Alligator Park (8 page)

Mary Kay Ashe, America’s
greatest woman entrepreneur,
led me to believe
that anything is possible if you just keep a positive attitude and work
diligently towards your goals. In her autobiography, “Mary Kay,” she was fond
of saying, “Every failure, obstacle, or hardship, is an opportunity in
disguise.” In spite of her many setbacks and obstacles, she was able to turn a
$5,000 investment into a billion-dollar multinational corporation, “Mary Kay
Cosmetics.” If there really is an opportunity out there waiting for me, I’ll
never know it unless I take a chance, leave this place, and give it a try.

Will joins me in the apartment
and follows me from room to room, feigning an occasional cough, trying his best
to give me a subtle hint we have to go. I nod, acknowledging his presence, and
then we exit into the hallway. I lock the door and take the keys to the
landlord’s mailbox. I slip the keys half-way into the slot, then a rush of fear
overwhelms me. As soon as I let these keys go, I’m committed! What if it
doesn’t work out?

Will sees me hesitate. Almost
on cue, the university clock chimes twelve times.

“It’s time,” he says.

I nod and reluctantly let the
keys go. They drop to the bottom of the box with a “clang” reminiscent of the
way they start a boxing match. But this was real life, not a game. We were
about to embark on the adventure of a lifetime and now, with nothing to keep us
here, there’s no turning back.

Will offers to drive first
and I’m glad he does. My nerves are too frazzled to navigate the intricate
routes through the city of Philadelphia that lead to the interstate. I just
need to chill out for a while.

Up ahead is a sign for I-95, the
major channel of commerce between Maine and Miami. Once on I-95, the directions
are easy, you just never get off until you reach Florida. But I had no
delusions about getting there in one day. We would take our time and maybe do a
little sightseeing along the way. And why not? It will be my first time in the
South and I’m well overdue to see what lies beyond my local borders.

Will maneuvers the Cruiser
down a ramp and onto the interstate. A sign, “I-95 South” flies by. Chills run
up my spine. We’re actually heading south. I almost can’t believe it. This is
real, it’s happening, and Will and I made it happen, all by ourselves.

The trip to Washington is uneventful,
taking a paltry three hours, an exceptional pace by any measure. But today is
Sunday and government offices are closed relieving us of the incessant traffic
jams that occur on a regular basis. Normally, it could take up to eight hours
just to cross the U.S. Capital, but not today, luck was on our side. While
Washington DC has always been regarded as part of the traditional American
South, it doesn’t feel it. There are too many northern transplants working here
that overshadow the southern culture and lifestyle.

For me, the American South
starts at Richmond Virginia, only a hundred miles south of Washington. During
the Civil War, from 1861 until 1865, Richmond was declared the capital of the
Confederate States of America. These were a group of eleven states that formed
their own permanent federal government declaring themselves to be free from
northern rule. Needless to say, it didn’t go over well and war broke out. It
always amazed me how two rival governments could have their capitals so close
together. But they did. Even during the depths of the war, when thousands of
soldiers were being slaughtered daily, the politicians and bureaucrats from
both sides respected each other’s space.

Sure, there were
skirmishes around the periphery of Richmond and even one decisive battle in
1862 where 284 men died. But that was a cakewalk compared to the carnage elsewhere.
From Shiloh, to Chickamauga, to Gettysburg, and from a dozen other battles, casualties
mounted up to more than a half million, yet not until 1865, at which time the
Confederates decided to abandon Richmond, was there any focused and sustained
effort from either side to take out the other’s capital. Why?

One could argue it goes back
to the idea of chivalry, a code of conduct assumed by the knights during the
middle ages. The code specified that a person’s honor and place in society must
always be respected in spite of the circumstances.

It’s an interesting theory, but
I think it was more practical. For one thing, during most of the Civil War, the
outcome was never certain. Although the north had a vastly superior war
machine, well-equipped factories, and a plethora of scientists and engineers to
work theory into practical weapons, the south had something the north had not
bargained for, an abundance of determination. Northern troops consisted mainly
of career soldiers and draftees who were being sent to a land with customs and
practices so obscure to them it just as easily could have been foreign soil.
But the Confederates were fighting for the most powerful motivator of all time,
their own land and the personal safety of their families. In what would
eventually become known as America’s bloodiest war, with almost double the American
casualties of World War II or any other war that followed, where
the blood of vibrant young
men was turning beautiful and fertile farmland into vast cemeteries, valleys of
death,
the press of the time was awash in rumors, both true and imagined,
of back-room deals and truces that might shape the outcome one way or another.

