Alligator Park (2 page)

But not this time; luck is
not running my way. Those suits are dead sober, and I’m up here, gazing at
their faces, all alone. There’s no one to lean on, no one to help me. I have to
make it happen all by myself.

“Thank you Dr. Smith.”

I look around the room
seeking some encouragement, but the crowd sits there stone-faced, with no
reaction.

“Hello everyone. My name is
Indigo Wells, and the title of my dissertation is: ‘The Effect of Environmental
Toxins on Wildlife Behavior.’"

A few of the suits fidget, making
me more nervous. I push a key on my laptop starting a nature video on an
overhead projector.

The audience gazes at a series of videos
of:

- Whales beaching themselves,

- Monarch butterflies over a field,

- Arctic seals in the tropics,

- Dead sea turtles on the beach.

I continue my presentation.

“According to U.S. Government
reports, every year, over a billion pounds of pesticides and herbicides are sprayed
on American farmland. Where do all those toxic chemicals go?”

I notice a couple of the suits
whispering to the person next to them. I press on.

“Conventional wisdom says
they break down in the soil. But do they really? What happens when they
accumulate in streams and pools of water?”

The fidgeting intensifies,
but I try to ignore the distractions.

I continue: “Many have asked
that question, but no one has conclusively answered it.”

Unbelievably, some of the
suits get up and walk out. And then my worst nightmare happens; Dean Haas
stands up!

“I’m going to stop you right
there honey,” she says. “If you’re going to lecture us on how pesticides are
killing off wildlife, those issues were settled in the sixties, during the DDT
scare.”

I respond as respectfully as
I know how. “Yes, Dean Haas. The bestseller, ‘Silent Spring’ was a breakthrough
in its time, but my dissertation is different.”

“Different? In what way?”

“Well, Rachel Carson was
concerned about the extinction of species. My dissertation is about subtle
changes in behavior.”

“And I assume you have proof?”
she fires back.

I fumble through my notes,
hold up a report.

“I have here a paper by Dr.
Robert Smith, University of Vermont. He documents strange mating behavior among
tree frogs in a region where high levels of the herbicide Atrazine were found.”

“Strange mating behavior?”

“Yes,” I answer. “Male tree frogs
ignored the females preferring instead to mount each other.”

“Maybe they’re gay,” she quips.

The audience breaks out in
laughter, except for Logan. I feel my face get red, search for a way out.

“I apologize, Dr. Haas; I
hadn’t considered that.”

“Get with it girl. We don’t
give away PhD’s to people who jump to conclusions.”

“Sorry Dr. Haas.”

I pull myself together,
search through my folder, and then read from another report.

“In southern Georgia, a new
species of mosquito called ‘Gallinippers’ has been observed. They’re twenty
times the size of ordinary mosquitoes and their bite is like the sting of a
wasp. Dr. Drew Dobson, of Georgia Tech, published a theory that these mutant
monsters are the result of pesticides altering the DNA of dormant mosquito
larvae.”

“A theory?” she says. “You
should well know that a theory, until proven, is just speculation. It has no
place in a dissertation.”

My hands shake. I feel overwhelmed,
lightheaded. I fumble through my notes again, hold up another report.

“In another study, at a
Florida lake, where high concentrations of the herbicide, ‘Farm-eXia’ were
recorded, Dr. Jessica Parker, of Florida University, filmed a school of bait fish
ganging up on a Pickerel ten times their size, driving it out of their
territory.”

“Well,” she says. “Animals do
strange things all the time. You need more than that before accusing respected
companies of misdeeds.”

The man sitting next to Dean
Haas stands up.

“I am Eldridge Broadhampton,”
he announces, “the founder of Global World Industries, and damn proud of it.”

He glances around the room
making eye contact with some of the VIP’s.

“I assure you, all of you, I
would never permit the sale of Farm-eXia until it was fully tested and proven
to be absolutely safe. Those that know me will attest to that.”

