total comes to one-forty-eight seventy,” Roxanne said, her tone flat and hard, as she rubbed sanitizer on her hands, killing time while she waited for the customer to get her act to together.

  “Wait—I’ve got coupons for the milk and the diapers,” the woman said. “Hey, I’m going to have to call you back,” she said, digging through her purse with one hand as she ended her call. “Who put this in here?” she asked her children, as she snatched a box of chocolate-flavored cereal from the bagger.

  “Joey did it,” the girl chimed happily.

  “Did not.”

  “Liar!”

  “I don’t want this,” the frazzled mom said, handing the cereal and the coupons to Roxanne. “Take it off the bill,” she snapped, as if Roxanne were somehow responsible for this oversight. Roxanne’s mouth opened, a scathing reproach for the woman’s horrendous lack of parenting skills dying to be let loose, when the toddler leaned over and spewed a copious quantity of purple vomit down the side of Roxanne’s check stand.

  “Oh, Jesus,” Roxanne groaned, watching in horror as the barf seeped toward the conveyer belt. “Clean up on check stand six!” she bellowed. She immediately repeated the May-Day call, her agitation pushing her to the brink of her self-control. “I need somebody over here now, goddammit!” Daniel, the assistant manager, was already behind her as she turned to abandon ship.

  “Where are you going?” he asked, as she pushed past him.

  “I’m taking my break,” Roxanne called out over her shoulder.

  “Now? But what about your customers?” Daniel asked of Roxanne’s retreating figure, his voice verging on panic as he quickly assessed the mess and the long line of impatient shoppers. Roxanne clapped her hands over her ears to block out Daniel’s protests and quickened her pace.

  Stationed at her customary perch on the steps of the loading dock, Roxanne reached into the pocket of her ValuWise smock for her cigarettes. She held one between her lips as she shook another one free from the pack. She drew hard on the unlit cigarette; a desperate attempt to satisfy her craving. She exhaled deeply out the side of her mouth, as though she were actually releasing a large plume of smoke.

  The pantomime had the desired effect, nonetheless. She immediately felt calmer, calm enough to enjoy the ritualistic shredding of the second cigarette. She gently tore at the paper, tearing it in a rough spiral as the tobacco fell in clumps on her lap.

  She had long given up smoking—per the judge’s orders—but she couldn’t kick the habit of cigarettes. Not only did they provide the smoker the addictive nicotine fix, they were also a most valuable prop. Nothing can convey the same attitude of self-assurance and indifference than lighting and smoking a cigarette.

  As her mind wandered, Roxanne considered all the ways to light a cigarette: with a book of matches, a lighter, a Lucifer match struck on the bottom of a boot—cowboy, motorcycle, stiletto-heel patent leather. Then there was the act of lighting one for someone else—extending a match or lighter; lighting it and passing it on; lighting two at once and passing one on. And the way it was smoked: harried and self-absorbed; serenely and oblivious to everyone and everything; absent-mindedly as if you didn’t even realize you had one lit.

  Naturally, what was set on fire had to be put out. Roxanne’s mind swam with all the pleasant visions of stubbing out cigarettes in heavy glass ashtrays, soda cans, the ever-disappearing sand-filled stands, once as common as trash cans. Stubbing them out angrily, distractedly, hastily. Dropping them to the ground and grinding them with your heel. Was there any better way to show the fates you don’t give a damn, Roxanne mused as she tore the filter into fine strips and let them float away on the breeze.

  “I figured I’d find you out here,” Daniel said from the doorway. “I should write you up for abandoning your register in the middle of a shift. Your break isn’t scheduled for another hour,” he said, hands on hips, his face stony with indignation. “Not that you give a damn, but that woman threatened to complain to Stan. She said you were very rude to her and used obscene language in front of her kids.”

  Roxanne brushed the tobacco off her pants, but didn’t make a move to stand up. “The little cretin puked all over my check stand,” she said, her annoyance palpable. “And she has the nerve to complain about me?” Roxanne took the cigarette she had been using as a pacifier and began dismantling it in the same fashion as the first one.

  “Well? Aren’t you going to apologize?”

  “For what?”

  “For abandoning your register…for leaving me to clean up that mess.”

  Roxanne almost laughed as she got to her feet, expelling another pile of cigarette remains as she stood up. “Daniel, I don’t think it says anywhere in my job description I have to clean up baby vomit,” she said as she came face to face with her superior.

  “That’s not the point—”

  “What’s the point, then?”

  “You were rude to a customer.”

  Roxanne snorted disdainfully. “Do you realize what’s going on here? You’re reprimanding me for my lack of graciousness after some out-to-lunch mother let’s her kid eat candy wrappers and wretch all over the place. Are you for real?” she asked spitefully as she pushed past him.

  Daniel’s jaw dropped in disbelief. “Roxanne,” he called out plaintively, taking long strides to catch up with her before she reentered the store. “Look,” he said, as she glared at his hand on her arm, “I know you need this job, so I’m telling you this for your own good. Stan is not as forgiving as I am. He’ll can you if he gets one more complaint.”

  Roxanne huffed indignantly but realized Daniel was right; she did need her job, miserable as it was. But admitting that to herself only made her feel more out of sorts. She also knew the only reason she was still employed at ValuWise was because of Daniel’s futile crush on her. Those two admissions left her feeling mean-spirited and a tad guilty.

  “Okay—I’m sorry, Daniel. I’ll bite through my tongue before I use profanity while on ValuWise property ever again. Swear to Christ,” she said, holding up her hand as a testament to her oath. “But I must insist that a ‘No Hurling’ sign be posted at my register.” Daniel’s face—only moments ago looking hopeful—dropped at her irreverent suggestion.

  “That’s not funny, Roxanne,” he whined piteously, comp
letely missing the humor of her remark.

  “I know. Nothing around here is,” she said sullenly, as she pushed through the swinging steel doors and out onto the store floor.

  “It says it right here in black and white—‘Pop singer in love triangle with Mom,’” the twenty-something intoned loudly into her cell phone. Roxanne gritted her teeth while visions of pitching the chick’s phone across the store played out in her head.

  “Fifty-eight ninety-two,” Roxanne said, as she began dropping groceries in plastic bags.

  “Oh, this too,” the customer said, handing the tabloid to Roxanne. Why are purchases the last thing on their minds? she asked herself as she ran it across the scanner and shoved it into the bag holding chicken parts, secretly hoping for leakage.

  “Sixty-one twelve,” she said, displaying a mere hint of her impatience as she waited for the customer to dredge the crumpled bills from the pocket of her jeans. Roxanne smoothed each one out as she waited for another to appear. It’d be a lot easier if you PUT DOWN THE PHONE! she thought, wearing a pinched smile to hide her rancor. She snatched the last bill and made the woman’s change, then left her to gather her own bags, as she perfunctorily began scanning the next shopper’s purchases.

  Another blabbermouth, Roxanne noted with distaste. She wondered idly why Stan Kemplehoff was so fanatical about the cordiality of his employees; there hadn’t been a person in her line all day who seemed to notice her existence. She could be a robot or even stark naked for all they knew. Even the ones who parroted back her salutations did so in the same disinterested fashion in which they were served.

  Let’s face it, she rationalized, none of us wants to be here. Except for this one, she amended as she observed her latest customer, chatting it up with the couple behind her as though she were at some kind of social event.