I can feel their eyes on me. Somewhere near the water’s edge. Maybe you don’t believe in signs but the gators do.

Deep in Daytona with Ronny Rocket, his Acadian blood magnetized by the bayou. The air is thick with junk-sick mosquitoes and spectral neon, buzzing with the flicker of a bad dream that no one’s waking up from. I rub my eyes. Rocket orders from the dollar menu. Rocket always has the right idea.

An F-150 croaks into the lot like a frog in February. The radio tuned to static. The asphalt sweats, rats run for cover. I stared one second too long when the cabin burst open. Boot heels punishing the black top. Rocket’s on the hood making sense of all this mess. The old man approaches. Pistol stuck to dank blue jeans, faintly keeping time against his beer belly and heroic belt, a metronome beating out the rhythm of these dark times. McDonald’s is America’s great piazza. It keeps the peace, even if no one’s on their best behavior. It’s a place to be.

The old man leans in, his tank full of Old Grandad: “Listen boy, if you want to wake up greater…” He pauses, pulls on a Red, then we finally lock eyes, “go on and lick the alligator.”

The wind makes everything hotter, heavy with salt and deep-fried promise. The kind of promise you know you won’t keep. Poor Rocket. That burger was never gonna be enough.

“Love’s a superpower,” I say, as Marlboro embers flare. The Red gets inhaled, flicked to the ground. The old man is severe, absolute like a cul-de-sac: “Love, here, gets hungry every hour.” His boot crushes the butt and the door creaks open. I nod my head and before I know it another burger is getting super-sized. Another belly is getting tickled in the USA.

McDonald’s is America’s great illusion. Everyone gets fed. No one really eats. Except the gators.

Please enjoy “Alligator” by Caged Animals. Co-produced by Jon Mckiel on his Tascam 388 in the Canadian bayou and featuring Steven Lambke on melodion.