Free Alligator Park by R. J. Blacks Page B

packing my
clothes, books, cookware, and knick-knacks in cardboard boxes and sealing them
with packing tape. It’s amazing how much stuff a person can accumulate over the
years. I throw out what I can, but there are certain things I just can’t part
with, so into the box they go. I come across a framed photo of me and Logan at
a faculty dinner when he first agreed to be my doctoral advisor. He wanted to parade
his new protégé in front of his colleagues so he had me do a short speech about
how much I appreciated having him as my mentor and what an honor it was to be
part of the post-graduate program. And I was glad to do it. Dr. Logan Smith was
my hero, the quintessential professor, the man I looked up to.
    But that was then, and now is
now, and it’s time to move on. I’ve seen another side of him and I don’t like
what I see. I slide the picture out of the frame, grab some scissors, and then,
with surgical precision, cut out his image. I gaze at the excised image and
reflect on the past, how he had captivated me with his charm, and then abandoned
me in my time of distress. With a burst of independence, I tear it into a dozen
small pieces and throw them into the trash. It’s pointless to hang on to broken
promises or brood about what might have been. It’s over, and he has no place in
my life. How amazing it is that a person of distinction could degenerate into an
opportunist when they surmise you have nowhere else to turn. It occurs to me: the
truly great people of the world are those that, when presented with temptation,
have the moral conviction to turn away. It’s a life lesson I will never forget.
    And then I think
about my friends; should I call them? It’s not like we chat all the time, in
fact, I haven’t seen them in weeks. The demands of finals week are so
overwhelming we become effectively isolated behind a wall of time. No one has
time for anything except the essentials and meeting those long-term commitments
that move us closer to our goals. Add to that the pressures of the Christmas season,
where everyone scurries around seeking out those perfect gifts, and we’re left
with an atmosphere of mass confusion.
    But what if I did
call them; what would I say? What could I tell them when they wanted to know
why I was leaving the area? How do I avoid revealing the truth, how I was fired
from the university, and am leaving in desperation, trying to find some way to
get back in? And what about those inevitable questions that would follow? Tough
questions. Questions that would evoke their sympathy, and place me in the
uncomfortable position of having to make up answers to avoid embarrassment.
     I decide against
it, after all, I can always call later, when I’m settled and things are
beginning to look better. Yes, that’s what I’ll do. I’ll call later.
    I spend the rest of the day hauling
the sealed boxes from my second floor apartment to the trunk of the Cruiser. The
trip is now only eighteen hours away and the excitement is building in me. I’ve
already had the car checked out: oil, antifreeze, tire pressure, and filled it
up with gas. Tomorrow will be the beginning of a one-thousand mile trip, and I
want everything to go smoothly.
    It’s almost dark
as I place the last box into the Cruiser and lock all the doors. I don’t have
anything to cook with so I head down to Sid’s. He already knows I’m leaving,
but I need to say goodbye. Even though I’m only going for a year, it would be
rude to just leave without saying anything.
    I walk past the
university and my eyes well up as I glance at the buildings I’ve known so well
for almost ten years. I remind myself it’s only temporary, but still I have
difficulty keeping the tears back.
    Finally, I see the
sign for Sid’s. I go inside and see him in his usual place, greeting customers
as they walk past him. He sees me enter, waves, then slides into a booth
inviting me to join him. I sit directly across from him.
    “This is it,” I
say.
    “When are