part0010

“HONESTLY, I DON’T KNOW THE difference between a crocodile and an alligator.” It’s Matt’s pick-up line, and it’s somehow both genius and stupid. At the 2020 GatorCon, you must know the difference. Sure, some of us attend for the drugs, costumes, and orgies—indeed, many of us—but above all, we love crocodilians. Thus the genius of Matt’s line is that it invites outrage, education, or laughter. Currently laughter. Tourists point and chuckle at the forty adults dressed as reptilians. Children film us with phones, as if we are more interesting than the national swampland around us.

I’m Terry and I’m on team croc. Crocodiles are better than alligators, if such superlatives matter (they do not) to anyone outside our convention. Crocs are generally larger and deadlier; their physical difference is an arrow-head snout with mud-gray scales, adept for the banks of the Nile or the estuaries of Australia. Alligators are chubby. Their snouts are wide and round. Though generally docile, they are prone to unexpected rage, sometimes at golf courses and hotel pools.

A woman in front of me swats the back of her neck; there is no insect, just moisture, her hair matted like tentacles. I think I recognize her, the flailing of her arms, her faceless and twisted neck, but no. She is not one of us; she is dressed in civilian clothes with no hint of reptile.

Matt is on team gator and dressed as such. The only odd element is that his suit comes with its own limbs; his arms and legs extend from holes, while cloth gator-nubs dangle beneath, rendering Matt more like a tailed spider.

We are all sweating, even as the Florida sun sets against the mangroves. I am surprised we still possess sweat. After the events of the steam room and the mad copulation of last night, I wonder how we recovered. Where did this extra sweat come from? It’s been hard not to think of that steam room, especially since it’s hard to piece together what happened.

At the end of our line, someone stands in a black gator mask, dark hoodie and sweatpants; surely the heat warrants removing the mask, but the figure is motionless, standing apart from the others. No one seems to notice him (her?); the others are slack-jawed, fanning themselves, grumbling how we should reschedule the convention for October (yes, and good luck finding reptile attractions open and affordable at that time, thank you very much).

“That’s not Glen,” Matt says. “Glen’s always the red gharial.” Ah yes, Glen and his underdog species—the gharial, a creature with a surreally thin snout found in Asia.

“Hm?” We’re moving up in the line. Tourists seem uneasy about boarding with us. They’re letting us have our own boat. The lagoon shimmers.

“They were talking a lot,” I try to say with no hint of jealousy. But I blush, recalling the cape’s fall to the floor, the steam and bare skin, and the mask of the saltwater giant so vivid it had to have been taxidermy. My heart flutters, hoping the stranger will return and that I will be chosen tonight. I still have the key to the underground spa, and I don’t think the hotel can change the lock so soon.

Finally we board the vessel, clanking across the metal platform with excited giggles. The on-board guide looks terrified, rubbing their National Park lanyard like a talisman. Our costumes make it hard to sit, and our bodies are worn from a week of intoxicants. We stumble, hooting and hushing. I risk looking back to the docks, to the land of normal people. The tourists gape and type on phones to research us. Their collars and buttons remind me of the costume I must don again soon—the return to a life that increasingly seems not worth living.

“At least I’m almost finished designing my Sim-Reptile for PC and PS4. The new graphics and prey AI really impressed the beta testers at PAX East.”

The steam rooms are a maze, and it is why the hotel was chosen. You’ve heard someone has rigged lights and gels; each room will have its own color. You enter from the basement of the Orchid Vale Resort, follow the signs for the spa, and pursue the figures dressed in green. Recreation-room hours be damned, for we have stolen the keys. Management has been compromised.

Doors designate ‘men’ or ‘women,’ but these are ignored; there is no discrimination, and the procession cannot be stopped. The threshold is upon you; you feel the steam, the moaning pulses that may be experimental techno or ambient reverberation from guests. You have been assured the rooms are vast, a labyrinth from which you must leave a trail to escape. You enter.

It’s tempting to glide to the first attractive element: a nice shape, a certain mask, a beckoning gesture. Yet you should tour first, see it all. The blue room gives way to red. Steam is like fog here. You wonder, shall you remove more of your costume? Gloves and footwear litter the floor; here, a cartoon mask, the fabric tails of dragons. You see the first tangle of limbs, an amount that seems impossible to count, gyrating and sighing.

A cavern opens to a pool. Bright minds have engineered new ways to copulate while floating in water. Last year, it was a must-do—a dangerous delicacy, to mount one from behind with their head in the water like the creatures of the wild. It’s an act of trust. You see two guests in the shallows performing it while three others watch. One appears to be drowning, but it’s just the way they want it, their face hidden under a web of floating hair.

