Requiem for an Alligator -- creative nonfiction by Natalie Weis

My large, extended family is gathered in the antechamber of the funeral home. There is a small couch and a coffee table. Everything is beige, as if the decorators were afraid to put any personality of their own into the space. I guess that makes sense. It lets the mourners project anything they need to onto the room. It does not feel like a place of sadness though. There are snacks, like granola bars, and bottles of water. The only thing that gives the purpose of the antechamber away is the many boxes of tissues scattered around the room. 

The mood should be somber, but my dad and his three siblings continually crack inappropriate jokes, prompting awkward laughter from my brothers, cousins, and me. I don’t want to be laughing right now. It’s my grandfather’s funeral. Right now, the four of them are ridiculing the many, many people who over the years got his name wrong. His name was Byron, an unusual name for a Jewish man and not a name you hear too much in this century. But because of Lord Byron, people have typically at least heard the name before. Yet, people frequently called him by the wrong name, like Brian… Bjorn… Blake… Bruce…Bryce…. When my dad says it’s almost time to say bye to By, I cannot suppress the laugh. I choke on my water and end up in a coughing spasm. It feels wrong to have fun at my grandpa’s funeral, but this is how my dad’s family rolls. My mom, brothers, and I always joke that my dad’s superpower is saying the exact wrong thing at the exact wrong time. He evidently inherited this trait from my grandfather, who, my dad claims, would have appreciated his irreverence, especially at his funeral. 

The rabbi signals to us that the memorial service is about to begin. One of my uncles tears his shirt to signify the break in his heart, an outward sign of mourning among very observant Jews. The mood has changed in an instant. No one is cracking jokes any longer, and we slowly make our way, single file, into the sanctuary. We spill into the front row of pews. I cringe inside as I watch people smile, hug, and make niceties at each other. I know that other people are happy to be with each other during painful times, but I feel sad, and I only want to feel sad. I keep my head down and wait for the service to start. My mom squeezes my hand, which means she loves me, and I squeeze it back tightly. 

There is comfort in ritual. My nuclear family is not very observant, but I know some of the prayers, and it feels good to be a part of something communal. Several people talk about my grandpa from the bimah. Traditionally, at a Jewish funeral, the deceased’s spouse does not speak, so my grandma stays bundled up in her oversized coat in the pew. 

She is holding it together on the surface. Her eyes are dry, but her lips are pursed in grief. My grandparents were married for 64 years. Right after he died, my grandma expressed concern to my dad about having to live alone for the first time. She had lived with her parents, her college roommates, and her husband, but never has been fully on her own. Dementia and Parkinson’s robbed my grandpa of so much. Yet, in his rare moments of clarity, he expressed satisfaction with his life choices, especially their life together. At the end, my grandpa remained the same sweet, good-natured man my grandma had met 66 years earlier. And now he was gone, and she was alone at 84 years of age. 

As the speakers make clear, my grandfather was a remarkable man – one of those people who are so good at everything that they don’t seem real, like The Most Interesting Man in the World from the Dos Equis television commercials. In my most honest moments, I kind of hated that about him; I take a deep breath and push those thoughts out of my head. Today is not the day to give in to pettiness. I tune back into the eulogies. 

Speaker after speaker recounts his gifts as a student, musician, athlete, and businessman. My grandpa was a successful lawyer, who founded a thriving law firm in Chicago, as well as a fearless entrepreneur. He did things he found interesting, and he was not afraid of failure. Throughout his life, he founded multiple businesses, including a car wash, a chain of pinball arcades, and even a gold mine in Pony, Montana. Sadly, for me, the last one did not work out! He was also an exceptionally gifted musician, who played eight instruments and even soloed on the violin at 14-years-of-age with the Chicago Symphony. My grandpa was also a dreamer. Instead of pursuing music, he decided to play college basketball. After he played against Wilt Chamberlain as a college freshman, he acknowledged that some dreams were not meant to be. I mean, he was only 5 foot 9. My grandmother on my mom’s side calls that chutzpah. Others lament that they cannot believe he just threw away his musical talent. When asked, my grandpa would shrug and just say he liked basketball more. My grandpa was also brilliant, possessing a photographic memory. He turned down admission to Harvard–not once, but twice–and, without even applying, he talked his way into the University of Michigan Law School with a full scholarship just two weeks before classes started.

