Carlos and the Gator

a short story

Photo by sterlinglanier Lanier on Unsplash

We dove into the filthy canal behind my house and Carlos pointed and yelled, “The alligator.” Carlos was the dumbest among us, borderline mongo, so we never believed him when he’d say that the alligator was in the canal. He’d first seen it two summers earlier, after which he wouldn’t shut up about it. “It’s huuuuge,” he’d say. “Twenty feet. Green. Huuuuuuuge.” We told him to shut the fuck up, which is what we always told Carlos, but he kept on, gator this and gator that, until we banished him from our touch football games and our weekend vandalism sprees. We let him back into the crew a few months later, after he’d promised to quit it with the gator business, so when he started up again that day, we swam toward him ready to beat the shit out of his gator-obsessed ass. We splashed and screamed and raised our fists, but Carlos kept saying, “Twenty feet. Green. Huuuuuuuuuuuge.” I was the first to reach him and swing, but Carlos, ready for me, grabbed my arm and turned me in the direction of the gator only he’d been seeing going on two years now. And then I saw it. Carlos’ alligator was sunbathing on the bank opposite us.

Twenty feet. Green. Huuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuge.

“Gator,” I said.

The crew stopped splashing around and for the first time in two years, we all saw Carlos’ gator.

“I told you,” Carlos said.

The crew started splashing again, screaming like the pussies we all were, heading for the bank, except for Carlos and me, as he was still holding my arm. I told him to let go, that I believed him, but he didn’t release me. The rest of the crew, safe on dry land, pleaded with Carlos, but since we’d treated him like shit for the better part of five years, Carlos didn’t listen. Carlos didn’t get out of the water and retreat from the gator, but squeezing me harder, swam us toward it. I kicked and punched, and in response, Carlos dunked me underwater once, twice, until I realized that what I had always known to be true was indeed true—Carlos was stronger than all of us. I resigned myself to my fate as gator meat and went limp as Carlos swam us closer to the gator.

A few months earlier, when we’d gotten our hands on a pair of boxing gloves, we used Carlos as a heavy bag, pummeling his back and chest and finally his face. Carlos just took the punches, as he’d taken the rest of the shit we’d thrown at him. We promised him that eventually he’d have his turn with the gloves, but after a week of beatings and still not getting his turn, Carlos finally put his hands up and came at us. He took down three of us with a stiff jab, but to the guy who’d gone strictly for his kidneys, Carlos leveled with an uppercut that sent the unharmed fleeing. I was one of the unharmed, and this, death at the hands of Carlos’ infamous gator, was my comeuppance. I knew I deserved it, but I pleaded anyway, saying, “Uppercut me instead. Uppercut me three times, Carlos. Uppercut me as many times as you want.” Carlos didn’t uppercut me, and the gator, unaware of our approach, had not yet moved.

Finally, we reached the bank, and Carlos, who always liked me even though I’d treated him as shitty as the others had, kissed me on the forehead so hard my head snapped back.

“Why?” he said.

Carlos released me and climbed up the bank, standing in front of the gator. The gator finally moved, fixing its gaze on Carlos. I swam toward the crew, and crying, joined them. We watched Carlos take a step toward the gator. Another step. We watched Carlos stop a foot away from the gator and just stare at it. Then we watched Carlos extend his right leg and tap the gator in between the eyes. With each tap, someone ran off, until I was all alone, the only one to see what we’d done to Carlos.