The Uninvited Guest

 

I knew the floods were bad when I saw my neighbor's motorbike floating past the window like some kind of depressed submarine. Jakarta's rainy season had outdone itself this year, turning our street into a murky river that smelled vaguely of sewage and regret.

But I didn't panic. I'd lived through floods before. I moved the electronics upstairs, put on my rubber boots, and made peace with the fact that my downstairs toilet was now part of the greater Jakarta water system.

What I wasn't prepared for was Kevin.

I discovered him on the second morning, sunbathing on what used to be my herb garden. Well, "sunbathing" might be generous. He was more like... existing. A baby crocodile, no bigger than my forearm, just chilling among my drowned basil plants like he'd paid rent.

"Oh, hell no," I said.

Kevin opened one eye, assessed me, and apparently decided I wasn't interesting enough to murder. He closed it again.

I called my friend Dimas. "There's a crocodile in my garden."

"How big?"

"Baby size."

"Take a picture. Nobody will believe you."

He had a point. I took seventeen pictures. Kevin didn't move for any of them. He was either very zen or very lazy.

"What do I do?" I asked.

"I don't know, man. Google it."

So I Googled it. "What to do if you find a crocodile in your garden" mostly returned results about Florida and Australia, which seemed unfair. Jakarta deserved crocodile-in-garden representation too.

The flood water was still knee-deep in the street. I couldn't leave. Kevin couldn't leave. We were roommates now, apparently.

By day three, I'd named him (obviously) and established boundaries. The garden was his territory. The house was mine. We had an understanding. I stopped screaming every time I looked out the window. He stopped pretending he might eat me.

"You're getting attached," said my sister when I video-called her.

"I'm not attached. I'm just monitoring the situation."

"You bought him chicken from the market."

"I was curious about his diet!"

"You put it on a plate."

She had me there.

The thing about Kevin was that he was actually a terrible crocodile. When a rat scurried past, he just watched it go like he was seeing off a friend at the airport. When I accidentally dropped a flip-flop near him, he flinched. This was an apex predator who was afraid of footwear.

By day five, the water started receding. I knew Kevin's time in my garden was limited. Part of me was relieved. The other part had gotten used to having coffee while watching a small reptile judge my life choices from behind the rosemary.

"You should call animal control," said Dimas, visiting now that the street was walkable again.

"I know."

"He can't stay here."

"I know."

Kevin chose that moment to slip into the remaining puddle and disappear under a leaf, like the world's worst hide-and-seek player.

"He's really bad at being a crocodile," Dimas observed.

"I know."

I did call animal control eventually. They came with nets and serious expressions. Turned out Kevin had probably washed down from the Ciliwung River, got confused, and ended up in my garden because the universe has a weird sense of humor.

As they loaded him into a crate, Kevin gave me what I can only describe as a look of profound betrayal. Or maybe he was just sleepy. It's hard to tell with crocodiles.

"We'll relocate him somewhere safe," the officer assured me.

I nodded. Told myself I wasn't sad about saying goodbye to a literal predator who'd squatted in my garden for less than a week.

After they left, Dimas found me staring at the empty herb garden.

"You okay?"

"Yeah. Just wondering if the basil is salvageable."

"The basil is definitely dead."

"I know."

Jakarta went back to normal. The streets dried up. Life resumed. Sometimes I look at the garden and think about Kevin, hope he's doing well, hope he's learned to catch rats, hope he's not still afraid of flip-flops.

And sometimes, when it rains really hard, I put a plate of chicken out there.

Just in case.