Chapter 42
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When I worked at the Pipe Den, one of the customers I befriended was Rich, a tall, skinny, handsome engineer who smoked a pipe. He had the sleepy eyes and sensuous mouth that reminded you of Elvis and he hated snakes with a passion. One day he came in, leaned against the rack of pipes and said nothing. He played with his pipe. I puffed on mine, waiting for him to speak. There was no hurry. I wasn’t leaving and he’d just arrived. “I ever tell you how much I hate snakes?” I nodded. “Several times.” “But have I made it clear how, way down deep, right to the very core of me I hate ‘em?” “Sounds like fear,” I said. He looked at me angrily, as if I was questioning his manhood, then looked away and said nothing. He shook his head. “I went into my tin shed this weekend, out in back of the house?” I had no idea where his shed was. I didn’t even know where he lived, but I nodded. “And there was a big snake in there. Huge son-a-bitch!” He spread his arms wide. He shuddered. “God, I hate them! “What kind of snake was it?” I asked, having a love-hate interest in them. “Who the hell cares? It was a snake. A big fucking snake!” He shuddered again. “I went into the house and grabbed my shotgun—10 gauge. Ran back out and—“ He assumed a stance like he was holding a shotgun and siting it. His pipe was the barrel. “BOOM!” He jerked back, as if from the kick of the gun, sending burning tobacco embers flying through the store. He carefully rubbed out the embers with his shoe. He shook his head again. “Jesus Christ, you know how a tin shed amplifies a shotgun blast? I couldn’t hear the whole day! I really thought I was going to be deaf the rest of my life.” He shrugged. “Couldn’t watch TV all night cause I can’t lip read, you know? Had a few Jack Daniels and went to bed. The only good thing about it was I couldn’t hear anything my wife said. She talked for about an hour before she realized – believed me – that I was deaf.” “That must have been scary for her,” I said. “What’d she do?” He shrugged. “She stopped talking.” He put the lighter up to his pipe and relit it. “Anyway, my hearing started coming back the next morning.” “Did you hit the snake?” His expression was grimly determined. “Goddamn right I did. That was the only thing that made it worth going deaf.” He shook his head. “Only problem was that there were pieces of snake all over the shed.” He shivered again. “I’m still finding chunks.” “Your wife knows how much you hate them. She won’t clean it up?” He was puffing on his pipe sucking in the butane lighter flame to get it burning again. “No. She was pretty pissed at me for blowing up a snake in the shed.” He looked at me a little sheepishly. “Of course I blew a hole through the side of the shed. Not a big hole,” he said quickly, “but my wife went nuts. You know how women are.” He stared out at the mall court thoughtfully. “Christ, I’ll be finding snake parts till Doomsday.” “It would have been easier to pick up the live snake and take it somewhere,” I said. “It would have been cleaner.” He slammed countertop and ashes and embers flew everywhere. “I . . .hate . . .snakes,” he said slowly. He looked over at me, puzzled. “You know, every once in awhile I still have a ringing in my ears.” He began wiping up the ashes. “Sorry about the mess. Got a little broom?” We sold a brand of tobacco called Latakia. It was a strong black Turkish blend cured over fires fueled by camel dung. Rich hated the blend. “Who the hell would smoke tobacco cured by camel shit?” That evolved into Beasely’s line about his frustration with cigars. Next week: how a band of gypsies got me fired.
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