I’m snatched from my memory-fantasy, my pelvis still sore, humid on this bench of the boat. We remain docked in the shallows. Matt is flirting via vapid chatter. “Three? You think we’ll see three gators?” “Perhaps we’ll see a panther!” “Oh I’d like to see a manatee!” They’re stupid, and we will only see birds and gators. Maybe a turtle. Others gaze about rapidly, pointing at lilies and logs, the same ones we’ve stared at for fifteen minutes.

Our guide is gone. Indeed there is no captain, no Everglades employee on the boat. Nothing to keep us from stealing it. I look at the dock, the reeds of the shore. I fear the park may banish us or call us drunk (we are). Or, they’ll wait us out. The sun dips. Will they trick us and say it’s too late, that the tours are over? Will we have time, as a back-up, to make it to Crocodile World off Longshore Avenue? It’s a forty-minute drive. I’m furious.

But we’re greeted by a new guide. Fresh-faced, her name-tag reads ‘Elaine.’ I’m taken aback, enthralled by her eyes, her mouth. I massage the back of my neck and try to look as cool as possible, as if my croc costume is worthy of respect. But Elaine’s smile is unlaced with malice; she is warm, indeed appreciative, for we belong here. We want to see these swamps more than anyone. Ever.

The boat takes off and there’s a cheer, followed by hushes, everyone’s eyes on the water. Matt nudges me with his leg and cocks his head toward Elaine. I refuse the bait and pretend she doesn’t appeal to me. If there is competition, I’d lose. His leg lingers against mine, our fabric touching.

I watch Elaine; she stares beyond us, at the docks of the park disappearing. We round a bend of foliage. I feel we are going faster than we should; the engine is startling wildlife. We steer back and forth, commanded by an amateur. I turn to see the driver, hidden behind a platform. I recognize parts of his dark outfit. It reminds me of the lone figure in black with the alligator mask. The boat slows and I’m relieved. Land and floating vegetation can barely be told apart.

“Hey guys,” Elaine says. “So, I uh . . . I wanted to be sure that I had you for this . . . particular tour.” Elaine dons a crocodile hat, gloves, and tail, procured like a magician. The audience gasps then cheers. One of us.

Not only does her skin tone match, it’s her shape. Few of us are in what the evil world would call “good shape.” Our costumes disguise this, but the stranger’s costume displayed all. It was a body I’d never seen among us.

I’m annoyed. I’m missing what Elaine’s saying; gator-gals are joking with her; the boat’s drifting, engine off. Others crack open beers. Some spot floating alligators. I’m missing all of it.

You’re uncertain if you should remove more clothing. The drugs haven’t kicked in yet; you’re self-conscious. There’s something you’ve stared at often in the mirror that you don’t want others to see. In the dark, under fabric, it may stay that way. But as you pass through the rooms, you see others do not judge such corporeal aspects; all is open, all is loved.

The end of the maze is a dark room. Others have warned you; the farthest room is for those with the farthest limits. The room is pitch black. You wish to see, but have been told you cannot bring light inside. You step closer.

Before you enter, a stranger steps out with the head of a Crocodylus australis . The beauty freezes everyone in the room. What most wear is Halloween mishmash, the overstock outfit of Captain Hook’s devourer. Your red gharial suit was 3-D printed by a cosplay company, but what the stranger wears is unreal; it is art. Scales so vivid they are taboo. They must be real, the real corpse of a saltwater crocodile, filleted and made a cape. The head is alive with dead black eyes, teeth emerging from its closed, angular mouth. There is no trace of a human until fingers emerge from the cape to dislodge it from a collar below the mask. The cape of scales falls to the floor to reveal a naked human body. Perfect.

The person’s face is obscured under the crocodile’s; the head turns, surveys the others. Acolytes in lust await direction. The arm of the stranger rises and drifts through the masses to point to you. The finger curls, beckons. The black eyes stare into yours. The figure steps back into the shadow of the final room. Everyone wants to follow, but none do. Only you.

It must be because of Glen’s red costume. There’s just nothing else to distinguish him. Dressing as a gharial is different, but Glen’s face is so, so plain. Not even memorably ugly. And yet . . . and yet. Glen went into the room. He went into that fucking room.

I try to analyze whether I am plain (or very interesting?); the calculus of my chances computes, but I am missing the boat tour. The very tour that Glen organized. A coincidence? Glen, Glen, Glen. A surge of strangeness. What if Glen is on this boat? He needn’t only wear red; he could be one of those masked. Is this some sort of trick? Or is he on another boat? Perhaps one already in the swamp. If indeed our guide Elaine is the stranger, then . . .

Our boat turns too fast. This vessel cannot be meant for such speeds. No one seems to care; they’re drinking. I look back at the driver, still hidden behind a platform. The roar of waves must be scaring animals, scaring everything, and defeating our purpose. Our guide’s microphone is too loud.