My grandpa never bragged about his accomplishments. He was extremely humble. I did not inherit that quality, much to my parents’ chagrin. I tend to brag about my accomplishments. I think I do this mostly due to insecurity. Like my grandpa, my parents, their siblings, and many of my cousins are over-achievers. I’m introverted, quirky, and serious… so very serious. I am not exceptional at anything yet, and it can be hard to be part of a family like mine. It seems like there are so many expectations. My cousins are meeting or exceeding them, and I feel pressure to keep up. Ironically, when I seek the approval of others, I come across as arrogant. 

I started to faze out a little from the eulogies after a while as I had already heard these stories many times before. But then, something unexpected happens. The rabbi gets up and starts talking about… alligators. 

My grandpa was obsessed with alligators. I have no idea how he got into them. I mean, he grew up in Downers Grove, Illinois, and the climate there is not especially well suited for them. It is likely his interest began in college. When he was a senior, he was the social chair of his fraternity, ZBT. He and his best friend Hank (they were friends from preschool, and he gave one of the eulogies) decided they needed to throw a legendary party before graduation, and they hit on the idea of ZBTahiti. All the elements of a great party were there – Hawaiian shirts, beer, punch spiked with rum. But what made this party truly epic was the cascading waterfall from a third-floor window and the moat that was dug around the fraternity house, stocked with live baby alligators. Obviously, the alligators did not survive the party. My cousins and I all hate this part of the story. My grandpa never seemed overly upset by their deaths. I honestly don’t know if he regretted the decision to have the alligators there, although I choose to believe that he did. I do know that this party was a highlight of college for him. He talked about it a lot. I guess in the 1950s when my grandparents attended college, norms differed, so I am unwilling to think less of him for it. 

The weekend after ZBTahiti, my grandparents had their weekly Saturday date night. They had met six months earlier at a “Woodsie,” a party in the foothills above their college town. For my grandpa, it was love at first sight. He saw her picture in the Freshman Faces book and was instantly smitten. It took several months, but they eventually started dating. Anyway, at their date after the party, my grandpa picks my grandma up from her sorority house. When my grandma tells the story, she talks about being presented with a wrapped package, which she eagerly opened. I don’t know what she was expecting, but I am sure it wasn’t an old shoe box with one of the dead alligators from ZBTahiti. She shrieked. He laughed. My grandma did not appreciate this gift and thought he was seriously deranged. She broke up with him and actually transferred colleges to get away from him. He actually followed her. Today, he would be considered a stalker, and she likely would have sought a protective order. Instead, implausibly, he somehow won her over. In a remarkable life, it may be the most remarkable thing he ever did.

Many years later, not wanting his children to be deprived of an alligator experience, my grandpa, who regularly traveled to Florida to visit his pinball arcades, gave my dad and his two older brothers (my Aunt Hillary wasn’t born yet) a white box with holes punched in the top. When they opened the box, they were delighted to find a baby alligator. Apparently, my grandma was not as delighted. She may have had a little PTSD and probably questioned her life choices. Because my grandpa was terrified to fly after serving in the Air National Guard, he drove for 16 hours straight from Florida with the alligator next to him on the front seat. They named the baby alligator Rocco. My dad says he looked like a dinosaur, with a long tail, tough skin, and coarse scales over his entire body. Rocco had a large, long head with rows of visible upper teeth along the edge of his jaw. My dad and his brothers let him bite their fingers. Despite his many, many teeth, Rocco never broke their skin, and he did not hurt them. 

