Tapestry

This particular sun-washed morning started out so well. Once the rest of the family was out of the house, I waltzed into the half-bath with my coffee to put on my makeup and my mindset for work. I had a feeling this would be a special day.

Special, all right! As I flicked on the light, I didn’t even feel the coffee plunging down the front of my robe, and my spine was a frozen poker. Stretched in front of the vanity lay a black snake at least three feet long.

Somehow I got back to the kitchen for more coffee. Surely, I’d imagined what I’d seen. No more reading National Geographic at bedtime, I vowed. This was a midwestern suburb, not a rain forest.

But a second peep around the bathroom door proved I wasn’t hallucinating. The snake was now coiled up, taking complete possession of my territory.

There had to be an easy way to take care of this unwelcome visitor, I reasoned. Grabbing a can of super-zap bug spray from the hall closet, I plotted the snake’s demise. After I’d numbed it with the spray, I’d swoop it up and flush it away.

Clutching my little de-clawed Abbycat for security, I squared off in the doorway to squirt foam from afar. When the snake was well lathered, I retreated to the den, calmly turning on the morning news.

I congratulated myself on my bravery. The acclaim at work would go on and on: “How did you think of that?” “I’d have called the police.” Or the paramedics. Or run screaming through the streets like a blithering idiot.

For good measure, I zapped/sprayed two more times, then grabbed essentials like toothbrush, curling iron, vitamin pills—and headed for the other bathroom. By this time the foggy house smelled like a bug-proofed picnic area. Forget breakfast.

Between consuming a week’s quota of caffeine and getting ready for work, I crept to the half-bath door, time after time. The snake lay incredibly still as if it was finally done for. Now if I could just get it INTO something, then carry it out of the house like a glorious trophy. (Secretly, I had a dark desire to show it to someone, especially my husband, who had the nerve to be out of town for a three-day seminar.)

Brandishing a wastebasket and a toilet brush, I pitched headlong through the doorway just as the snake, not at all numbed from my efforts, began to slither across the floor, threatening to invade my bedroom.

That did it! I felt the adrenaline pumping. The only artillery left was the bathroom scale. With my hands shaking more from anger than fear, I lunged across the snake for the scale.

Bam! Bam! I pounded that scale down squarely with no mercy. Surely I’d drive that snake into whatever nether world there is for such detestable creatures.

I sensed victory at hand but also felt my courage cracking. Pouncing on the scale in triumph, I heard myself scream. “You’ve ruined my day, you son of a bitch!” Harder, harder I jumped. I didn’t stop—even when the scale’s needle wavered dizzily, then succumbed to zero.

Shuddering with scalp-prickling relief, I glanced in the mirror. Somehow the white suit I’d put on didn’t seem appropriate for snake scraping. Soon enough to deal with what’s under the scale when I get home from work. Besides, leaving it there is the only way I’ll get anyone else in this household to believe this story.