The Alligator Tail—Tale
Gets hot ridin' in a bass boat on a Louisiana swamp—in 102—when your skin is luminous pale and the zinc on your nose is gonna leave you with a red and white mask.
Only one thing to do in a case like that. Find a beer. Scoot that fast, shallow boat up to the dock near Mac's joint and tie up. Never you mind the motorcycle gang havin' their annual hee-haw on the towpath, they're only decidin' how many they gotta kill to still be members next year.
Whatever all y'all do, be real nice and cheerful to them boys and gals. "Afternoon, all y'all. Nice weather for sweatin'. Anythin' interestin' goin' on in these parts?"
You'll see how quick all ya'll get answers from a nice ol' boy with a red kerchief on his head, tattoos all, over interferin' with that sweat I spoke of, and enough metal pokin' holes in enough places to make sure the only way he flies is without a plane.
"Gaiter," he says, real polite.
"Why, nice t'meet you, Gaiter." See, keepin up the charm like I said.
A whole lot of sniggers could hurt the feelings about now. Aw, they don't mean nuthin' by it.
"I ain't Gaiter. We seen a gaiter over there. Over that little humpy pile o' dirt there. Down the other side, near the water. Reckon it's sittin' on a nest."
"Wahoo!" I tol all y'all how sweet and givin' these fellas is once they like all y'all. "Thanks for the tip. Mighty generous of y'all to share the tip."
It's gut strippin' gettin' over the slimy pile o' dirt and sloggin down to the edge of the water on the other side.
"Why would someone yell and spoil a moment with nature like this? Listen to all them yuckin' fools mashin' up the peace."
"You better git, boy," holey nose yells at me. "That's a nest there and them gaiters can run fast."
What gaiters? What nest? Well, I'll be. . . I see the nest. Looks like a big bunch of old bits of wood covered with water weeds. Hey, I see a gaiter. He's one big son of a . . . well, he sure is big and will all y'all look at the friendly grin he's givin' us?
They cycle types sure like to keep up their yackin'.
"Listen up, fellas. This one's friendly, he's just . . . well, lookee there, he's just moseying on up t'say hello."
If there's one thing I caint stand it's hearin' men cry and women scream. Listen to 'em: "He's comin'. Run. Run. He's up on his legs. He's so friendly he's gonna let y'all be his lunch."
Well, I'll be—they right. That sucker's up on his legs like they was two pairs of they stilts and he's runnin'. He's running at me. He's hissin' and bellowin'. "Hey, I can outrun that sucker." I'm fast when I gotta be.
"THIRTY MILES AN HOUR? You're lyin'."
They wasn't lyin . . .