Rocco lived in a mixing bowl in the kitchen sink because the family had actually no idea what they were supposed to do with him. Unsurprisingly, this living situation did not last very long. Rocco escaped. My dad eventually found him under the living room couch chewing on a baseball. And that was the end of Rocco’s stay in suburban Chicago. My grandparents told my dad and uncles that Rocco went to live on an alligator farm so he could run free. I cannot believe my dad fell for that one!! (He clearly is not as smart as my grandpa was). He was only seven years old at the time though, so I can cut him a little slack.

As the rabbi tells these stories, my mood begins to lighten. I mean, who sends their kids a pet alligator? My grandpa was certainly unique. Then the rabbi says that my grandpa’s spirit animal is an alligator, that people share characteristics of their spirit animals, and that some people believe that their spirit animals guide and protect them. My grandpa was drawn to alligators throughout his life. Like an alligator, he was strong and smart. Like an alligator, he preferred meat, but would grudgingly eat fruit. And like an alligator, men like my grandpa are an endangered species. My grandma tells me regularly, “They don’t make them like that anymore.” 

Another interesting fact is that despite their reputation, alligators are actually not that aggressive and will only attack when provoked. My grandpa was also a lot like that. He did not get mad very often, but when he did, he could be formidable. According to family lore, the three boys pushed him over the edge during a long road trip. When they could not stop bickering in the back seat over violations of the imaginary lines separating their respective territories, my grandpa threatened to spank them if he had to pull the station wagon over to the side of the highway. After unsuccessfully swatting at them from the driver’s seat with his short alligator arms, he pulled over and let them know that the spankings would occur when they got home. During the silence of the remaining car ride, the children’s dread grew. My dad and his oldest brother reluctantly accepted their punishments. But the middle brother, Mike, hid all night because he was so afraid. The grandpa I knew was sweet, so this description sounds crazy. It’s been verified by multiple family members though. I guess everyone really should know not to mess with an alligator.

After the service, the 11 grandchildren act as pallbearers, wheeling my grandpa’s plain, pine coffin from the funeral home. I left my coat in the antechamber, and the bitter Chicago wind slices through me as the attendants load the coffin into the hearse. I slowly walk back and retrieve my coat, trying to put a little more time between now and the next part of the ceremony. We drive to the cemetery and park at the grave site. It is a frigid December morning. My breath freezes as we get out of the warm car. The sky is gray and heavy with impending snow. The mood here is so much sadder than it was at the funeral home, and I start to wail. The grief just pours out. Honestly, it is so out of character for me. I am typically so stoic, so in control. It is embarrassing, but I cannot stop. Everyone is looking at me, and I don’t want to be the focus of attention. 

I grieve because he will never get to know me better. Unlike my Chicago-based cousins, I wasn’t very present in my grandpa’s life. They saw him all the time—at weekly dinners and their games and school events. My brothers and I grew up in Washington, DC, roughly 1,000 miles away. Even before his dementia, my grandpa was never a talkative man. We did not have a lot of phone calls together. He was mostly quiet, a man for whom actions spoke louder than words. When we did spend time together during our biannual visits, we did fun things. We ate ice cream… a lot. We read together. He’d take us to the movies. We’d go to get hot dogs and fries… a lot. We just didn’t talk much. So, I really don’t even know what he honestly thought of me. Did I make him proud? I hope I did. I hope…. I hope.

When it is my turn, I shovel dirt onto his coffin three times, as is Jewish tradition. The first time, we use the back side of the shovel because it is harder to do, and it distinguishes this use of a shovel from all other uses. I keep waiting for an ill-timed joke from my dad as I struggle, but none comes.                         

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Natalie Weis is an 11th grade student at Edmund Burke School in Washington, DC. She has been published by Blue Marble Review, the Parkmont Poetry Festival, and Live Poets Society of New Jersey. She has participated in several creative writing workshops, including The Kenyon Review's Young Writers Summer Residential Workshop. Natalie equally enjoys writing poetry, short fiction, and creative nonfiction. Besides writing, she loves the theater and visual arts and performs in as many school plays and musicals as possible.