Murmurs envelop the room. I can’t
believe this is happening. This was the moment I had worked for, seven days a
week, into the early hours of the morning, for the last four years. And it was
disintegrating in front of my eyes. I knew I had to do damage control, and
fast, or it would be all for nothing.

“I never meant to imply that
Farm-eXia was unsafe, only that—”

Eldridge Broadhampton cuts me
off, then places his hand on the shoulder of the man sitting next to him, the
one with the blue pin-striped suit.

“Ellis Grimes here has read
the dissertation and was appalled by what was in it. Ellis, tell them what you
told me.”

Ellis stands. “I am special counsel
to Mr. Broadhampton. I reviewed the dissertation and found it to be an unfair
attack on the integrity of our esteemed company, GWI. I was especially offended
by the implications that the moral rectitude of Mr. Broadhampton is in question.
I have known him for almost ten years and I assure you he aspires to the
highest ethical standards of any man I’ve ever met.”

The crowd applauds spontaneously.

“But those are just my
opinions,” he continues. “To be totally fair to the candidate, I asked our
scientists and engineers to review the document and give it their unbiased
opinions. They universally agreed it was fraught with errors and reckless
speculation. The overwhelming conclusion among these distinguished
professionals was the following: This candidate is not yet ready to receive the
honorable title of ‘Doctor’,” he says, raising his voice to a crescendo.

The room is so quiet I can
hear my heart pound. Then Dean Haas chimes in and delivers the coup de grace,
presumably to put me out of my misery.

She announces: “I move to
adjourn, until Ms. Wells has the wherewithal to put together a dissertation
that is worthy of our presence.”

Logan stands up, comes to my
defense.

“May I respectfully remind
the board, if you adjourn, the candidate will be unable to reapply for two
years.”

“I’m well aware of the rules
Dr. Smith. Please sit down.”

I can’t remember a time I was
more humiliated. My heart is pounding, my hands are shaking, and I just want
her to sit down and let me finish. But then she slides into the aisle, glares
at me, along with the rest of the suits, and bellows:

“Honey, take my advice, lose
the hair.”

The next thing I know Dean
Haas storms up the aisle followed by her two companions. She pushes open the
door and exits along with the two men. I stand there at the podium, watching helplessly,
as the rest of the audience files out behind her, and there’s not a damn thing
I can do about it! Within minutes the room is empty, devoid of the thirty previous
inhabitants, all except for Logan and me.

Speechless, I approach Logan.
He knows I’m wounded. I seek his comfort to ease the pain.

“Wow, I’ve done dozens of
these and never saw her do that,” he says.

 “What happened?”

“Not sure, apparently
something ticked her off.”

“I don’t know what they’re talking
about,” I say. “I never accused Broadhampton of anything. You know that.”

“They sure think you did.”

“I don’t get it. If there was
a problem... why would Dean Haas approve it?”

Logan avoids eye contact; I
sense something is wrong.

“She did approve it, didn’t
she?”

“It doesn’t need to be
approved,” he snaps. “I’m only required to put it up for peer review and that’s
what I did.”

“So you gambled with my
future by neglecting to get it approved?”

“Damn it! I told you, it’s up
to the advisor. I made a decision and... ” Logan paces the floor, avoids
confronting me. And then he turns to face me. “Okay maybe you’re right. I
should have gotten it approved, just to make sure.”

He stops in front of me,
gently takes my shoulders, gazes into my eyes.

“Look, I’ve known Dean Haas
for almost twenty years. We have a good working relationship. She never once questioned
my judgment.”

I take a moment to gather my
thoughts.

“Okay, it was up for peer
review. Then why did she wait until now to raise her objections?”

He rubs his chin, looks
troubled.

“I was wondering that
myself,” he says.

He puts on his overcoat, then
buttons up the front.

“It’s probably just a
misunderstanding. As soon as I leave here, I’ll go see her, straighten it out.”

