Alligator Park (4 page)

“What’s that?” he says.

“For the coffee.”

Will sits back, puts up his
hands, shakes his head no.

“Please... take it,” I say.

“No Miss, wouldn’t think of
it. Tonight’s my night to help you. Gives a man a warm feeling, knowing he can
do someone some good. Please, come visit me again sometime. It’s all a man like
me has to look forward to.”

“Sure,” I say, “I promise.”

I awaken to the sun glistening through
ice crystals formed on my window during the night. Outside, I see a winter wonderland,
snow drifts everywhere, students skiing and sledding down the impassible streets,
and evergreens so laden with snow the branches bend toward the ground. The
morning TV News reports three and a half feet, not quite a record, but enough
to completely disrupt university life. Finals week is now in full swing which
means the university will be closing Friday afternoon for winter break. It’s
already Wednesday, leaving only three days to catch up. At the end of the week
hordes of students will be leaving the area to spend Christmas with their
families, and for the ones with means, vacation in the Caribbean. Some of the
smaller businesses even close during winter break due to the lack of customers.

But all of that is of no
consequence to me now. As reality sets in, I realize I need to come up with a
plan to get back on my feet. I have a little money saved, but I could not
depend on it indefinitely. I need to find employment, that is, until I come up
with a more permanent solution.

I hate the thought of going
back to Sid’s. Not because I didn’t like working there, but because I would be a
standout among the remaining staff. It’s not that they don’t care about me,
they do. It’s just that I would be the subject of their whispers behind my
back; how I was “kicked out” of the university. It would be impossible to
relate to them the complexities of procuring a PhD in the face of a hostile
industry response. The alternative, take a job at another local restaurant is
not something I want to do either. If Sid found out, and he would, he would wonder
why I had abandoned him. I owed Sid better than that.

I gather my things, decide to
pay Sid a visit. As I make my way down the sidewalk, shop owners clear off the
snow, optimistically hoping they can recover much of the business that was lost
during the snowstorm. And they have only three days to do it. After that there
would be practically no one around until a few days after the new year has
begun.

I approach Sid’s, and of
course, old Sid is out front shoveling snow. He really should let a younger man
do that, but that’s Sid, never wanting to give up anything. It was always the
same; the following day, he would complain to all of us about his aching
muscles, but we all knew he was just showing off his battle scars. He was proud
of them. He sees me approach, stops shoveling, and gives me a hug. He leans the
shovel against the wall, and then, invites me inside.

As we pass through the front
door, Sid does what I’ve seen him do a thousand times before. He touches a
small brass icon attached to the door frame then kisses the fingers that
touched it. When I first started working at the restaurant I had noticed him do
this several times a day, whenever he would pass through the threshold. After a
couple of weeks, I finally worked up the courage to ask him what it meant.

“It reminds me what’s
important,” he said, and that was it. He never brought up the topic again and I
never asked, but it was obvious it meant a lot to him because he never once
missed doing it.

We go inside and the place is
practically empty, but that’s not unusual at this time of the morning. It’s
only 10:00 AM so the lunch crowd has not yet responded to the growing hunger in
their stomachs. The early staff rushes around, back and forth, in and out of
the kitchen, hastily preparing for the inevitable rush that occurs at noon. A
few of them recognize me, wave. But they are too busy to stop and talk. Sid
looks at me with the intensity of a father.

“How the heck are you?” he asks.

“Fine,” I respond.

“If my memory doesn’t fail
me, you should be graduating this week.”

Oh damn. He would have to
bring that up. How do I explain to him, my biggest supporter, I wouldn’t be
graduating.

“Come, please, sit down,” he
says, as he slides into a booth. He orders two coffees.

“On me. For old time’s sake.”

The waitress, someone I
didn’t know, sets two coffees and a coffee cake on the table.

“Please,” he says, pointing
to the cake.

I take a slice, nibble on it,
agonizing over how I can tell him, in the nicest way possible, my situation.

“I have a little dilemma,” I
say.

“You’re not in trouble, are
you?”

“I wouldn’t call it trouble. It’s
more like... well, a change in plans.”

“You didn’t drop out of
school, did you?”

Sid had a way of getting
right to the point; never pulled any punches.

“No... well, not
intentionally.”

The smile fades from Sid’s
face. He sits there, staring at me, a worried look in his eyes.

“It’s like this, there was a
problem with my dissertation. But it’s not something that can’t be fixed. I
just need time.”

Sid doesn’t say a word. He
just stares at me. I feel like running away, like I let him down. And from the
look on his face, I know he is thinking the same thing.

“I need a job. Until I can get
things back on track.”

Sid’s eyes lower. He stares
at the table for a long time. I sense something is wrong; this was not like
Sid.

“You know, Indi,” he says.
“If I was to hire anyone, you would be first on my list. But business has been
slow lately, on account of the snow. I already have too many people, and God
help me, I never could lay anyone off.”

Sid was telling the truth.
Even when business was slow, during the summer months when most of the students
were away, Sid would never lay anyone off. He would take the loss rather than
submit someone to financial difficulty. But if someone wanted time off, for
personal reasons, as long as it was slow season, Sid had no problem with it. He
treated all of us like family and we loved him for it.

“Why don’t you come see me
after New Year’s. Things should pick up by then. Even if they don’t, we’ll fit
you in somehow.”

That was old Sid. Always
trying to help someone in need. I understood completely. I knew I would be
jeopardizing someone else’s job if he hired me now, and I didn’t want that. Sid
gets up, reaches behind the counter and produces two Styrofoam boxes, the kind
they put take-out lunches in. He places them in front of me.

