Hoist
That Rag
There
were swamps and marshes along the coast where the weed-filled
days of people in the Louisiana muck combined with the Texan
urge to howl and wail at the empty sky. On the border between
the bog and the pine knoll, fourteen men watched an alligator
in the mud. Some of them were grinning, and others were
hefting a gun, and the sun was glistening in the sparkles
like diamonds of rain in the Spanish moss. A prehistoric
bird was crying out its soul in the swamp, and frogs peered
over hillocks of mud and grass. It could have been a lynching
or a hanging or some vigilante meeting, where plaid shirts
and knee-high boots had been called upon by the weather
to stomp under the trees.
The
alligator struggled; it was bigger than anyone had ever
seen, and of the men who didn't have a Dutch-courage gun,
their skin was white with fear. It could have burst through
the wall while I was sleeping, it could have gone for the
kids. I might have been bending over to pick a flower for
the wife while it sawed my day in half. If it got amongst
the chickens, or had hatched in an upstairs bed, then it
could have eaten my family for breakfast and the preacher
for dessert. We need traps and controls, we need a way to
keep safe from the storms; I hear the levies are breaking
and letting these monsters in. I locked the closet before
I went to sleep, I propped a gun by the bed, and if the
kids wanted water in the night I fed them liquor instead.
If they
were watching from the sky, they would have seen a tiny
group; like ants on a log pushing for the path, they were
miniscule men in a vast swamp. In their minds the mud was
roiling with all the ways they could die, whether animal
or vegetable or a triggered bullet from a gun. They would
never find the body; they wouldn't know where to look, and
there would be no one to care enough to ask the tough questions
about where the body had been sunk. I'm a speck, I'm a tadpole,
and the world's violence can't be controlled; there are
monsters here and there that make me cling to a gun in fear.
Sometimes
they could hear the train running for the station, from
the raised track above the trees, and they imagined that
it was running for them, or running away from malarial forest;
it was smashing flat the settled order or predator and prey,
and because it was their machine it might not mangle their
bodies at all.
The
alligator gave another gasp, and then lay like one dead.
They waited and then Broom stepped forward, poked its side
with a stick. They sighed with relief, and their pent-up
talk came spilling out, and they turned away from the suddenly
small body and laughed and joked and shouted. We are master,
we are stronger, we have nothing to fear in the world, and
then the alligator lurched and Broom lost his bristles in
the alligator's mouth. They screamed and shot and blasted,
they felt like they were tearing the swamp apart, but the
animal they were afraid of, after waiting two hundred million
years to jump, had vanished below the water and four men
were dead. Broom was bleeding out and scattering his gore
along the bank, his body was thrashing like he was still
alive, but he was missing too much above his neck. The others
had been shot by their friends in their fright, and they
were stone cold dead and resting as though they'd lain down
for a swamp-side nap. You better wake them, you better call,
and let their wives know they're not at all well, but their
intentions were worth nothing and the swamp went silent.
I better
head to town, one of them said, I better get back to work,
said another. Someone's going to have to call this in, and
give me your rifles to keep them safe. I'll find a deep
hole where no one fishes and no one swims, and I'll bury
the evidence with our story. It was an alligator, it was
a murderer, inspired by who knows what, and they went on
a killing spree and we few friends managed to get out. If
someone asks you saw nothing; if they suggest you weren't
here. If they ask about your rifle, you can say that old
thing isn't around anymore.
Five
of them went to their boats and pushed them along the shore
until they scattered under the trees, and the remaining
five walked along the dirt road that led back into the village
to the town to the city along the coast. I saw nothing,
I know nothing, I never even knew that guy; they straightened
their story like a tablecloth over a table made from a board.
The
swamp was quiet at first, and then the birds began to call.
The frogs jumped from one pool to another, and flies buzzed
around the blood. The alligator poked a snout from under
the weeds, and with no fighting about what needed to be
done, it pulled the bodies into the water. There was more
than enough for everyone, as it poked limbs into roots below
the waterline; we'll be feasting until Christmas, unless
someone comes to find the food they left on the shore. People
were cryptic and confusing, but sometimes what they did
made sense, and with such a huge offering, the alligators
were grateful for the chance. We should consider them on
our wish list, we should offer them recompense, for they
have done more than well by us, and they didn't have to
get us a thing.