The Snake Guy
Fiction by Ana Raphael
Hello, Callers! Thank you for being here.
This February, we’re featuring two tales of romance and criminal intent. Today’s story is a tale as old as time: the love between a woman, a man, and that man’s misunderstood snake. We hope you enjoy this new piece from Ana Raphael.
The Snake Guy
Jean was on another blind date. This one had a clean-shaven head, blond eyebrows, a bit of a gut, and thick, veiny forearms. They met at a steakhouse, and when they’d been seated, Anders looked her very carefully in the eyes.
“There’s one thing you have to know about me: I’m a herpetophile.”
“You’re—a paedophile?”
“Herpetophile. You know what that means? You don’t know what that means.” He spoke with a great deal of patience and clarity. “What does it sound like?”
“It sounds like you put the word herpes in front of the word paedophile. Which doesn’t really improve things.”
She was trying to think of a way to leave before ordering an entrée, but then she remembered how much it hurt when someone bailed on you in the middle of a first date.
“Herpe—do you know what that means? Herpetology? Herpetological?” He paused, giving her time to think. “Phile? What about that part. Herpeto-phile.
“Love. You love something?”
“Yes, I do.” He smiled and his deep, blue eyes widened. “Herpetophile means lover of reptiles. I have lizards. I have snakes. They’re very important to me. Do you think they could be important to you?”
She didn’t answer directly, and she was able to pivot the conversation away from animals. He adjusted better than she expected and asked her about music, her family, her job. Soon she was telling him all about the life of a paralegal: inventing a daily grind, annoying fake coworkers, funny breakroom incidents. Stories like any honest person might tell. He never laughed, but he smiled and nodded at the amusing parts. At the end of the meal, she insisted on paying half the check and told him she had to go home. He was disappointed but unsurprised. When she shook his hand, though, she felt something, a bolt of energy—intriguing, complex, sexual—but nothing she could get involved with at the moment.
Three months later, Jean got a call from Shoe, a man who occasionally paid her for freelance work.
“You know a girl called Zizi, right?” he asked.
“I’ve done some business with her.”
“We need her to tell us where Dr. Flesher is.”
“Flesher is back?”
“We’re pretty sure he is, and Zizi is buying off him—high quantity.”
Flesher was a gastroenterologist who seemed to have no trouble getting massive amounts of opioids directly from the manufacturer. He’d disappeared the year before, but rumors persisted.
“Put a tail on Zizi,” Jean said.
“She’s slippery.”
“Then get rough. You’re the gangster. Can’t you put fear in her heart?”
“We don’t operate that way.”
Shoe had no hard men on his payroll. As far as Jean knew, he didn’t even own a gun. Instead he relied on temp workers like Jean for anything even a little bit ugly. This was going to sink him eventually, but, as long as it lasted, Jean was happy for the work.
“You think you can help?” he asked. “Fourteen grand if we can find him.”
“Yeah. I got an idea.”
Zizi was built like a 13-year-old boy. She and Jean had waited tables in the same bar when they were very young. Late nights serving drunk idiots, they were pretty close for a summer, sharing stories of first loves, worst embarrassments, greatest fears. Jean’s worst fear was that an essential piece of humanity was missing from her soul. Zizi was scared of something much more tangible and slimy. Jean gave her a call.
“I’m taking this improv class,” Jean said.
“Improv? Like you do little skits?”
“Yes, we do skits. These kids like to party. Are you selling?”
“Selling what?”
“Vicodin, Percocet. It’s mostly rich girls who’ll pay whatever you ask. You want to get together and talk about it?”
“Sure, let’s have a drink.”
Zizi was free Friday at seven and willing to come to the address that Jean provided.. Friday morning, Jean called Anders.
“Hello, this is Jean. A few months ago we—”
“Yes, of course, Jean. I remember.”
“I’ve been thinking about you.”
“I think about you as well,” Anders said. “Often.”
“What if I made you dinner? Tonight?”
“Dinner? I was going to—”
“Let me cook for you.”
“. . . Yes, I’d like that.”
That afternoon, Jean shaved her legs then went out and bought a pound and a half of sirloin steak and a ton of vegetables at the supermarket. At the hardware store, she bought a door jamb. Anders didn’t try to shake hands or hug when she arrived at his place, and Jean carried all her bags into the kitchen. He followed and watched as she unloaded food onto the counter.
“Will you give me a tour?” she asked when she was done.
