I was four years old, and highly impressionable. I peeked out through chubby, fanned fingers at the mad woman screaming in the kitchen. The mad woman was my mother. Her long, blond hair flew through the air behind her like the string of a kite, as she jumped and lunged, sidestepped and parried.
The cause of all this? A giant flying cockroach. In San Antonio, Texas, these monsters outnumber the pecans on the trees.
I had been drawing with chalk on the steps of our apartment when this unlucky bastard flew in. As I watched, mo mother let out a mighty, kung fu "HI-YAAAA!" and smashed it to smithereens with her frying pan.
This display was one of many that instilled in me a serious fear of all things creepy and crawly. My mother is a petite woman, but strong. Seeing her panic made me wonder what would happen to my tiny self if I was ever accosted by a creature that heinous. Would my face melt off? Would it bite me until I begged for mercy? Would its very presence cause me to eat my Play-Doh uncontrollably, an act which would undoubtedly lead to an eternal time-out? The possibilities seemed endless, and I vowed to keep a healthy distance.
I guess I forgot that vow when I moved to Mississippi. I had exterminators come shortly after my arrival, and then began the dirty business of cleaning up the little corpses.
Winter was uneventful. No freakish, unwelcome visitors…unless you count the night I woke up to a T.V. tuned to Fox News. (Must have rolled over on the remote.) But, oh, the spring and early summer. The parade started with a marching band-like procession of cave crickets and water bugs, and finished with a long black King snake slithering through my living room several weeks later. I repeat, through my living room.
I was just sitting on my couch enjoying an overpriced salad when I saw it out of the corner of my eye. I pulled my bare legs up slowly, because I know they go after the ankles. My puppy did her best to scare it off, but I think she most likely just amused it. I sat, folded up and terrified, until my ass went numb. Then, in what felt like one fluid, single, movement, I leapt off of my couch, scooped up the dog, and went screaming out onto the patio.
My neighbor was upstairs listening to some Dylan. I banged on his door until he answered. He came out smiling, his long hair in a ponytail.
"Hey," I said breathlessly, "are you afraid of snakes?" The Zen-like smile fell from his face as he answered, "Yeah, uh kind of. Why?"
I told him the story and he said he would be right back. When he reemerged he was wearing knee high cowboy boots with his cut-offs, and he was carrying a pool stick.
We walked into my apartment rather timidly. He saw the snake at the same time the snake saw him, and they both recoiled. He then began to prod the snake towards the door. The snake seemed to be on its way out when it suddenly made a hard left turn into my closet. My neighbor, the pool stick, and I were out the door in two seconds flat.
I haven’t stayed in my apartment since. I went back the next day to get some clothes, and when I opened the door, a dead snake fell on my head. No, you did not misread that. It fell from who knows where, hit me on top of the head, and landed scaly belly up at my feet. It was a different snake, white with black markings. It seems the snake population has tired of their kudzu kingdom behind the house, and has decided to take up residence in my shabby chic abode.
I am now moving out. I don’t have the courage it would take to fight a long drawn out battle. And so, it seems my mother passed on her fears, but neglected to school me in the ways of kung fu.
