The last time I saw Simon, he called me tee Lou Ann, his voice kind of low and sexy, but I’m sure it’s just a natural reflex for him and it doesn’t mean we’re friends. He hasn’t noticed me over here hiding behind tropical fruit, and therefore a friendly hello is not required: chapter seventeen (“Keeping It Classy and Staying Sassy”), rule twenty-four.
I set the pineapple in my basket and turn toward the coffee aisle. I need to stock up on French roast and chicory so that I don’t ever have to face another day without my morning jolt of caffeine… but I get sidetracked again. This time by ten-pound bags stuffed with live crawfish in the refrigerated meat section. I lean in for a closer look. Little antennas and claws poke out of the blue mesh as tiny black eyes stare back at me, begging for freedom. I am guilty of “pinching the tail and sucking the head”—Mardi Gras 2012. I turn away shamefaced, but I know my shame isn’t strong enough to make me amend my carnivorous habits.
I move past rows and rows of exotic sausages. Some I’ve heard of, while others are a mystery. Behind the glass in the butcher’s counter are even more sausages, along with cuts of beef, fresh chicken, and… “What the hell is that?”
I step closer and once again lean in for a better look. It takes several long seconds before my brain catches up with the shocking display in front of my eyes. I jump back and raise one hand to my chest as I stare in horror at alligators wrapped in cellophane. Whole alligators, skinned, except for their scaly heads and feet. “Gross,” I whisper, but I can’t tear my gaze away from the pink flesh and skeletal bones. Their feet are extremely scaly, and lethal-looking claws stick out from webbed toes. Their eyes are half-open and one of them has lemon slices down its back.
GATOR’S GATORS, the price sticker reads. $35.00. FARM FRESH.
They have alligator farms around here? Alligators live in the swamps and bayous, randomly killing animals and people. They’re a danger to society, like mountain lions, poison frogs, and scat music. The first two will kill you; the last will make you kill yourself.
“Careful you don’t get bit.”
I gasp and about jump out of my skin. Over the pounding of my heart, I hear Simon’s all-too-familiar laugh. The one that means he thinks he’s really funny.
“You scared the crap out of me.” Without thought, I punch his shoulder. Somehow, that makes him laugh harder. “You’re not funny.”
“No?” He shakes his head. “You should see your eyes.”
I shift the basket to my other elbow and fold my arms beneath my breasts. Dark stubble shadows his square jaw, and instead of his usual T-shirt, he’s wearing a white dress shirt tucked loosely into his jeans. Men’s magazines call this combination “classic casual.” I call it business up top, party down below, and it looks good on him. I wonder if he’s been on a date and where the two blondes are, but even if we were friends, neither is my business. I point to the glass case instead and ask, “Are there really alligator farms around here?”
“Sure are.”
“They’re dangerous. Why not get them from the swamp?” I look up into his green eyes.
“It’s illegal to hunt out of season.”
There’s a season? “An alligator killed a dog not far from Sutton Hall just last week.” Mom and I watched it on the local news. She’d shrugged and said, “It’s the circle of life.” I’d gotten on the internet and ordered alligator repellant.
“That happens with animals near waterways, yes. Gators like to hide just beneath the surface out in the weeds.”
I think of the chest-high grass and weeds at home. “The bayou is practically in my backyard!”
He glances down at me and folds his arms across his chest. “How fast can you run, tee Lou Ann?”
“Me?” I point to myself. I’m five foot one and until recently, I wore at least three-inch heels most days. “Not very fast.”
“Gators go for the slow ones. You might wanna learn to zigzag.”
I think he’s joking, but it makes sense. “I don’t want to zigzag. I don’t want to get attacked at all!”
“Don’t worry too much about it. Caimans run in short bursts.” He shakes his head and tries not to smile. “He’ll probably just take a few chomps out of you before he’s worn out.” He gives up trying and his smile creases the corners of his green eyes. I think he’s about to start laughing again, but someone calls out his name.
He turns toward the cookie aisle and shouts back, “Laurent. How’s ya momma and ’em?”
“Byen. Tee Larry is fixin’ to leave for college and it’s breakin’ Shawnda’s heart.”
I wait for a pause in the casual back-and-forth to excuse myself, but just as Laurent says, “Bonsoir,” someone else calls out to Simon.
I glance across my shoulder at a man in a Bass Pro Shops T-shirt, hoisting a bag of crawdads. “Where ya at?” he asks the obvious.
“Busy,” Simon answers, which makes no sense.
Before moving to Louisiana, I’d shopped at the same H Mart for years and never ran into anyone I knew. Simon’s up to four in twenty minutes; it’s like he’s at a high school reunion. This conversation is shorter than the last and I say, “Bye, Simon,” while I have the chance. I take a few steps back and add, “I’ve got to get home with Mom’s grits.”
Simon looks down and points at my basket. “Those aren’t grits.”
“Really?” I stop and glance at the box next to my pineapple. “The box says grits.”