“Amicia deLune was always fond of swimming, and she was fond of swimming here. In 1951, she wrote a generous check to the state of Florida, giving the state a vast stretch of land, this very stretch of land which we now travel upon.”

Another fast turn around weeping trees; the wake of the boat stirs the willows. Night draws close, and what might be the price if we do not return on time? I lean close to Matt. “Don’t you think we’re . . . ?” But I see there’s a hand under the fabric of Matt’s pelvis, a caress from the neighbor to his left. Across the benches, limbs twist. Couples kiss.

Our guide continues. “By 1959, it was the goal of Ms. deLune to bring native species driven out of these lands back to their home. Unfortunately, with the suspicious and even ambiguous accident of her death—and I do say ambiguous for there is plenty of evidence of murder—she would not live to see the crocodiles return to Florida.”

“These wetlands have been strictly monitored for eighty years and no one just brings massive non-native species, well, maybe illegally . . . ”

Others laugh, no longer disguising the fact they’re fucking without contraception. I see the dark void of Elaine’s eyes. Is this what she was talking about with Glen last night?

You can’t see well in the final room, but there’s a faint glow from outside. You can see the stranger’s body in silhouette, the ridged head, the naked chest that hardly sweats, the legs postured like a mannequin.

The voice purrs. Of course the crocodile’s mouth does not move; it’s a mask, immobile. But the sound is not muffled; it echoes. There’s a cool stone behind you, dripping .

You have never initiated contact (last year this was not a problem), but the stranger makes no move. Their hands stay crossed behind their back.

“No?” is all you can think to fill the silence. The light from outside dims; it’s the others, peeking in, but the shapes don’t match. There’s a whisper reverberating behind you.

You go on, “Glen’s not really my real name.” The figure somehow grows more still. You have lost your advantage. “I mean,” you try, “my real name’s hard to pronounce. So I don’t say it.”

The stranger relaxes. “It is the same with me.” But maybe it doesn’t say that, maybe you just thought it. One of the stranger’s hands moves to its thigh and you realize the stranger is now mirroring your position. The hand looks bloody, but it must be perspiration.

The stranger does not answer. You realize it is foolish to assume you were chosen just to talk. That is not what is done here. But what is? You gulp, shift, and casually widen your legs. The fabric of your red costume sticks to your flesh. You see the stranger also widen their legs, but the contents are in shadow.

You study the stranger’s body. With ease, you relay everything you’d like to do. The body laughs. “That is easy.” Its other hand grabs your fabric and pushes, rips to expose skin.

“I’m just saying,” I backpedal to the region of an apology, “it’s very cool, it’s great. But we could enjoy this perfectly, without the—you know . . .” I try to look to the others for approval, but they stare blankly. “I mean, you didn’t have to say anything , really. We’d be happy just to stare at the wildlife.” Somehow my gator-friends have forgotten that I’ve organized this entire week. I have put in the painstaking hours of locating hotels, bribing officials, disguising debauchery, and hiring campaigns to sway public opinion. The accidents, the non-disclosures, the lies. I have spent my life for this, and they mock me.

I flail about to see who has spoken. I look to Matt; he bursts out laughing. It wasn’t him, the voice was too high-pitched and deranged. “Walk the plank! Walk the plank!” Many are cheering. The boat slows and the crowd stands. Matt is cackling, spasming in pain with a smile that is too large.

“You, sir, do not belong here,” Elaine says, but that is not her name. Everything about her is false. She points to the muddy banks. I can hear the insects. “You belong out there.”

“Come on, what the fuck. Stop it!” I protest, pushing back, rather too hard against one of them, and the individual smacks their head against a metal pole. Gasps resound with genuine alarm, like I am the one who’s gone too far. I direct myself at the demon who’s hijacked the tour.

There’s a silence as the others help the one I’ve pushed. The injured lies there, unmoving, definitely faking it. Someone removes the lizard mask, smacks the fat cheeks, but the face is blank, eyes open at the sky.

Elaine or whatever-her-name-is looks at me with such convincing dismay that my theory crumbles. Her confusion confirms she may never have been in the spa last night. Or . . . or. She is very clever, indeed.

Or perhaps they never exchanged names and that’s why she’s staring like that. There’s more gasping because the fallen one (Pam? Doug?) is bleeding and still not moving.

My back is pushed abruptly; a hand holds down my neck. I hear Matt laughing again, his voice rising to the impossible scream of a soprano. I stumble to the side of the ship; my legs are pulled, and I’m thrown over.