In the living room, he had a flat screen, a couch, and three large framed black and white photographs: Gandhi, Raoul Wallenberg, and a reticulated python. There were two bedrooms. The snake got the larger one. The habitat took up half the room, but the snake was coiled up in the corner. It was hard to tell how long it was, but it was thick as her leg. As Anders walked toward the cage, the snake unfurled and slithered to the door. It poked its head up, like a dog excited that master was home. Jean wasn’t ready to call it beautiful.
“Did you grow up with animals in the house?” Anders asked.
“No. My mom never wanted a pet.”
“Pet is a disgusting word. It’s decadent and immoral. My cute kitty, my precious puppy? There’s no real love there, that’s fake. You do not respect anything that you coo at. And without respect there is no love. If I respect a woman, I don’t coo at her. And only if I respect her can I even begin to love her. I respect the strength and the wisdom and the beauty—of a reptile. And because of that I can love them.”
He looked at her without haste or aggression. She felt like it was her turn to speak, but she didn’t want to say the wrong thing.
“What I would like to do is have you wear my snake,” he said.
“I don’t think I can do that right now.”
But she wanted to be able to do it eventually. She pictured herself, sitting on the couch with Anders, snake wrapped around the two of them, watching TV and eating popcorn. But that was something you had to work your way up to.
“He wouldn’t hurt you, because he couldn’t eat you,” Anders said. “He only constricts what he can consume, and he’s incapable of consuming anything over 80 kilograms.”
“Excuse me?”
“I’m saying that constriction is not something they do recreationally. He’ll see you and know he cannot digest you.”
“How much do you think I weigh?”
“There’s no danger to you. Hundreds of objects in your home are more dangerous than a boa constrictor: Drano, a stepladder, a bar of soap, a plastic bag. All of these have killed more people than any snake.”
“Okay, but you think I weigh more than 80 kilograms? That’s like 175 pounds.”
“It’s very rare for an American woman to understand the metric system,” he said. “As always, I am deeply impressed by you.”
He unbolted the door, and the snake slid out of the habitat onto the hard tile floor. Anders lifted it off the ground and placed it comfortably over his shoulders. She put out a hand and touched the snake near the tail. Did snakes have tails or were they just all tail? Then she leaned in and kissed Anders on the mouth. He was an amazing kisser, like that perfect, hesitant miracle at the end of the eighth-grade dance. She let go of the snake.
“I need to get started on the meat.”
Anders nodded and put the snake back in the habitat while Jean left the room. She began to tenderize the steak.
“Where’s the Elysian sauce?” she called.
Anders came out of the snake’s bedroom.
“What’s Elysian sauce?”
“You said you had it, remember? When I told you what I was going to make?”
“I—don’t remember this.”
“Otherwise I would have picked some up.”
“I don’t remember telling you this.”
She could tell he didn’t want to call her a liar. He wanted a life with her. Dinners and evening walks and discussions of the reptilian brain.
“I can make it without, but—not as good,” Jean said.
“I can go out and get it.”
“Probably you’ll only find it at Reston’s market. If not there it’ll be at this place called Specialty Gourmet. I should have picked up a bottle myself. You know what—forget it, I’ll— ”
“No, I’ll get it. It’s not a problem.”
She wrote down the names of the stores.
“And if you could get a bottle of red wine,” she said.
“I don’t drink. Well, only on very special occasions.”
“I’ll let you decide if this is a very special occasion.”
Reston’s Market wouldn’t have it. Then he’d have to drive to the other place. He’d probably also hit a liquor store. He’d be gone for close to an hour. She took off her shoes. Zizi was due in fifteen minutes. Jean went into the snake’s bedroom, opened the cage, swung the door open, then stood back. The snake didn’t rush out this time. It stayed low and looked at her. Suspicion, loathing, amusement? She couldn’t tell. It was a god damned snake. She tried some clicking noises—come on out snake, come on. It didn’t move. She walked to the far side of the cage and knocked on the metal. The snake went deeper into its habitat.
A text came in from Zizi—a little behind, be there in 20. Jean went back into the kitchen and cut vegetables for five minutes. When she went to the bedroom, the snake was stretched out across the middle of the room. From the doorway, she watched it, unsure whether she could ever be friends with this animal. The bell rang. On the way to the door, Jean took the Python photograph off the wall and placed it face down on the couch.
Zizi was dressed expensively in leather pants and a dark red shirt.
“You live here?” she asked.
“No, I’m house sitting. One of the girls from my improv class.”
“Jean, I got to be honest: if you invite me to an improv show, I’m not coming.”
“I don’t want you there—you might try to sell directly to my kids.”