Bureaucrats and public servants,
being practical men and realizing they could do little else to earn their daily
bread, avoided making waves in the hope that should the opposing side win, they
could find employment in the new administration. And that’s exactly what
happened. At the conclusion of the war, many public figures, initially loyal to
the south, were in fact rehired by the north to assist in the transition to a new
Federal Government. So it appears that the actions of these men were not so
much shaped by morals and ideology, but by money. And so it goes.

As we drive through Richmond,
it’s easy to understand why it was chosen to be the capital of the Confederacy.
In the 1860’s, it was the center of southern industrialization. It combined manufacturing,
transportation, agriculture, banking, education, hospitals, and lively
political discourse, all necessary ingredients to field a good war, within a compact
five square mile area. And it did all that while maintaining an air of Southern
traditionalism. Even today, 150 years later, parts of Richmond still have the
look and feel of the traditional South. There are monuments and parks
everywhere paying homage to fallen Civil War heroes. And many of the buildings
have that decidedly “Southern” look, majestic white pillars decorating the
front. Occasionally we would pass a house or business displaying a Confederate
flag from a die-hard who has never given up on his beloved Dixie. But it was
the weather more than anything that reminded me we were in the south. It was
sunny and the temperature had risen to the low forty’s, balmy by Philadelphia
standards for this time of year.

At about 6:00 PM we cross
into North Carolina. The sun has dipped below the horizon and a chill is creeping
into the air. We pass a sign for a public rest area.

“Could you pull in here?” I
ask.

“Sure, I have to go too,” he
says.

Will eases the Cruiser onto
the exit ramp and into a heavily wooded parking area with hundred-foot oaks and
maples, leafless due to the impending winter. Scattered between are a dozen towering
pines, dropping their cones on cue for the upcoming Christmas season. Will parks
the car. The rest area is deserted except for a black T-Bird with chrome wheels
and North Carolina tags. The driver is nearby, propped up against a lamp pole,
beer in one hand and a cigarette in the other. He’s about twenty-five, clean
cut, wearing some type of designer jeans, Armani or something, and an elegant
light-green shirt unbuttoned, revealing his chest. I pull on the handle to open
the door; Will grabs my arm.

“What?” I say.

“Go straight to the bathroom
and back. Don’t stop. Eyes down the whole time. Do you understand?”

“What’s wrong?”

“That guy... gives me the
willies.”

“I’ve seen worse on campus.”

“Straight to the bathroom,
eyes on the ground. Got it?” he asks.

“Sure.”

“We’ll go together,” he says.

Will and I exit the Cruiser
and stroll to the restrooms. Will ducks into the men’s room and I head to the
ladies room. Pushing open the door, I unconsciously glance at the man; he’s
staring at me. We lock eyes for a microsecond then I rush inside allowing the
restroom door to close behind me. I search for a clean stall then do what I
came here to do. I unsnap the latch on the stall door, find a working sink,
then rinse my hands. I reach for a paper towel when the man appears from behind
the stall closest to the exit. He stands there grinning at me. 

“Excuse me, this is the
ladies room,” I say.

“I know,” he says.

“Well, you’re not supposed to
be here.”

“I just want to know your
name.”

“Look, I’m sorry. I already
have someone.”

“You deserve better,” he
says.

This guy obviously is not
taking a hint so I throw a little authority into it.

“I suggest you leave, before
someone sees you in here.”

“No one’s coming in here,” he
says, locking the door latch from the inside.

I can’t believe this is
happening. My heart pounds.

“My name’s Damon, what’s
yours?” 

I don’t believe him for a
minute, but figure I should just play along. Maybe he’ll tire of the game and
leave.

“Rose.”

“Rose... how interesting. Now
we’re getting somewhere. They say roses have a real nice fragrance.”

He starts walking toward me.

I back away, but he keeps
coming. I find myself getting deeper into the room, farther from the exit. I
gather a look of determination and attempt to walk briskly around him. He
blocks my path. I change course attempting to stay out of his reach, but he
blocks my path again.

“My friend’s out there, you
know. He’s going to come looking for me,” I say, attempting to scare him off.

“There’s no one out there.
Your friend left.”

