Perhaps it was the idea of a week away from job drudgery or
just that freewheeling sense of escape that comes with a short vacation, but
something strange happened to me while on vacation last week at Hilton
Head. No, unlike many people who take
time to visit the golf mecca, I was not there to chase the little ball all over
the place. I was there, along with my
wife, to get a last bit of breath before heading into the final days before
summer.
For my wife, it was spring break; for me, it was time away
from my desk. For my wife, it was
probably her last vacation on her old and worn out knees, a replacement
operation is in the works and we will know more about that soon.
But for me, the man of no time off and constant work, it was
a bit of a luxury. So maybe that kind of
enthusiasm simply released a bucket load of endorphins, or perhaps it was just
something left over from 1971 making a revisit. Okay, just kidding there, I was merely trying
to add a little humor to this article.
But whatever it was—maybe too much Trump water—I would swear
that the aura of American politics was in the air. I know this may sound odd, but as I was
traipsing the grounds of our condo sight looking for the not so hard to find
American Alligator, I came upon two ponds.
To make this tale easier to follow, we will call one the left pond and
the other the right pond, I think you might get the point in a bit.
Still, as I was walking I had this overwhelming urge to stop
and check out the gators. On the left
pond there were two gators. One was called
Hilly and the other Bernie. They were
pretty interesting, and one would fight over the other’s dinner. They were both
relatively scrawny, but snappy.
Hilly looked ragged from the years. Scars all over her back and belly. She appeared to be missing a finger here and
there, and her snaggled teeth protruded over her lips, seemingly more so than
the others. She looked at me and seemed to say, “Can’t you tell that I am
battle tested? Can’t you see that I have survived?”
And like Smaug, from the Hobbit, she rolled to her left and
showed off a long gnarly gash. “That,” she said, “I got from a confirmation
hearing. Many have tried to drive me
asunder. Many have tried to disparage me.
And yet, I here I squat, on the verge of heading back to the big house
on the hill.”
Oh my, I thought, this is truly someone who has been through
the wars. This is truly someone who is
worthy. And yet, there’s just something.
Something a bit unnerving about the
scars, and something in the snarl, and something in the carriage that makes me
wonder if Hilly is right for me.
“Besides,” she added, “Bill and I left so many of our things
at that big white house. We just need to
get back and claim them again.”
“Yes, yes,” I said in trying to break free from the conversation. As I turned to walk away, I sensed for a
moment that she had surged toward me. I
smelled a rancid fishy waft of breath, and heard a noisy snap. But then I was
gone.
Not far away was the second alligator on the left. And, let me tell you, this was one strange
alligator. In absolute truth, he looked
a lot like Mr. Limpet, for those of you who don’t get the reference; you have
your choice of Google or Bing. I would
have sworn he actually had some ‘60s wire rim glasses, and when he spoke, he
sounded just like Jackie Mason; see comment above for you who do not know. I thought surely something was awry with this
version of the species.
“Come on,” he whined in pure, 100 percent, Brooklynese. “You remember me, don’t you? Yes, I was the one who grew up under the
streets in New York; they talked about me all the time. You know the Gator who
was let loose in the sewers?”
“Uh, well, yeah,” I said. “but I thought that was an urban
myth.”
“Urban myth my patoot,” he spewed. “Do I look like a myth? Come closer and feel my leathery skin, check
out these sunken cheeks, and look at my reptilian smile.”
I moved a bit closer and rubbed his back. It was tough and
slithery, I opted not to get much closer.
With this kind of gator one never knew what would happen. Word is he
would try to get you to join his commune. I think it’s somewhere up by Lake
Champlain.
“You know,” he went on. “We would all be better off if we
just pooled our resources and sort of just helped each other out. It’s like a
kibbutz but on a grander scale.”
I remembered all those things from the ‘60s and the hippies
and Haight Ashbury and peace and love and letting the good times roll. And just
for a second, I was lured in. Just for a second, I thought, maybe this is the
gator. Maybe Bern is the one who can lead us all out of the wilderness. And
then, of a sudden, it hit me like a bullet at Kent State. No, this was not the gator for me. I quickly
crossed the street to see how things were going on the right side.
On the right side there were three American Alligators. They were all smiling and thumping their
tails, and occasionally whacking each other and running away. There were three gators swirling about. One was teeny tiny and he kept swimming in a
circle, occasionally nipping one or the other of the two bigger ones, and often
stealing their breakfast toast. The
other two called him The Gov, and he didn’t do much really, except annoy his
pond partners. He had names for the
other two. One he called Lyin Ted (LT) and the other was simply called Donald,
like the duck, only different.
The Gov was the first to speak up and he said “I’m just
hanging around to keep some semblance of order in the pond. You know, there used to be 17 of us in this
pond, but Donald ate the other 14 and now I think he is trying to decide who’s
next.”
As LT moved in closer, the Gov said, “Tata for now. I gotta scoot before there are only two gators
left.”
“I’m from Texas,” LT said.
“Can’t you tell? Just look at my
spurs and my bigger than life disposition.
I’m the only gator that can beat Donald. I’ve done it many times.”
“But,” I said, “aren’t you hundreds of delegates behind?”
“Delegates? We don’t need no stinking delegates in a
brokered convention. Heck, I already got that whole deal sewed up.”
“The heck you say,” I blurted.
“Yes, yes, yes. I got a big surprise for Donald. He’s almost
as dumb as his supporters and he won’t even see it coming. I’m going to make the delegates a deal they
cannot refuse.
“Oh really,” I said.
“And what might that be, pray tell.”
“It’s simple, really,” he said, flicking some gator debris
out of his teeth. “Vote for me or else.”
Aha, I thought, time to get away from this slick
character. That’s when I noticed this
big old husky gator flaked out on the banks, and I swear he was sporting an
orange toupee.
“Well,” I said, “What’s your story?”
“I’m about to win this thing,” he said. “It’s obvious that I
am the smartest, wisest, best alligator in either pond. The people love me and I love them. None of these other gators have ever had to
run a business. Not one of them has even
had to hire a person or fire a person, except Hilly who had an IT expert
helping her out or so I heard.”
“Well, you know Donald, there’s been a lot of bad press
about you. They say you don’t clip your
toe nails, and sometimes you swallow little gators whole. I’ve heard, and now this is just a rumor,
that you are the scourge of Florida,” I said.
“Well, don’t believe everything you hear. The media writes all kinds of stuff and most
of it is lies or half-truths. You do
know that Florida is my second home? People
there just love me. People everywhere just love me. I’m going to win this
thing,” he said.
Suddenly I heard my name being called. Behind me, my wife
was saying, “David quit day-dreaming and get over here. We’re getting ready to
go out for dinner. Any idea what you
might want to eat?”
“Not really,” I said, “but I think I’ve had enough gator
tales.”