“How much are you looking to buy? Because I’m dealing in higher quantities these days. Truth is—I only came here because we’re friends.”
“If you sell me a thousand pills, I’ll probably call you next week for 2000.”
Zizi didn’t look too impressed. She really had moved a few steps up the ladder.
“Where are you getting your stuff?” Jean asked.
“Don’t worry about it.”
It was the right thing to say, but it bothered Jean a bit—Zizi acting like a big shot.
“Hey, you got to see the bedroom,” Jean said. “It’s wild.”
They walked over and Jean opened the door to the snake room and shoved Zizi inside. Zizi was little, and she flew across the room. Jean had plenty of time to slam the door and hold it shut with her back while she put the jamb in place. Zizi screamed. Jean called her cell.
“Just tell me where Dr. Flesher is.”
“Let me out!”
“You need to quiet down, or I won’t help you. I need to know how to find Dr. Flesher.”
“Let me out!” The second time it was a child’s wail.
“Calm down. Tell me where Dr. Flesher is, and I’ll put the snake back in the cage. You can go home.”
Jean heard something crash to the ground and then Zizi scurrying across the room. Most likely the snake was now between Zizi and the door.
“Just tell me.”
“Why are you doing this? I’ll hook you up at cost.”
“You want to live in there with the snake?”
“Please.” Zizi wasn’t screaming now, but she wasn’t breathing properly. “Dr. Flesher is out in Alford. I don’t have an address.”
“Zizi?”
“I meet him outside a building.”
But a moment later, Zizi gave out the address.
“You’re not lying, are you, Zizi?”
“Jesus, please. Get that thing in its cage. Please.”
“Okay.” She pulled the phone away from her ear long enough to text the address to Shoe. “We got someone checking on it. They find him, I’ll put the snake away.”
“No, no. Now. You have to let me out.”
“Sure, soon as it all checks out. So if you were lying, you probably want to tell me now.”
“I’m not lying. Please.”
“Okay. It shouldn’t take long for them to verify, right? Just sit tight.”
Jean thought Zizi was being honest. She could let the poor girl out and maybe get the snake back in its cage before Anders came home. But if Zizi was lying, Jean would get nothing from Shoe.
“I swear to you. I’m not lying. It’s going to kill me. Please. It’s coming closer.”
Jean thought about what Anders had said—Zizi was well under 80 kilograms. Would a snake really eat a person? Was that something that happened in neat suburban homes? When Jean opened the door, she saw Zizi standing on a table on the far side of the room. No sign of the snake.
“Where’d he go?” she asked.
Before Zizi answered, Jean saw the thick green scales slide past the open door. Then it stopped for a moment. It looked at Jean, and she took two big steps backwards. It turned back to Zizi.
“Put it away. Now. Please.”
“I don’t know how to do that.”
“What? You told me—”
“Just make a run for it.”
Leap over the monster? Jean didn’t think she’d be brave enough to do that, herself. In fact, she was starting to feel like it might be best to leave the snake, the meat, and Zizi behind and run. That’s when she heard the front door open. Anders walked in, a bottle of wine poking out from the top of a shopping bag. He could see into the bedroom from the door. He put down the groceries.
“What is going on? Who is that?”
“Help me,” Zizi said.
Anders walked into the bedroom and grabbed the snake close to the middle then close to the head. He lifted and eased it back into its habitat. Tenderly, he stroked the snake with his face—Yes, I’m mad, but not at you.
“No, this isn’t your fault,” he said quietly.
Jean watched his hands and his eyes and listened to the low even tones. She wanted to stay and have dinner and talk to this man. Zizi bolted for the door. Anders put the snake in its cage and faced Jean.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “That was a friend of mine. She wanted to—”
“You’re lying to me.”
“No, really. She’s going through a breakup. I shouldn’t have let her into the snake’s room. Look, can we just have dinner?”
“Jean, I don’t want to have dinner with you. You are dishonest and selfish. You’re a bad person. You have to leave my apartment now.”
“No. I’m not really a bad person.”
“Yes, you are. You may change. I hope you do. But I can never trust you in my life. And more importantly, I could never trust you around an animal.”
Jean drove to the beach. It was a cool night, and she watched the choppy surf by moonlight then walked in the hard sand for at least an hour. Finally, she got a text from Shoe—Good job. Anders was right. She was a bad person. She was fourteen grand richer, but she wasn’t fit to spend time with a snake—or with the snake man.
Ana Raphael is a writer from Toronto.
Wow. That was a goddamn ride.
Clever thing with Zizi and the snake, and I agree that the ending was rushed. Easy fix with editing.