Duck Duck Gator

By Ken Wheaton

Reality is stranger than reality TV.

When Tony Battaglia wakes up after his successful heart transplant, he's expecting a new lease on life. Even after a decade of stitching together the most ridiculous footage on the most outrageous reality shows, the reality-TV editor could

• Language: English
• Publisher: Conifer Press
• Release date: Oct 20, 2020
• ISBN: 9781735511818

Ken Wheaton

Ken Wheaton was born in Opelousas, Louisiana, in 1973. Raised Catholic and Cajun, Wheaton aspired to one day be a navy pilot but was sidelined by bad eyesight and poor math skills. He graduated from Opelousas Catholic School in 1991 and went off to Southampton College–Long Island University in Southampton, New York, intending to study marine biology. An excess of drinking and (again) a dearth of math skills led him to become an English major. From there he returned to Louisiana, where he received an MA in creative writing from the University of Southwestern Louisiana (now University of Louisiana-Lafayette).  Wheaton is the author of The First Annual Grand Prairie Rabbit Festival and Bacon and Egg Man, and is the managing editor of the trade publication Advertising Age. A Louisiana native, he lives in Brooklyn, New York. Said Dave Barry of Wheaton’s second novel: “I had several drinks with the author at a party, and based on that experience, I would rank this novel right up there with anything by Marcel Proust.”

Book preview

PROLOGUE

Lonnie Junior sat on his screened porch in the LSU director’s chair he’d just bought, the one with the built-in footrest. His feet, bare as his chest, peeked out of his too-long jeans, getting splashed by the spray blown through the screen by the wind of an early September storm.

He watched his phone, waiting for the clock to flip from 5:59 a.m. to 6:00 a.m., waiting for the alarm to go off. When it did—the loud electronic quack of a mallard—he laughed. It was crazy, the idea that something that made phone calls and played movies and could give you directions, that this little bit of rocket science could sound just like them ducks he blasted every December. How funny would it be to run into one of those Mallard Men rednecks up in Monroe and tell him that some Chinese kid made a phone that sounded just as good as one of their overpriced duck calls. Just watching their big stupid faces turning red behind their big stupid beards. Man, that would be fun.

Or maybe it wouldn’t. Senator Birch had messed with them and they’d burned his butt pretty good, run him right out of the governor’s race. Besides, Lonnie had already had a taste of messing with that particular family. That Travis guy, in particular, was crazy. Lonnie’d started to mess with him and hadn’t exactly liked the results.

Still, Lonnie liked messing around. Now that it was 6 a.m., he had some messing around to do. He poked the screen of the phone, found Doug and hit the call button. It rang through to voicemail, so he hung up, called again. On the third try, Doug answered, bewildered with sleep, possibly hungover.

What the hell, dude? Doug asked.

Bruh! What you doin? You ain’t still sleeping?

Yes, I’m sleeping, Lonnie. It’s. He paused. Lonnie could practically see Doug squinting at the nightstand clock, or possibly the clock on his phone. It’s 6 a.m.

Well, yeah, Doug. And we already late if we gonna get out there today.

Today?

Mais, what you think, a little rain stops the hunt?

A little rain? It’s supposed to be five inches.

I know! It’s coming down so hard I can barely hear you right now. It was true. The rain had just now picked up in intensity, pounding on the tin roof of his porch and trailer like a hundred-man drum corps. Sounds like that Fightin’ Tiger marching band right now.

Seriously, Lonnie. We aren’t going out in this, are we?

Gators love the rain, man. Best hunting there is. That was a lie. Probably. Gators were going to do what gators were going to do. Hey, at least there’s no lightning.

Just as the words came out of his mouth, the sky lit up. Thunder followed, still some distance away yet. Perfect timing. If it hadn’t happened right then, someone in the studio probably would have edited it in later. He turned to the camera mounted over the door of his trailer, held up the phone, pointed to it and offered his biggest shit-eating grin, then a thumb’s up.

Shit, Doug said, realizing this was the sort of setup he wasn’t going to be able to pass up. I’ll have to wake the guys up, get them ready. It’ll be at least an hour. And if the lightning is still going on, insurance isn’t going to let us go.

Lonnie ignored the last bit. An hour? Man, yall killing me. Time is money, cuz. Time is money.

Hey, you can go out alone.

Nah, I’ll wait.

Shit, Doug said again.

After hanging up the phone, Lonnie went into the trailer, poured himself a half cup of coffee and filled the rest with milk and sugar—coffee milk, they called it when they were kids. Back on the porch, he kicked back in his LSU chair and lit up a cigarette, one of two he had a day, a strict rule. One in the morning, one in the evening.

