Alligator
By Grant Maher


I have been an alligator before, and I wouldn’t mind being one again.
I remember how to be an alligator whenever I put on my mask, fins, and snorkel and enter into some body of fresh water, often a river, lake, or swimming pool. I don’t cotton to the ocean.
Human beings like to play and splash in water. I like to float motionless or scull along slowly with my flat scaly tail. I remember what it means to lurk. I like to lurk. I hang about by the water’s edge, knowing what I want to do. Yes, I want lunge out of the water and grab someone by the foot and pull them in. Yes, that would be splendid.
Sometimes I do this to my kids. They scream. I love it when they scream.
After a time of cruising and lurking and lunging and enjoying the coolness and the watery smell of the water, and watching anything and everything floating on the water’s surface, I like to get out and bask in the sun. The soothing heat soaks into my scaly back and lulls and hypnotizes my reptilian brain. I lay torpid and blissful on hot rocks or concrete until a secret thermostat in my bloodstream goes 'click' and compels me to slither back into the cool water, savoring the contrast in temperature.
Now I grow hungry. What’s for lunch? I visualize the salami sandwiches and pickles packed in the ice-chest. I emerge from the water and rear up on my hind legs, heading for the food. I am a person again. Alligator time is over. But, like I said—I have been an alligator before, and I wouldn’t mind being one again.