Perhaps you are deeper into the final room, the final cave. There is no light, but you can see. There is phosphorescent fungi, invisible to the human eye, but the stranger has shared with you the ability to see it. You will need it. You have been gripped by great strength and now it is your turn. You grip jagged rock and a delicate stream licks your fingers.

You must decide whether you are alone, and whether minutes or hours have passed. Something has happened with the stranger. You obeyed or protested. Either way, your clothes are gone. The costume has been shredded, and you feel its effects on your skin (as you wished). Your body is wet (also wished) and sore (wished). Try to remember what happened. Try, for it may be of grave importance. There is a deep sound of something large farther down the cave. You remember now, how it brought you here.

Though you can barely move, you have plenty of time to reflect. Is it all that bad? The rock is warm, and you are not alone. If what you wanted was indeed to copulate, to further your seed and spread your life, to feel pleasure and belonging, then . . . great. You have succeeded.

I am not drowned, for something saves me and pulls me to shore. I try to see what it is, but there’s nothing—a tangle of algae, branches. My torn costume. The weight should have sunk me; it is not safe to be in costume and water (as we learned last year) and in a panic I’ve blocked from memory, I’m without costume.

I’m so shocked to be alive that I’m suspicious about whether I am. There’s one light aside from the moon, a red glow in the distance. A wailing among the champion insects. I’m guided by voices (screams) and I swim to the red glow. How easy it is to swim! I feel I am bleeding, but it’s like a jet propelling me. My spine twists. I glide, face in water, barely needing to breathe.

Their boat has crashed. There’s a fire among mangroves and oil in the water. There’s screaming from survivors, an unreasonable amount. On the shore, someone stands unnaturally tall, silhouetted against the flames; the figure carries heads by their hair—four in a fist. It places them on the altars of felled trees. A harmony of insects bends the melody. What emerges from the black water is white as marrow, and the heads are offered.

I am lucky, for a random direction takes me inland; a dirt road becomes jagged, unkempt concrete. I have found new attire, clothes that are quite perfect. It is not until I reach the glow of a lonely diner that I see my clothes are red. I pause, but the color is uniform, not stained, just an odd fashion choice made by a certain someone, someone who unwittingly lent them to me. I will buy new clothes, for the red draws too much attention. I feel my pockets: several wallets, plenty of cash.

Street-lamps disappear as dots down the road; beside me is a sign: BUS STOP, a vandalized bench where no one waits. The diner across the street smells delicious. Even after the events of tonight, I am starving.

I sit at the bar of the diner. The heat is nice. I am the only customer, and the only waitress speaks to me in Spanish. I reply in Spanish, struggling. She sees this, smiles, gives me a menu. Tendrils of dawn crawl over windows.

The diner could accommodate a hundred, but we are the only two here. The waitress smiles and watches me. I think she is waiting for my order, but even after I give it, she listens. Perhaps she noticed my limp and is worried; I am afraid to look at my reflection, to notice the blood I overlooked washing, blurred in the metal of a napkin canister. I turn the canister away, tidy my hair, smile.

She gasps, holds a hand over her heart. She speaks words of sympathy, and I reassure her gently not to call the police, no emergencia. Silence. Yet still she stares, waiting for something.

I smile, and she looks at me with such kindness, a face that says: You can tell me.

I have never seen such kindness. Warmth and salt gather at my eyes. She waits and listens for more, even when there is only silence.
“The back of her head was in the water for too long. No, I mean the front.” (I see it when I blink; a web of hair that floats into what is a face, an expression.) “The front of her head. Her mouth. Her apparatus, to breathe—it all came undone in our movement.

“You’d laugh at the idea, but we were in love. We knew the risks. We were always the most alive in water. That’s why, when there was a convention, we’d attend. She was an engineer and she engineered a device to float, to lie on her stomach. Why not her back so her mouth wouldn’t be in the water? Well we’d done it like that. We’d tried everything, but we wanted to fuck just like they do, in the water.”

I expect a reaction, but my listener’s gaze is unmoved. At any moment, if anyone enters, I am ready to stop. I close my eyes, and I can see the back of the head quite clearly.

“We knew it was dangerous. But it was also her design. She only had to lift her head a bit, and she’d breathe.” (I recall her trying) “But . . . well. I couldn’t tell the difference. Pleasure and pain, how can it be read from the back of a head? To stop, to continue. What’s the difference? Maybe there isn’t one.”

“I loved Elaine. And it was my interpretation of our love (stop talking) that thought . . . well . . . if anything was going wrong. We knew the risk. I thought she was fine. (you’re filth) I couldn’t tell. It felt perfect. At the time.” (Afterwards, she drifts, looks fine)

But then I study her face, and I know the waitress has understood everything. She sees I see it. Her expression clarifies itself: sadness. Forgiveness. Genuine forgiveness. She forgives me.