He picked up his phone, pressed a button.

Daddy, you up?

Well, yeah, Junior. It’s after 6. What you think?

You going out today?

He heard his daddy take a long drag, cough a little bit on the exhale. That definitely wasn’t his first of the day.

In this? Hell no. Too old for that.

Lazy, lazy, lazy.

If that’s not the pot calling the kettle, Lonnie Senior said. If you going out in this, only reason is to mess around with that camera crew. Act the fool and mess around.

That stung a little bit. Much as Lonnie liked to mess around, when daddy said something like that, it still carried all the weight of his high school years, the DUIs, the unused college degree. But he’d come home to get his head screwed on straight and settled down, settled down a lot—especially after dumping Brit and taking up with Chelsea. Chelsea, of all people.

Lonnie Senior had told him just the other day, said, You not as big a screw-up as you used to be. Might make something of you yet.

That was high praise from Lonnie Senior. And Lonnie Junior knew his Daddy was happy to have him back learning the family business. What was it Lonnie Senior liked to say? Gators so much in my blood, if they took my heart and put it in somebody else, I don’t care where that person from, he’d be down here on the hunt within the month.

So being accused of messing around made Lonnie Junior’s own heart skip a little beat.

Aw, c’mon, Daddy, he said. I got all these tags left and, what, 15 days? In his younger days, no way would the weather have stopped Lonnie Senior from going out. Besides, lightning keeps up, we not going out anyway. Saying it like it was his own idea.

Well, at least you got some sense. Just a little. Maybe.

So what yall gone do today?

Daddy grunted. Your Mama probably going to want to drag over to the casino.

The crew going with you?

Lonnie Junior could tell by the pause that a camera crew tagging along hadn’t even occurred to Lonnie Senior. Not if I can help it. And don’t say things like that in front of your Mama. I didn’t sign up for that. She wants to be on a family drama, she can move to Monroe, get in the duck-call business.

That was a nice touch, Lonnie Junior thought. But no way was the network going to use it. Wouldn’t do to acknowledge the competition.

Yall have fun. I’ll talk to yall later, Lonnie Junior said, then hung up.

He got up from the chair, rubbed his chest, stretched all five-feet and six inches of his frame, then shuffled over to the door of the porch. He hoped the lightning kept up. He didn’t really want to go out in the pouring rain. You got wet enough out there during the course of the day without starting off drenched. Clothes soaked, towels soaked, boat seats soaked. Rain coming down from the sky, bayou water splashing up from below. Trees dripping.

And Doug and his crew were going to be bitching and moaning the whole time.

Oh well. He decided he’d wait half an hour, see what the storm did before texting his partner, Fudgeround, tell him get his ass out of bed. Hungover, half-dead, happy, sad, it didn’t matter. It would take Fudgeround ten minutes to grab his least-soiled shirt and whatever pair of pants he had lying around and get over here, ready to work. All Fudgeround asked was that he had time to tend to his tenants if needed and that he not be made to speak on camera. It was too bad that the nation didn’t get to hear Fudgeround go off on one of his philosophical rambles, but a silent partner who never responded to anything Lonnie Junior did made for good TV in its own right.

What was happening this morning could make for a few good scenes. Lots of drama. It was still coming down out there, the bayou surface rippled white from the raindrops, the electric and cable lines coming into the trailer swaying in the wind. Surprisingly, he hadn’t lost power.

A strong gust banged the boat into the metal dock, catching Lonnie’s attention. Wasn’t much to look at—about twenty feet of aluminum stuffed with coolers, gun racks, tie-downs and a 25-horse Evinrude that hadn’t given him any trouble. Yet.

As the rain let up a little, Lonnie noticed something was caught between the steering console and the seat. Spanish moss, it looked like. Where’d that come from? He didn’t have much on his property. Must have blown over from someplace else. It fluffed up in another gust and he figured he might as well get down there and rescue it. He wouldn’t mind having some Spanish moss around the place. That was something he got from Mawmaw, a memory coming back to him clear as day, Mawmaw dragging him once a year to clean her own daddy’s gravestone way in the back corner of that big cemetery up in Opelousas. She’d bring a big trash bag and stuff that thing full of moss to bring home and stick in her own trees. Why? I just like it, she’d say. That’s not a good enough reason for you?

It wasn’t then, but it was now. A person got older, he just wanted a little moss in his trees.

Lonnie chuckled. That might be a good line to try out on camera if only to see the reaction on Doug’s face.

