Crocodile Man

My husband traded in most of his face for a crocodile’s so he could go viral. He paid a lot of money to have a shady plastic surgeon sew on the snout and mouth, and blend it into the skin below his eyes and above his neck. I know it sounds ridiculous, but it was what he wanted. So I guess it was what I wanted too.

About two months before the operation he handed me a newspaper folded over to the classifieds, and pointed to an ad circled in red ink.

“They’re hiring at the zoo,” he said. “I’ve always wanted to work at the zoo.”

“The zoo?” I said. “But you won’t make half as much there as you do at the office.”

“Money can’t buy happiness. What do you say?”

He put his hand on mine and caressed the raised skin that covered my veins, a gesture I had grown accustomed to during our sixteen years together, but that still made me nauseous every time, disgusted by the way something so simple could sway my hand, how it made me feel less than him, so much less. Still, we both understood that whenever he did the vein-rubbing gesture, I would say okay. So, I told him to go for it. I just wanted to make him happy.

He filled out an application online. A week later they called him in for an interview and hired him on the spot. He quit his job at the office, just stopped showing up. I told him he should at least put in a two-week notice in case he ever wanted to go back, but he said there was no time for that. That he was never going back.

His job at the zoo was nothing special. He fed the animals and cleaned up piles of shit. But to him, it was something more. He would come home from work and tell me how he loved to watch the animals, especially the crocodiles. He said, occasionally, when he made his rounds, he’d spend a little extra time feeding the crocs, sometimes even tossing them meat intended for the other animals, forcing the grizzly bears or the Malayan tigers or other poor carnivorous captives to go hungry for a day or two.

“I’ve never seen anything like it,” he said. “It’s like they’re thanking me when they tear that meat to shreds. We’re kindred spirits.”

His curiosity quickly turned to obsession. He came home with crocodile tee shirts and coffee mugs, novelty pens and action figures. He even bought a crocodile suit that he wore around the house on weekends, some sort of old Halloween costume that he got on sale, it being summer and all. I laughed nervously when he put it on for the first time.

I began to get more nervous when he told me how he would whisper to the crocodiles sometimes when no one was around. And how, though they couldn’t talk back, he heard their thoughts, which he said weren’t thoughts of bloodlust and murder like one might expect, but considerate, well-mannered thoughts. He talked about how they could shred chunks of meat with their treasure trove of teeth, and that he wanted to do that too, that he guessed he’d always wanted that. That was when he mentioned the operation.

“What would you think if I got a crocodile face?”

“You mean like a stuffed one?” I said. “Where would we put it, the mantle?”

“No, a real one,” he said. “Right here, and here.” He rubbed his cheeks and chin like a man with a fresh beard coming in might do.

“But your face,” I said. “It just won’t look as, you know.”

“I know it wouldn't look that great,” he said. “But I have to know what it’s like, to bite like that, to have all those teeth.”

He put his hand on mine and carried out the vein-rubbing gesture.

I felt nauseous. I said yes.

He had the operation, but, for the most part, it was a failure. The plastic surgeon hadn’t been able to connect the mouth with the muscle tissue and nerves all the way like he’d said he’d was possible during the pre-surgery interview. The crocodile mouth wasn’t functional, simply decorative, like expensive china in a glass case, never used for meals.

“I’m really sorry,” he told my husband before cashing the check. “Sometimes these things don’t work out the way we want them to. But good luck with your new crocodile mouth.”

My husband was forced to eat through a tube, if you could even call that eating. Still, he was adamant about maintaining a strict diet of meat only, as if somehow that would channel his inner beast.

So, I would liquefy beef in a blender for him, mostly cheap hamburger meat that I told him was top sirloin.

“I’m feeling more like a crocodile already,” he said, slurping down the liquefied tube meat.

Pretty soon he started complaining about his neck, how all the weight protruding from the front of his face was starting to wear on him.

“It hurts,” he said. “I need something to relieve the pressure off my neck.”

So, I used a TV tray, some old orthodontic headgear, and duct tape to assemble a contraption he could rest his face on.

He returned to work a week after the operation and went about his daily routine of cleaning up shitpiles and distributing meat as if nothing had happened. He wore the headgear and crocodile costume.

“Do you really think you should wear that to work?” I asked that morning before he left. “I mean, you don’t think it’s a little, unprofessional?”

“Sure, maybe. But people might start to look at me like an unofficial mascot of sorts. The Crocodile Man,” he said, laughing a bit with his chest out. “It might even help me land a merch deal. Just think of all the money that would roll in then. I could end up on Tik Toks or even go viral.”

“What happened to money can’t buy happiness?” I asked.