I look into his
eyes and begin to relax. He has a way of calming me, making me feel better, making
me believe everything he says.

“Why don’t you go home, get
some rest?”

“Okay,” I say, and gather up
my things.

He waits for me to put on my
jacket, and then, follows me up the aisle towards the lobby. I reach for the
door handle, then turn to face him one last time, searching for some reassurance
before I exit into the frigid air outside.

“I’ll call you when I hear
something,” he says. “Remember, I’m here for you.”

My apartment is nothing to write home
about, but at least it’s clean and most importantly, free of bugs. I’ll never
forget the first night I slept here. I woke up at 3:00 AM; something was scratching
at my ear. I turned on the light and there on my pillow was a black cockroach, about
2 inches long. I screamed so loud my neighbor called the cops. Do you have any
idea what it’s like to open the door at 3:00 AM, in my pajamas, and see two
policemen pointing their weapons right at my head? When I told them it was a
cockroach they laughed so hard I almost wished I’d made up some story about how
some stranger broke into my bedroom and tried to rape me at knifepoint. As the
cops were leaving down the hall I could hear them joking and laughing at me. How
embarrassing.

They say that once you have
roaches you can’t get rid of them because, for every one you see, there are a
hundred more behind the walls. But I wasn’t so easily defeated. I went out and bought
eight of those roach traps, the ones with the sticky stuff on the bottom, and
placed all eight in the apartment at the same time. The next morning, all eight
traps were so full of roaches they were two levels deep. There must have been
hundreds of them. Some were only caught by a leg or two, and trying to get
free. I was so grossed out I dare not throw the traps in the trash. The thought
of all those roaches crawling back into my apartment was too terrifying. So I placed
all eight traps in a cardboard box, carefully sealing all the edges with tape
so not even a flea could get out. I then carried the box to the river, a few
blocks away, and dropped it in the water. I watched the box float down the
river, carried along by the outgoing tide. If those roaches ever did eat their
way through the box, at least they would be miles from here. But I’m pretty
certain they have long since become a tasty meal for some lucky fish. After
that, I never saw another roach. I must have magically beaten the odds and decimated
the entire roach population in my apartment in one fell swoop and that made me
glad.

I reach into the refrigerator
searching for something to snack on. Normally I would be making dinner at this
time, but the anxiety of the day put me out of the mood. I can whip up a pretty
good meal when I’m motivated, but it was not always that way.

When I was a freshman, I
couldn’t even get a frozen pizza right. My diet consisted mostly of cheese
steaks, a staple of Philadelphia life. For lunch, I would jog over to Frank’s,
only a half-mile from campus, and order a large. I would eat half right away
and save the remaining portion for dinner. If you haven’t had a Philly Cheese
Steak from Frank’s, then you haven’t lived. They’re home to the greatest cheese
steak on the planet. It’s not uncommon for native Philadelphians to debate
passionately what it is that makes them so good. Some say it’s the bread.
Others insist it’s the meat. Still others argue it’s the cheese. I really don’t
know. But whatever it is, I can declare with absolute certaintivity, they are
the best.

But then, after a couple of months
of this, the routine was beginning to get stale. It really is possible to have too
much of a good thing. But more importantly, the daily expense was beginning to cut
deeply into my reserves. I knew I had to do something else.

One day, I came across this
Betty Crocker cookbook at the thrift shop. It was only fifty cents so I took it
home and started to experiment, substituting alternative ingredients out of
necessity. I mean, you don’t always have everything the cookbook asks for, so I
had to improvise. I think my interest in chemistry helped. It motivated me to
try the “what ifs”: what if I used this, or what if I used that. One day all that
experimenting paid off. It happened like this; I was supporting myself with a
waitress job when the regular cook suddenly developed appendicitis and was
rushed to the hospital. Sid, the owner, was frantic, tried to get a substitute
cook, but no one was available at that hour of the night. Then he says to me,
“Know how to cook?”

