“You want to take me to a place called “Alligator River?”
He handed me the brochure.
“It’s a wildlife refuge.”
I took it if only to get him to stop holding it towards me and flipped it over to see the address. Somewhere in North Carolina.
“You want me to go with you on a camping trip where we sleep in the wild and then kayak down the river in a place named after its scariest inhabitants–Alligator River? A river OF alligators.”
“We will just walk and I will point out the alligators to you,” he brushed me off.
I stared at him. We were both in his car in front of my hotel at the oceanfront. I had been discussing my dream again. The one where I am in the water, treading and they just start swarming me from the bank.
“Alligators like their young. They are family animals,” he shrugged.
“They protect their young. They will kill their young if they have to.”
The brochure sat plainly on the console.
“Don’t alligators eat their young during famines?”
“Hard times befall us all.”
I got out of the car, holding my bag of groceris and leaned into the window.
“The refuge is called Alligator River.”
“Yes. It’s a good time at Alligator River,” he smiled.
I half twirled debating walking around the car to my entrance.
“E x p o s u r e, ” he said.
How do you debate these things?
“Take me kayaking first. Here.”
“Of course.”
I waved him off and walked confidently into the hotel. I was seeing no clients here anyway. 

“The Dream of Alligator River”

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