I Know Snakes

a short story

I know snakes. I was born and raised in the Southwest. Arizona. Not in the metro-epicenter of Phoenix neither, but on the outskirts of old Gisela—place called Bone Valley to those who know it well, Dead Man’s Ditch to outsiders. Place has got a reputation from the inside and the outside. Which is just another way of saying; I know snakes.

Not too long after my fortieth, I fell in love with a woman 20 years my junior and she convinced me to pull up stakes, move to Hollywood, California. Lovely place. ‘Course, I say “lovely” sarcastically.

We rented a one bedroom right over a cantina full of day-glo sugar skulls, a stone’s throw from tinsel town’s number one temple: Mann's Chinese Theater. I never saw DeNiro and Spielberg discussing a biopic on the corner. What I did see was a Johnny Depp Willy Wonka impersonator getting into a fistfight with a Edward Scissorhands impersonator. That’s when I decided it was time to find a new place. One too many Johnnies.

We moved up north into “the valley,” as they call it. Deep valley, a place where people actually work for a living, and you can order eggs and toast for well under ten dollars. Thing about the Deep Valley is it's hot, it's dry, and there's snakes. Not too many, but they’re around—Gopher Snakes, King Snakes, Rattlesnakes, Coachwhips, Ring-necks, Blackies. I can identify them on sight, cause I know snakes.

So, when my neighbor—a seventy-something woman, who was once upon a time beautiful and has all the brains to match—was terrified by the snake hanging out by her doormat, I took one look at it and realized it was not a Coral Snake (venomous) but a King Snake (non venomous). So, I said, “Don't worry, ma'am, I got this.” Went to pick it up, the thing whipped around and bit me. Now, just 'cause a snake ain't venomous don't mean it ain't gonna bite. But it's not a big deal. You see, I know snakes. I was born and raised in the Southwest. I know snakes like the back of my hand, which, ironically enough, is where the critter bit me.

I tell her I'm gonna let it out in the wild, but now that it's bit me, I got a bit of a grudge against it. And on the way to my truck, I take both ends of it and I say, "Hollywood," and I pull the thing as hard as I can, and it pops in two. I throw it in the back of my truck, and when I get home, I throw it in the dumpster behind the apartments and put some trash on top to hide it, because my wife, being a model-actress, is also a vegetarian, an animal rights activist, who loves all creatures great and small. She once asked me if I could figure out a way to take house flies outside without swatting them. House flies!

So, my wife comes home from her shift at Corner Bakery, and says, "What happened to your hand, honey?” Well, it's swollen up a little, sure. It's a little bit red, no big deal. I know snakes, I know this snake, and I'm not worried about it. “Don't worry about it,” I tell her. “I hurt my hand trying to get something out of the truck.” She tries to look closer, and I pull my hand away and say, “Don't we got to be recording a tape for that latest audition?” So that's what we do. It’s for some horror movie where she'd be playing a sorority girl possessed by a demon. Seems she can relate to the sorority girl part of it, and I can relate to the demon part of it. Too bad, we can't do the part together. Ha.

Anyhow, I know snakes, so when I wake up the middle of the night, my hands all cramped up, big as a balloon, I don't worry about it. She worries about it. She tells me to go to the hospital. So, I tell her I will and I set out. But instead of taking a right towards St. Joseph’s, I take a left, find my way to a place called Dan's Liquors, where, lo and behold, the beer, wine, and tequila, are quite a bit like the beer, wine, and tequila where I grew up, in the Southwest. So, I get myself a twelve pack, and I go sit in my truck, and I look at my big swollen hand and I push on it. And some gunk comes out, a big ribbon of bloody puss that sprays all the way to the windshield, but that's a good sign, you see. That's the infection, if that's what's going on in there, that's it clearing itself. Ain't no big deal. See, I know snakes. And the pain's creeping up my arm a bit, but unless it goes way past the elbow, you don't got a problem. A little bit of a red line creeping up towards my heart, but it’s not bright red, not hot. So it’s not a big deal. Seen that happen to a thousand cow punchers in my time 'cause I'm from the Southwest, you see? And I know snakes. I know snakes. So, I had myself a seventh, recline the chair, and decide to take a little nap. I close my eyes knowing all will be well, because I know snakes. I know snakes. I know snakes…