The Albino Alligator and His Expert

As we approached, the motionless, albino alligator, a man of thirty five-ish years, wearing a beige safari shirt and hat intercepted us. “ Hello, folks. Hope you are enjoying yourselves. Feel free to ask me ANYTHING about this gator.” His voice was high pitched and rapid fire, spraying us in the eyes with obligatory aquarium pretense. We stared at the alligator who was laying  under a very bright spot light. There was no proof he was alive. Fake trees and  a painted scenery of a lagoon surrounded him. His scales were white and his eyes were a slice of red. He did not move. He was a male gator in my brain, another lonely, frozen man in my midst. Wondering about his personality was the only distraction I had from the moral pain I felt staring at another bored animal in captivity. The presence of the safari man loitering near me felt like a melting popsicle belonging to a distracted child,  about to drip on me if I didn’t say something. “How old is he?” This question seemed to befuddle the safari man who stared back at me in disbelief. “Hmm…” He retreated to a small podium next to the gator exhibit that contained a binder. He flipped through it. “Give me a minute.”  His voice had lost all robotic warmth. It was ice cold, and caught. He hunched over the binder, continuing to finger through the laminated pages. The alligator laid there begging us to leave. Why put him through such embarrassment. We wanted to move on from the alligator corner now, but suddenly a defeated voice chirped,  “He is three.” “Oh.”, I said, which was the most enthusiasm I could offer.  With this information, it was time to go. We began a slow mosey away from the alligator. It was the same saunter one does, while walking away from a famous art piece at a museum. Did the effect of this land with me? Did I really see it? Am I stupid? Maybe the pace of my back pedal will let it sink in. As we moved on, we heard his voice cry out… “No, wait, he’s six.”