He grabbed his shirt off the back of a chair, stuck his feet into a pair of cheap flip-flops. He wasn’t going far, probably wouldn’t even have to get in the boat. The rain, picking up again, was colder than he’d expected it to be, raised goose bumps on his arms as he broke into a little jog on the dirt path—now mud squishing up through his flip-flops—that led down to the boat. The moss was still there. If it was moss. As he got closer, something seemed not quite right about it, like it wasn’t moving the way it should in the wind. Maybe because it was wet. Or it was trapped under something. That’s what it looked like. He should have put on a hat, at least keep the rain out of his eyes. He put his hand to his brow, as if blocking out the sun. The wind pushed the rain into his face, making it hard to see. He slowed when he got to the floating dock, rocking back and forth, the boat banging against it. The flip-flops might not have been the best choice of footwear.

He squatted next to the boat, tried to wipe the water out of his eyes.

Just as he noticed that there was a face hiding behind the moss, that it wasn’t moss at all, a pair of hands reached up from the boat, grabbed Lonnie Junior and yanked down hard, ramming his head directly into the gunwale.

And that was all it took to kill Lonnie Junior.

ACT ONE

Chapter 1

Tony smelled the breath of the alligator—rotting meat, toilet water, damp basement—as it lunged out of the water and went for his arm. Pop him one! Pop him one! someone was yelling.

Tony opened his eyes. Took a quick breath.

Pop him one! someone on the wall-mounted TV shouted as an alligator thrashed in the water, its bulk banging against an aluminum boat, rocking it back and forth.

Tony exhaled. Took in another breath and examined his surroundings, the fluorescent lights, white walls, pastel curtains, the IV running into his right forearm, oxygen tube in his nose failing to block out the hospital smell. And Gina sitting there, eyes locked on the TV, chewing a wad of gum and watching another damn reality show.

He opened his mouth, closed it. Worked up enough saliva so he thought he’d be able to talk. But it still came out hoarse.

Gina. C’mon with this. Turn it down, why don’t you?

Oh, hey, babe! Cheerily enough. Then, half apologetic, Sorry. Figured you were sleeping. She shrugged, looked back at the TV. But it’s so sad, Tone. See that one there? He died.

Unable to resist, Tony’s eyes turned toward the flatscreen. Two men were dragging a dead alligator into their boat. He didn’t need the bug on the bottom of the screen to tell him it was Gator Guys, one of a handful of shows he had yet to do editing work on.

What are you talking about, he dies?

No. Not, like, on the show, she said. Like yesterday, he died. Slipped and fell or something and hit his head. The camera crew was on its way and they found him not ten minutes later. I mean, how crazy is that? You spend your life hunting alligators and then you slip and fall and …

Gina.

She put her hand on her heart at this point and looked at the screen, about to tear up.

Raising his voice now as much as he could, he said her name again. Gina!

She turned as if slapped. He lifted his shoulders and hands as if to say, Look at me. As if he had to remind her that he’d just had a heart transplant, for the love of Christ, and here she was going on about some redneck on TV.

Oh shit. I’m sorry Tone. I just been sitting here for hours now worried and waiting and, well, they had a marathon on, so.

She was out of the chair, grabbing his hand, messing around with his pillow, boobs in his face.

How you feeling babe? You okay? Need me to get you anything?

Christ, she was good-looking. And smelled good. And her hands were smooth and just the right temperature and he was willing to forgive her anything at that moment. All her excesses—of hair and drama and fingernails and habits. As long as she kept touching him. Moments like these, he doubted himself. Why was she with him, her the hottest girl in Bay Ridge, him the sickliest guy out of Carroll Gardens?

But he knew. Or suspected. She had a thing for drama, Gina. And what was more dramatic than a guy with a weak heart, waiting all his life for a transplant. There was the small matter of the building, too. Four-story place on Smith Street, mortgage completely paid off by Grand Pop back in the 50s, the restaurant on the first floor still doing a respectable business with all those folks who’d moved out to Bay Ridge in the 70s, still liked to come back to the old neighborhood, especially now it had been gentrified all over again. That building was worth millions. And his Pops an only child. And Tony an only child.

Angry voices came from the TV, two men arguing over something in an accent he couldn’t understand.

Can you turn that off? he asked. Again.

Sorry. She grabbed the remote, watched for one more second, then turned it off. Didn’t think you’d mind. Since it’s not one of yours.