“Hell, I might even get my own billboard! Before you know it, you won’t just be married to a shit-cleaner-upper anymore. You’ll be the wife of a very important man.”

Later, I surprised him on his lunch break with a thermos of liquefied hamburger meat packed into a picnic basket. We were in the break room behind the gift shop, me eating an egg salad sandwich, him slurping down tube meat, when his supervisor came in and fired him.

“I’m really sorry but we’re going to have to let you go,” he said to my husband.

“But why, is it because I wore the costume?”

“No, not really,” he said, “The suit’s a nice touch.”

“Is it because of my crocodile face?”

“Yes,” he said. “Of course it is.” And added, “You understand right? How that could be scarring for a kid. We can’t have zoogoers thinking you might eat them alive. Or that they’ll have to wear orthodontic headgear.”

“But it relieves the strain on my neck. With my face distributed in the front like this, all the weight tends to—"

His supervisor interrupted him. “I’m sorry, but I’m going to need your keys and ID card.”

He handed them over.

“And your shit bucket.”

He handed it over. “Can I just say goodbye to the crocodiles? It’ll just take a second.”

His supervisor sighed, stern-faced. “I don’t think that’s a good idea. I wouldn’t want the crocs to think we are going to force-feed them watery meat through a tube while they swim around wearing ridiculous orthodontic headgear/TV tray contraptions.”

“I can take it off. It just comes right off.”

“That won’t be necessary,” he said. “Good luck with your new crocodile mouth.” He opened the door and held it for us.

Once we got home, I pet my husband on the snout, told him we would make it, that everything would be alright.

“I’ll run you a hot bath,” I said. “And you can practice doing death rolls on me in the tub.” I always made sure to tell him how good he was getting at those.

“Not now, hun.” He unhooked the headgear from his face, and it fell to the floor with a clunk. He laid out on the couch fully outstretched, the weight of his elongated face resting on the black leather cushions. He watched re-runs of The Crocodile Hunter on DVD all afternoon, mimicking the snorts and grunts of the crocs to near perfection, occasionally mumbling something about how Steve Irwin was a cynical asshole.

After I blended his dinner, I thought it best to leave him alone for the evening. I went to the bedroom and looked through some old photo albums, pictures of him and me, normal and smiling. One picture really stood out. We were both wearing sombreros at a Mexican restaurant and he looked handsome. I cried myself to sleep.

Two nights after they fired him, without warning, he snuck back into the zoo after hours and broke into the crocodile exhibit. Thankfully, the night security guard heard the screams and pulled him out of the water with some sort of long metal rod before it was too late. A croc had ripped off his left arm up to the elbow. The zoo agreed not to press charges as long as we wouldn’t file suit, and I said that would be just fine.

“I just wanted them to accept me,” he told me, laying in the hospital recovery room, his voice weak and defeated. “No one accepts me.”

“I do.”

“Yeah,” he said. “I know.”

The next day I suggested we look into buying a prosthetic arm. We drove to a shop two towns over called The Helping Hand, the only artificial limb store in the area. A salesman with two prosthetic legs greeted us at the door.

“Hey folks, the name’s Gerald,” he said. “And guess what, I don’t have legs, but I can still do this.” Then on the word this he did a standing backflip, the metal in his legs creaking upon sticking the landing. “And so can you.” He pointed at us with confidence.

“Actually Gerald,” I said. “We’re here for an arm.”

My husband held up his bandaged nub.

“Not to worry,” he said. “Yo, Jimmy.”

Jimmy, a salesman with two prosthetic arms, trotted over and introduced himself.

“Show them what you can do Jimmy,” Gerald said.

He began juggling three plastic feet he had grabbed from an aisle display nearby, tossing in a couple tricks like you might see at the circus. I thought that if he set them on fire, it might be the most interesting thing I had ever seen. After a couple minutes of this, he dropped two of the feet and grasped the third in his plastic hand. “Go long, Ger.”

Gerald ran a slant pattern past a display of decorative skin covers, his legs squeaking as he sprinted, and Jimmy hit him on the run. Gerald held his arms up in the air to signify a touchdown. Jimmy celebrated by doing twenty pushups then snapped back to his feet.

“Now that’s what I call football,” Jimmy said. “Let me show you around.”

He highlighted the selection of prosthetic arms that were available to us. We looked at some that were cable operated, some that were myoelectric. We looked at silicone arms, PVC arms, and even some made of carbon fiber for those who preferred to spend the extra money for a stronger, lighter prosthetic.

“I think we should go with one of those myoelectric ones,” I said.

“Those are a bit pricy.”

“Yeah, but they say it’s the closest thing to having a real arm. I just want what’s best for you.”