“Why don’t you go in the back
and fill these up with whatever you want,” he says. Then, to make me feel like
I’m doing him the favor, he adds, “We have extra today. It’ll probably only go
bad anyway.”

I knew he was only saying
that so I wouldn’t feel guilty taking the food. But I’m getting hungry and who
could turn down an offer like that from a restaurant that has won “Best of
Philly” five years in a row.

Sid places the Styrofoam
boxes stuffed with food in a plastic bag as I gather my things. He orders an
extra-large coffee then places that in the bag also. I wave goodbye to everyone
and give Sid a hug. “Don’t forget to see me after the holidays,” he says. I nod
yes, then quickly walk out the door.

The sun was beginning to melt
the thin layer of snow left behind by the plows revealing sections of black
asphalt. It was a perfect day, cloudless, as it usually is after a heavy
snowfall. I think about Will and how he would be so thrilled to get a warm meal
along with some fresh-brewed coffee. I pass through the black-iron gates and
onto university grounds. Students are everywhere, hustling to their finals,
which had been rescheduled due to the snowfall. It would be a hectic day for
everyone, with the university trying to squeeze five days into four. I see Ben
and sprint over to the bench. Arriving, I see two students sitting on Will’s
bench but no Will. I scan the area, still no sign of him.

I approach a security guard; what
luck, it’s Stan, a friend. He works part time for the university while he
pursues a degree in engineering. I met him a couple of years ago at the library
late at night. From the way he was tossing crumpled-up paper into the trash can,
one after another, and slamming his pencil on the table, it was obvious he was desperate.
Finals were only two weeks away and I could see he was having trouble with his chemistry.
Fortunately chemistry was my favorite subject so I offered to help. He was
elated. I tutored him the entire two weeks meeting him every night at the
library.

The day after the exam he
called me; he had aced the final! He was so happy he treated me to dinner at
“Le Bec Fin” the most exclusive restaurant in town. He spared no expense. Nothing
ever came of our relationship though. He was cute and a good conversationalist,
but not really my type. He was heavily into sports, and not just ordinary
sports. He relished the ones with the highest risk. Things like snowboarding, bungee
jumping and skydiving. The bigger the risk, he used to tell me, the better the
rush. My idea of a rush is poking my head out the window of a ten story
building, and then looking down. And I even avoid that! In spite of our
differences, we’ve managed to remain friends. Stan sees me coming, waves.

“Seen Will around?” I ask.

“I think he’s at the
emergency room.”

“What happened?”

“The night watchman found him
face down in the snow,” he responds.

“Is he all right?”

“Don’t know. All I know is
they took him away on a stretcher, about 2:00 AM I believe.”

The bottom drops out of my
stomach.

“Where is he now?”

“My guess would be General.”

I knew General very well. It
was only a couple of blocks from here. I had done volunteer work there three
years ago.

“Thanks Stan, have to go,” I
say, then make a mad dash for the hospital.

I slip through the entrance of
the ER then go right to the front desk. In front of me is a woman complaining
about a pain in her leg and how she needs more Oxycodone. The clerk checks a
computer then tells her she’s already been here twice this week. The woman
insists it wasn’t her, and that she’s in terrible pain, and if she doesn’t get
the Oxycodone, she’ll pass out. The clerk refuses; the woman insists,
threatening to call 911. Finally the clerk tells her to have a seat and the
woman walks away. I rush up to the counter.

“Do you have a Will
registered here?” I say. “Came in last night, about two.”

“What’s his last name?” asks
the clerk.

“I’m not sure.”

“Are you a relative?”

“A friend.”

“Can’t give out personal
information to anyone but a relative,” she says.

“But I’m the only one he has,”
I plead.

“Rules are rules.”

“Just let me know if he’s
still here.”

“Sorry, no personal
information.”

“How will I know if he’s
okay?” I ask.

“I don’t know.”

I think, searching for a way to
get around those darn inflexible rules. Her patience wears thin.

“Would you kindly step out of
line so I can help the person behind you,” she says.

I step to the side
disappointed, contemplating my next move. I peer into the back area, straining
to see, hoping to grab a glimpse of Will. And then I see him, Dr. Torroja. He’s
interviewing a patient, taking notes on a tablet computer. He looks up for a
moment; I wave. He sees me, winks in return. I return to the waiting area, take
a seat. I’m certain Dr. Torroja, Rafael as I call him, will come and see me
when he’s finished. We’re old friends.

I met him about three years
ago, when I was volunteering at the hospital. He walks up to me on my first day
and announces in a Spanish accent: “I am Dr. Rafael Eduardo Francisco Torroja,
and if it be your pleasure, I would like you to be my assistant.” He rattled it
off like he was royalty or some famous doctor. He was, in fact, an intern, but
not just any intern. He stood there, in front of me, with an oversized tan, black
hair, flashing eyes, and a certain old-world masculinity you seldom find in
American males. He had a way of making me feel important and sexy and like I
was the most beautiful woman on the planet. I was instantly in love. We dated a
couple of times and then he dropped the bombshell. He explained, in no
uncertain terms, that upon completion of his residency he would be returning to
Madrid to marry a girl picked out by his parents. It seems he hails from an old
Spanish family and they have a history of arranging weddings for over four
hundred years. It’s just the way they do things over there.

I asked him: “Do you love
her?”

“She’s very beautiful,” he
answered.

“But do you love her?”

He thought about the question
for a very long time then answered: “Love does not come in a day. I have known
this girl for a very long time, since we were children. She is from a good
family. And she presents herself very well in public. But if you ask me if I
love her, I would have to say... no.” 

“Then why will you marry
her?” I ask.

“Because I am a Torroja,” he
answers. “And a Torroja must follow his family tradition.”