And his job. She loved that, too. She could tell all her friends he edited The Real This of That and The Real That of This.  Bragging. Like sitting through hundreds of hours of horrible people doing ridiculous things to whittle it down to 40 minutes of highly addictive garbage was up there with curing cancer or putting a man on the moon.

At least one of them liked the job. Made him feel a little less like he’d sold his soul.

By the merits of the neighborhood, he was punching well above his weight. He knew this. There were stockbrokers and mafia-wannabes who’d been gunning for Gina her whole life, and here she was with him.

But he had to dump her. He’d known it for a year now, but had been too chicken to do it. Didn’t want to break her heart. Didn’t want to seem like an ingrate, what with all the caring she’d done for him. He just couldn’t shake the vision of a lifetime of coming home to find her smacking gum and watching a bunch of women from New Jersey and Brooklyn screaming at each other on TV. If she wanted that, why not just go visit her family and let him have some peace? There was more to it—her lack of curiosity, her repeated insistence that she wasn’t going to work once they got married and had kids, her absolute refusal to let him get a puppy. Something wrong with a person who didn’t like dogs. She wouldn’t even touch them.

God, it was going to kill her, was going to be an entire weekend of tears and screaming and throwing stuff. Possibly a week. And calls from her family, the hysteria from her mom, the threats from her brothers. He felt his heart-rate—well, the heart-rate—rising and wondered if it could handle the stress so soon. It had to be in better shape than his old one, but he pictured it as a new employee who had to settle in, get the lay of the land, before taking on additional responsibilities.

He took a long slow breath and, relying on skills he’d learned years ago to protect the old heart, he cleared his mind of stressful thoughts about breaking up with Gina. Besides, he wasn’t quite willing to let go of that body just yet. Would be a shame to get a brand-new, fully functioning heart and not put it through the paces with Gina. He smiled a little at just how awful, how piggish that thought was.

Let me look at you, he said, pushing her back a little.

She stood up, straightened out her skirt, then her back, put a hand lightly on his wrist. Tone, we need to talk, she said, tears collecting in the corner of her eyes.

Half an hour later, he was still awake, staring absently at the darkened flatscreen, alone in his room, trying to figure out what the hell had just happened. He’d been dumped, that’s what. And judging by the straight-forward manner in which she’d done it, Gina’d been planning it for a while. Hell, the only thing missing was a PowerPoint presentation.

They had nothing in common. He was too much of a homebody. He was sweet, he was nice, but … but … but there was something missing. It wasn’t him, it was her. She loved him, but wasn’t in love with him. And another ten or twenty lines she’d lifted directly from TV. Didn’t know how to break up with a sick guy, mighta stuck around, but she’d met someone. Nothing had happened. Not yet. She’d never cheat, she said. Never. And with Tony near the top of the donor list, she figured she’d wait it out. Wait until he was healthy and she wouldn’t have to worry about him anymore. But this other guy—she assured Tony he didn’t know the guy, as if that made it better—he’d been waiting, was losing patience, had given her an ultimatum, now or never. So she had to.

You know, it’s kinda weird, she’d said, half-smiling, still crying. I didn’t want to break your heart. And in a way, I didn’t. That’s somebody else’s heart in there. She’d put her palm gently on the center of his chest. And even though it was so obviously rehearsed—even if his one clear thought at that moment was Who the hell says things like that?—damn if that touch didn’t sting.

Gina, he’d said, stunned. Gina. You sure about this?

Yes, she’d said. I mean, I think so. She’d squeezed his hand, looked away as if tortured.

He knew in that moment two things. One, she was sure. Two, she wanted him to fight for her, drag this out, beg her to stay. And his wounded pride wanted that, too. He wanted to win the game of Gina. Didn’t want some slick-haired meathead from the old neighborhood—which is who Tony decided this guy was, based on nothing—taking his girl away. He knew how to keep her, knew the right things to say, the promises to make, the picture to paint. This would be easy. But there was a voice in his head, the rational one, reminding him that he’d been planning to dump her, insisting that he just shut up and let her go. She’d done the job for him.

Gina, he’d said, finally. Just go.

After a few more perfunctory back-and-forths, the call-and-response of a breakup, she’d gone.

And there he was, in a hospital bed, all alone in the world. He ran his fingers over the hospital gown covering his chest, feeling the staples. It hurt. Not metaphorically, either. It probably wasn’t the heart. Probably the muscles and bones they’d torn and broken to get in there. A dull ache at first, becoming sharper as whatever drugs they had him on wore off. He called for a nurse. Of course it was a guy, a big mountain of chubby mirth who showed Tony which button to press to dope himself and left him with a promise to send someone hotter next shift, that and the TV remote.