I answered, “A little.”

“Good,” he says, “I’ll work
the floor and you take the kitchen, with a $50 bonus for the trouble.”

I was happy to do it. It was
a break in the routine and I like to try new things anyway. Looking back I
should have tried the job sooner, but I was always afraid I wasn’t good enough.
So at nine o’clock that night I start working in the kitchen and Sid starts
getting all these compliments about the food. When the night was over, and the
last patron leaves, he says to me, “Where did you learn to cook like that?”

I answer, “I taught myself.”

“Well,” he says, “You’re more
use to me in the kitchen than on the floor. If you take the job, I’ll double
your salary.”

How do you walk away from an
offer like that, especially when you’re barely making the rent? So I accepted
and the rest is history as they say. Sid would constantly get compliments about
the food, but he let everyone know in no uncertain terms that it was all my
doing. He even named a dessert after me, “Indigo Pie” he called it, because it
reminded him of my blue hair. It was a concoction of Blueberries, Greek Yogurt,
and Kiwi slices over a thin, lightly toasted crust. I threw it together using
ingredients left over from previous recipes. The blueberries gave the pie a
blue tint helped along by a dash of food coloring. At first, Sid would give a complimentary
slice only to the regulars he knew well. But when more and more customers demanded
a piece of the “Blue Pie” he decided he had no choice but to put it on the
menu. 

But I think my most memorable
night was the time Sid gets this call telling him his restaurant just won the
coveted “Best of Philly” award. He was so overjoyed he gives me a one-thousand
dollar bonus right on the spot. I kept that job for five and a half years, until
I entered Grad School and was offered a Grad Assistant position. It paid the
same as the restaurant job, but also offered reduced tuition which I really needed.
Old Sid was sorry to see me go, but he understood. He often took me aside and reminded
me that my future was the most important thing and I should never look back. I
wouldn’t trade those years for anything; it really taught me a lot about life.

I find a couple of burritos in
the fridge, left over from the previous night. I’m about to pop them in the
micro when my cellphone rings. It’s Logan. I quickly answer it.

“Hello.”

“Can you meet me at Ricky Stinks?”
he asks.

“Sure, what did you find
out?”

“It’s complicated,” he
responds. “I’d rather explain it in person.” Logan has never said that to me.
He has always been open, like a friend. Something was wrong.

“What is it?”

“I have to go. Ricky Stinks
at eight, okay?”

“Okay,” I respond, not really
having any choice.

I slip into a pair of jeans
even though I prefer the look of a skirt. But the temperature is plunging, and it’s
a good thirty minute walk to Ricky’s. I’m not looking forward to having the
frigid night air whip against my bare legs. Outside, another six inches of snow
had been added to the foot already on the ground. And there’s no indication it’s
letting up; in fact, it appears the pace has quickened. I can see the owners of
the small stores and boutiques along the path valiantly trying to keep their
sidewalks clear, but as soon as they are done, another inch has already been
laid. Some of them are giving up the battle, shutting off lights and locking
the front door figuring that no one would be shopping on a wretched night like
this anyway. Why not spend the evening with a loved one? That’s exactly what I
was about to do.

Up ahead I see the bright neon
sign for Ricky’s Stinks. It dominates the area, coloring the huge piles of snow
various hues of red, green, and blue. The street has largely emptied out from
the usual bumper-to-bumper traffic. Most of the suits are already home, or with
their mistresses, telling their spouses they have to work late. A snow emergency
works well in their favor; it’s a plausible excuse for not returning home that
night.

