Alligator Jones meets Trees

“Hi! Would you like to know about becoming carbon neutral?”

“Blam!”

That may not have been the smartest way to avoid the little eco-friendly nerd, shooting off his face with a shotgun. But then again, maybe it was…

Looking down at my feet, a pool of blood was already soaking my brand new pair of Samba Classics. It’s the only shoe I wear, and pretty much the only one I want to wear. Although some vintage Ralph Sampson Puma black hi-tops would be rather stylin’.

“Shit, man. Why’d you go and do that?” a voice said from the left side. Near a booth marked “Free Vagina Maps.” Clearly, this sign had been tampered with, but it got my attention now.

“You sell Vagina maps?” I asked the person who had just spoken to me, without answering his question.

“Huh?” he said.

“Well, I guess since I didn’t answer your question, you don’t want to answer mine. Fair enough.”

Shhhh-click. I chambered another shell from the tube. This seemed to rattle my new-found friend. He was about 25 or so, wearing a “I <3 Lohan” T-shirt. For some reason, this did not strike me as creepy at all. Maybe it was the idea of a Vagina Map that made this possible.

“Sorry, bro,” Ted said. I found out his name was Ted, or at least that’s what he was telling the average consumer with his neon green plastic nametag attached just over where Lindsay’s left nipple would be. “I don’t have any more maps, and yes, they are Vagina Maps.”

“Well, you’ve interested me, Ted? Is that right?”

“What?”

“Is your name Ted?, Ted.” I said, matter-of-factly, not even keeping my finger on the trigger as I put the shotgun -- a Remington 887 -- over my right shoulder. My gun was plain brown. The guy at the gun show in Vanceboro, North Carolina, tried to get me to purchase a camouflage one. I told him to go fuck himself. Amazingly, he didn’t take offense and offered me a discount on shells. Nice fellow he was. He had better teeth than me as well. But, honestly, that’s not saying much, having not been in a dentists chair since I was 23 years old.

“No man, my name is Trees.”

“You serious? Like the Steve Buscemi movie?”

“Yep. My mom fucked Steve one night and fell in love. But she didn’t stick around.”

“You his kid?”

“Nah. This was over a decade before I was born. But when she saw that damn movie, she said she knew she’d name her first-born Trees. Fucking boy or girl.”

“Guess you’re lucky you’re a boy, huh? Trees would be a helluva name for a lady to live down.”

“Hmmm. Never thought of it that way, but you’re right!”

“About them maps. What the fuck is a Vagina Map, anyway? I’ve just got to know.”

“It’s a map of where they film pornos. New ones. Classic ones. Gang bangs and trannys as well. You want to know where any famous porno was shot, I’ve got a map to take you there.”

“Damn, that’s fucking fantastic! When are you going to get some more in?”

“You serious man? ‘Cause don’t you think this is the last place you’d want to be again? I mean, you’ve got brains on your shoes.”

“Fuck, I hate it when that happens. You know what I mean?”

“Not really, man. Not really.”

“Well, Trees, you wanna get out of the Vagina Map business? It can’t be that lucrative? I’ve got a proposition for ya. One that you can’t lose on.”

“Sure, man. Hey, what’s you name?”

“Alligator Jones, my friend. Alligator Jones.”

He squinted through the sunlight to get a look at my face when I said that. I figure he didn’t believe me when I said that. Hell, my teacher’s never believed it either. Especially when they looked at the name in the book and it said Henry. Damn, I hated that name so much as a kid.

In the distance, sirens started to approach. In the foreground, a crowd was starting to gather. So were flies.

“Kid, let’s get the fuck out of here,” I said.

“Let me grab my bag,” Trees said, lunging behind his little makeshift stand of old-ass milk crates.

I only had a second to make my decision. Was he going for a gun? Or was he really grabbing a bag. I guessed.

Correctly.

“I never go anywhere without my bag,” Trees said. “It’s got a copy of “A Confederacy of Dunces”, the movie “Elf” and a Chuck E. Cheese token.

“Sounds great, kid, let’s get moving. The cops’ll be here any moment.”

We mainlined it straight to my car -- a 1991 Toyota Celica. Moon roof, not a convertible. Stick, not automatic. She wasn’t exactly the car you’d expect to pull up on the day you were going to die. And that’s how I liked it.