Tony clicked it, and Gator Guys was back on, them banging around in boats, trying to shoot alligators without killing one another. One of them—the one who never spoke—was named Fudgeround. Tony started to wonder what the deal was with that guy, but the drug took him down, where he dreamed about scaly backs and tooth-lined mouths rising up through still, black waters.

Chapter 2

Travis Richardson had made it halfway down the drive when his brother Jimmy turned in with his Hummer, all that chrome glinting in the morning sun, and blocked his way.

Christ on a cracker, Brit said under her breath. Just what we need.

What’d I tell you about that language, Travis said, though he was thinking the same thing.

Jimmy opened the Hummer’s door, climbed down and took a moment to rub at some bit of dirt or smashed bug marring the decal running the length of the driver’s side—the name of the company and the bearded faces of Jimmy, Travis, their dad and crazy Uncle Pat. The thing was ridiculous. But not as ridiculous as the RV, which added two more brothers and two shop employees.

Sauntering over, his bow legs stretching out in shadow before him, Jimmy started scratching at his beard. Which started Travis scratching at his. Travis hated the beard. Hated it, hated it, hated it. Not a day went by that he didn’t ask Jimmy when they were going to shave the things off.

Morning, Travis, Jimmy said, scratching. Brit, he added.

Hey, Jimmy. Travis tilted his head back so far he was looking at the ceiling of the Tahoe. Scratching with both hands. Man, when are we going to shave these things?

Next season. Maybe.

You said that last season.

Yeah, well, I gotta work it out with Gillette. Can’t do it now because of the Red Sox thing.

So, what? Every time somebody else grows a beard and shaves it, we have to wait?

Drop it, Travis. I gotta keep it through the election, anyway. Besides, it ain’t hurting you none.

Driving me crazy. And look at you, scratching like a flea-bit dog, too.

Jimmy dropped his hands, shoved them in his pockets. Look, I didn’t come here to talk grooming. Where yall headed?

To the funeral.

Thought we talked about that. Jimmy looked down at his feet and back at Travis, as if re-focusing his gaze, laying down the law. It was something he’d picked up from the Old Man.

Well, yeah, we did. Travis was half a breath from stammering.

They hadn’t so much talked about it as the producer, Barry, and the writing team had suggested they go, and the Old Man had had a fit.

We don’t know them people, Daddy had said. We are not going to roll down there in a convoy with cameras rolling for some rating points. No sir. Let them grieve in peace. They lost a son.

Most of the network people were scared of the Old Man.

But Uncle Pat wasn’t afraid of him. Hey, now. Let’s not rush to a decision here, Paul. Ain’t hurting anybody to pay our respects. Could help Jimmy in that part of the state. Senator Birch might be down, but he’s not out. And look, they’ll probably have their own cameras going, too. I mean, look, we could be doing their show a favor, one of them cross-over things like on the sitcoms.

It’s a different network, Pat, one of the network guys said, likely looking to get on the Old Man’s good side. And they’re on at the same time. We don’t want to give them points.

Hey, look. Uncle Pat said look about as often as a high-school girl said like. Don’t matter none. Rising tide lifts all boats. Besides, that’s what people have DVRs for. Long as our live-plus-seven numbers are winning.

Barry had nodded along. Uncle Pat was about as slick as Jimmy. He played the fool on the show, to the hilt, but only because he knew what it meant for ratings. He and the writers worked on the character during the off-season, thinking up scenarios and digging up pop-culture catchphrases that he could suitably mangle, the trashier the better. He was particularly fond of the over-sexed lyrics of rappers and pop-starlets, just the things you wouldn’t expect from a Christian Southerner of advanced years. If it’s good for TV, it’s good for business, was his mantra when the cameras weren’t rolling. In for a penny, in for a couple of tons, Jack.

But the cameras never rolled during a family meeting—not a real one. Phones weren’t even allowed in the room, lest some bit of video leak out onto the internet. Another of the Old Man’s policies. Technically, it was Jimmy’s show, but they all knew that if the Old Man pulled out, the entire operation would crumble. And talking about the funeral, the Old Man’d gotten that look in his eyes. The TV people—even Barry—knew enough to back down. They didn’t know the half of it. They hadn’t seen the Old Man back in the bad old days, before he’d been saved, back when he still drank, when the look was just a little gray cloud on the horizon heralding a hurricane. Either way, when the Old Man set his eyes, further argument was at best futile, at worst dangerous. So that was that.

"So what are you doing dressed up in that suit