When I was a freshman, living
in the dorm, the older girls would talk about the suits late at night, after daring
each other with shots of Tequila. They would tell us stories about how the
suits would befriend some young unassuming coed impressing her with his wealth
and power. At first it would be innocent. But as the friendship matured, he
would complain, in a helpless puppy-dog manner, how his wife was always too busy
for him, traveling around the world pursuing her photography hobby. Of course
it was all BS, but the inexperienced coeds would suck it up thinking they could
save the world. Next thing they know they are in over their head. These things
would usually run their course over the period of a year or two, then end abruptly,
when the coed came to believe there was actually something between them and
demanded more time. Suddenly her prince no longer returns calls. She chalks
that up to his busy schedule. But after two weeks goes by and she hasn’t heard
a thing, the coed begins to imagine something might be wrong. So she expedites
her efforts to contact him. Then comes the fateful text message. Most suits
don’t have the balls, that is, the courage and dignity to end a relationship in
person. Not even a personal phone call from them. They take the coward’s way
out, a cockamamie text message that goes something like this; “My wife found
out about us and I have to end it.” That’s it, no apology, no explanation, not
even a goodbye. The truth is, he probably already has a new love and that busty
coed just isn’t exciting anymore. And so it goes.

I push open the door; the
warm air and smell of tacos are wonderful. The place is sparse, even for a
Tuesday night when it’s slow anyway. Even the guitarist, who plays seven days a
week, is missing. The TV weather reports had been relentless about this storm,
building it up to monster status. I’m sure it scared more than a few customers
away. Logan sees me, waves. I smile, quickly join him at a table all the way in
the back. The back is where students, pulling an all-nighter, congregate. It’s
private, the coffee flows freely, and there are plenty of snacks to satisfy a
late night hunger attack.

“I ordered this for you,” he
says, and slides an oversized lime margarita in front of me. Normally I love
lime margaritas, especially the ones at Ricky’s with a generous sprinkling of
salt crystals around the rim. But tonight?

“Thanks, but I think I would
rather have hot chocolate,” I say.

“You’re going to need this.”

The anxiety I had managed to
shed during the stroll over here wells up inside me.

“What’s wrong?” I ask.

Logan picks up the margarita,
hands it too me.

“Take a drink first,” he
insists.

I expected him to tell me how
my confrontation with Dean Haas was all a misunderstanding and how he had made
everything right. I take a sip of the margarita, then another. It feels good
going down my throat, soothing it from the irritation caused by the frigid
night air. Not having eaten anything since this morning, and only a small
granola bar at that, the alcohol goes right to my head. I feel myself getting
lightheaded.

“Well?” I say. “What happened?”

“I spoke to Dean Haas,” he
says.

“And?” 

“Do you have your lab ID?” 

“Yes.”

“May I see it?”

I retrieve it from my purse,
place it on the table.

“What about the key?”

I place that also on the
table.

“Dean Haas revoked your lab
privileges.”

I knew he was kidding because
without lab privileges I wouldn’t be able to complete my research.

“That’s not funny.”

“I’m not joking,” he says.

“Then how will I complete my
dissertation?”

“There won’t be a
dissertation,” he says. “She cancelled the whole project.”

I didn’t know whether to
believe him or not. Logan liked practical jokes, even at the expense of someone
else’s dignity. It was all in fun he would always tell me. I decide this is
just another one of his misguided practical jokes.

“Come on,” I say. “I’m not
really in the mood for jokes right now.”

Then Logan does something
that annihilates the last vestiges of hope I was clinging to; he picks up my ID
and lab key and slips it into his pocket. I feel my heart pounding.

“You told me all along the
dissertation was good,” I say. “I did exactly what you told me to do.”

Logan gazes right into my
eyes.

“Dean Haas told me something
in confidence today, something I didn’t know,” he says. “This is just between
us... okay?”

I nod yes.

“Remember the older man
sitting next to Dean Haas?”

“Yes, the founder of Global
World Industries.”

“GWI is the reason grad
students like you have research projects, they fund most of them. The old man
told Dean Haas in no uncertain terms your dissertation was contrary to the
agreement GWI had with the university and he threatened to end it.” 

“Science is the search for
truth and knowledge. It’s not about opinions,” I snap back.