The alligator’s name was Molly. That was what we called her. It all used to be Everglades land, back a long time ago they, the engineers, drained the swamp and dug the canals to channel all the water so that you could build houses on habitable land. From the air the maze of canals cutting through the Florida suburbs like a glistening string of wet pearls. But up close, the canal water has a murky burnt brown color, like tea left steeping for days. And the smell—the water table was so high you could dig a hole in your backyard and within four or five feet it would start filling with water—you’d smell it every everyday when the sprinklers went off because it was the same water as the canal, like if you cracked an egg and smoke poured out of it.
When we were kids, the neighborhood was still being built, it was mostly sandy lots, a couple of box frames going up, and a few finished houses where the early residents lived. It was common for animals—fish, frogs, skinks and snakes, herons, alligators, someone even said they saw a shark once—to travel the waterways from the glades and find themselves lost in suburban backyards. Nobody worried too much about Molly. In fact, whenever there was a gator sighting, everybody would gather along the canal shore with binoculars and sandwiches, toasting frosted cans of cola in the thick, humid air—my sister not yet born, old Phil Carver with enough hair to still try the comb-over.
Damon tried to throw Molly a hot dog one time. It landed with a wet little plop that was hardly noticeable but still loud enough to halt all conversation on the shore. The neighbors froze, the kids sat up in attention, the parents looked around worried, all eyes finally settling on Damon. People started packing up their picnics, rolling up the towels and tablecloths they were sitting on. Damon’s dad looked at him in disbelief before he rushed down to the shore and used his t-shirt to try to fish the hot dog out of the canal before the alligator noticed meat in the water. Damon was maybe eight, watching his dad hustle out of the water shirtless and dripping, panting for breath. His old man threw the wet hot dog, reeking that canal smell, right at Damon. “Eat it,” he said and stormed off.
Damon was crying as my mom tried to explain to him that the alligators didn’t care about us, probably didn’t even realize we were gathered there to watch it or that we even existed at all—but you should never, ever feed one. Because once you fed an alligator, it was aware of your existence, it knew you were watching it, and it knew you had food. It would keep coming back for more. It would expect you to feed it. It would come to humans any time it was hungry. She started telling this story I’d never heard before, about these boys.
Joan Grossman-Green:
These boys—I think they were the Douglas twins, Jimmy and Bobby, but I’ll have to ask Susan about it, her boy was a friend with them. Anyways, over in Coral Acre,s the Douglas boys found a baby alligator in their canal. They brought it into their home to raise as a pet. As first it was all cute and playful, like a little scaly cat. But it gets bigger and they’re feeding it chicken nuggets and then hamburgers, keeping it in the backyard, in that nice hot tub they had by the swing set.
When it outgrew that, they tried to put it back in the canal. Tried to put it back in the Everglades, but it kept coming to their house, laying on their stoop in front of their door, waiting for food, for pork chops and steak. And so one day, Susan tells me that Mrs. Douglas, their mom, told Jimmy and Bobby that they had to stop feeding the gator because the family grocery bill was ballooning up to hundreds of dollars each week. And this animal is literally sleeping on their doorstep. The poor family had to sneak out through the back door or a side window. Until they stopped leaving the house at all. Susan said she was so worried, she was calling their house. Her son stopped seeing Jimmy and Bobby in class.
When the police arrived they found an alligator large as a pony in the house. It was in the boys’ bedroom, lying on the bunk bed wrapped in their Star Wars sheets, chewing their dismembered bodies. Skin made of steel, mouth full of razors, belly filled with flames. Don’t you ever, never feed one, Damon. Do you hear me? Molly is a cat that—when she comes looking for another snack and you disappoint—will tear you apart and eat you instead.
Remember, Damon—and Eugene, you listen to this too, you hear? You boys remember that the alligator didn’t just wander into our backyard. We’re strangers in her neighborhood.
Damon’s dad came back dressed in dry clothes, camo shorts and a t-shirt that said ‘I’d rather be a smart ass than a dumb shit,’ and stood there angrily. He sat down next to Damon, wiped the kid’s tears away, told him it would be all-right.
He handed Damon the stinking wet hot dog again, closing the boy’s fingers around it for him. Damon looked at the old man for a minute before he lowered his eyes and took a soggy bite.
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