I think to myself, Will would
never do that. Then again, maybe he sensed trouble and went to get help. I’ve
got to play along, stall him as long as possible, until Will gets back. I
attempt to throw him on the defensive.

“You’re not very nice,” I
say.

“You’re the one with the
attitude. I’m just trying to be friendly.” And then he starts moving toward me.

I point to a security camera
bolted to the wall.

“Careful, they’re watching us.”

“It doesn’t work,” he says,
his eyes fixed on me. “Someone cut the wire.”

I can see wires hanging from
the camera, dangling in the air. Strange, I think to myself. He knew that
without looking. I’m out of options, so I decide to go for it. I move as fast
as I can, hoping to catch him off guard. All I need is a second to slip by. As
I go by him, he body checks me slamming me against the wall. He presses my
cheek against the concrete with his hand.

“Now you’re being ignorant,”
he says.

He puts his full weight
against me, pinning me against the wall. He twirls my hair for a few moments, and
then, runs his thumb lightly around my lips.

“Blue hair, blue lipstick,
blue nails. What other treats have you got for me?”

He starts kissing my neck,
slides his hand over my breast, squeezes. I knee him in the groin with as much
strength as I can muster. He winces, closes his eyes for a moment, then smacks
me across the mouth with the back of his hand knocking me sideways.

“You’re just not a very nice
person,” he says.

He grabs my blouse, rips it
open.

Then a sound. Someone is at the
door, trying to open it. He looks at the door, and then looks back at me.

“Shhh,” he says. “They’ll go
away.”

I scream.

He smacks me across the face
again knocking me to the floor. I detect the unmistakable taste of blood on my
lip.

I hear a “THUMP...THUMP...THUMP,”
as if someone is heaving their entire body against the door. Damon stares at
the door. Another “THUMP...THUMP...THUMP,” and finally the lock snaps. The door
flies open hitting the wall with a crash. Will stumbles in, almost tripping
over his feet. He sees me on the floor and Damon standing over me. Damon whips
out a switchblade, and then points it at Will.

“Get on the floor, on your
stomach.”

 “Please, let’s not make this
any worse than it is,” Will says. “Why don’t we all just walk away and pretend
this never happened.”

“You don’t hear real well, do
you old man?”

Damon grabs my hair, pulls my
head back, and then puts the switchblade to my throat.

“On the floor... now... or I
cut her.”

Will puts up his hands.

“Whoa, peace brother, no need
for violence. I’m a man of faith.”

Will slowly reaches into his
pocket, produces a Bible, and then opens it.

“Have you never heard it said,
‘Love your enemies and pray for those that persecute you.’”

Will smiles, holds out the
Bible, and then motions Damon to take it. Damon glares at Will.

“Fuck you.”

Damon releases my hair allowing
me to drop to the floor, and then, edges toward Will. He holds the knife at
arm’s length pointing it at Will’s face.

“Someone needs to
teach you a lesson.”

Will lowers his head and stares
at the floor.
He looks so helpless. He doesn’t move
for what seems like an eternity. Damon edges his way closer,
pointing
the knife at his throat
. Will closes the Bible and says
something under his breath, like a prayer or something.

I feel the need
to do something, but what? My lip is swollen and bleeding and I’m completely exhausted
from the struggle. If only I had brought my cellphone with me. I think about
making a mad dash for the door, but Damon is blocking my path and the light
dancing off that lethal stiletto is enough to dissuade anyone from making a
rash decision.

Damon circles
Will, keeping his distance. He lunges the knife at him then stops, taunting
him, like a cat playing with a mouse before the kill. It’s obvious that Damon thrives
on terror, and in his perverted way he is trying to raise the stakes. But Will
does nothing. He just stands there, head bowed down, and stares at the floor,
like a lamb going to the slaughter.

“I love the sight
of fresh blood,” Damon says. “Red things fascinate me.”

The expression on
Damon’s face goes blank and his eyes glass over. He draws back the knife preparing
for the final thrust and then steps toward Will.

“It’s time,” Will
says.

W
ith the flick of his wrist, like a
world-class Frisbee player, Will hurls the Bible at Damon’s face. It smashes into
Damon’s nose obscuring his vision, causing him to become disoriented for an
instant, but that’s all Will needs. Will grabs the knife hand, twists it down, and
then smashes it into a hand drier attached to the wall. Damon loses his grip
causing the knife to fly across the room, bounce off the floor, slide for a
bit, and finally come to rest up against the far wall.