“I’ll look like a cyborg,” he said. “I don’t want to look like a cyborg.”

“Ok,” I said. “How about one of those nice carbon fiber ones?”

He glanced down at the floor for a couple seconds, then back up at me. “I don’t want a goddamn carbon fiber arm,” he muttered, and then elevated his voice. “I don’t want a PVC arm, or a silicone arm, or an arm forged in gold!” He stormed out of the store, a sea of customers parting before him, some frightened, some laughing.

As I was about to leave, Jimmy pulled me aside and handed me his business card.

“We can special order prosthetic faces too,” he said. “I’m just saying.”

I glared at him. “My husband’s not a freak.” I turned to face the half frightened, half laughing onlookers, and raised my voice. “My husband is not a freak. He’s not.” Then, I flipped them the bird and left.

The next night my husband came up to me, reeking of whiskey, and though I couldn’t find a smile on his disfigured crocodile face, he had a look about him that told me he was trying to smile.

“I want you to cut off my other arm.” Slurring his words as he handed me a buzz saw.

“How much have you had to drink?”

“Don’t you see? I’ll look just like a crocodile. I just need this arm to be tiny too.”

I stared at him.

“You know, because they have those tiny little arms. Please?” He did the vein-rubbing gesture, and, strangely, I realized that I would soon miss that gesture like other things I had begun to miss. Things like open-mouth kisses, financial stability, going out in a public without getting weird looks.

“If that’s what you really want,” I said, tying on a tourniquet while he chugged Jack Daniels straight from the bottle. I grabbed the whiskey and drank some down myself. My face cringed up. I turned on the saw and started cutting through flesh and bone.

After what was left of the arm healed, he spent the last of our savings having the plastic surgeon sew crocodile claws to the ends of his nubs. This seemed to bolster my husband's self-esteem a bit. Everything seemed fine until one evening while we were watching the Discovery Channel, one of his dangerously irrelevant teeth dropped to the floor. He picked it up and stared at it, and I could see the hurt in his eyes.

“How much do you think the tooth fairy would pay for this one?” he asked, before breaking down into tears which weren’t crocodile tears at all. He went to bed without finishing his tube dinner.

After that, he hit rock bottom. He refused to take off the costume. He wore it so much that it started to stink, a pungent musky odor wafting from its fabric, like how I imagined a crocodile might actually smell. He quit walking upright, began crawling around on all fours. He would lie motionless on the carpet and try to blend in and then spring up at me as I walked past.

I’d act surprised.

He started taking more baths, practicing more death rolls, but not on me, on the shampoo and conditioner bottles.

I was losing him.

Then, one evening, a reporter from the New York Times called. She said she was writing a series of articles about animal people, and that she had heard about my husband on the internet and wanted to feature him in the next issue with a cat lady and some little penguin boy with odd birth defects.

“Are you sure you’re up for this?” I asked my husband. “A lot of people read the New York Times.”

“I need to tell my story. I need people to care.”

“I care.”

“Yeah,” he said. “I know.”

After the interview, the reporter said she needed a picture for the column. She suggested one with my head inside my husband’s mouth while I forced his jaws open with my hands. And we all agreed that would look pretty damn interesting.

I carefully maneuvered my head into my husband’s crocodile mouth then held his jaws open, smiling for the shot. The reporter began violently snapping photos. Click, flash, click, flash. Trees swayed in the swirling winds, and late summer leaves held fast to their branches. Then, I felt it, heard it, the pressure of razor-sharp teeth on my head and the crunching of bone. Click, flash, click flash. He let go, but then bit down again and again, each time harder than the first, and I could smell the blood and feel it in my hair and on my face before I passed out.

I came to in the back of an ambulance.

He was with me, amongst the EMTs and confusion, my crocodile-faced husband. He reached down with one of his claws and caressed the raised skin that covered my veins. But it wasn’t like before. It wasn’t the same vein-rubbing gesture. This was something new, something delightful.

“Thank you,” he whispered as tears welled in the corners of his eyes. “Thank you.”

He continued to rub. I stared up at the white interior of the ambulance and listened to the soothing beeps of the machines around me. With my free hand, I reached up and felt of the bandages and gauze that covered my head wounds.

At that moment, I felt proud and useful. I felt wanted. And honestly, I can’t wait to feel that way again—to rest my head inside my husband’s wonderful crocodile mouth and feel each and every one of his teeth against my skull; to smell the blood and feel it in my hair and on my face; to hear those words. Those wonderful words.

As the ambulance sped into the night, I reached out and grasped my husband’s leathery claw. I squeezed firmly, vowing to never let go, to hold on forever. He squeezed back.