Snakes in the Basement

Snakes in the Basement

It may have been dead, the snake in the basement by the wall behind the bed frame. Perpetually startled by these creatures, I tripped while trying to get away from it, knocking over a broom and toppling a rainbow colored garbage can. The snake did not budge.

Basement snakes, dead mice, too tight peanut butter jars, these are the times I'm grateful to have a husband.

Returning to sea level, I leave the basement lights on and the door ajar. These are signals to my husband that something below is amiss; that and the note by the coffeemaker, SNAKE IN BASEMENT!

I wait for my husband. I try to go about my business, online shopping, ignoring emails, and disregarding the bag of Cape Cod Potato Chips my stress level is begging me to devour. Eventually, my husband returns. It's not like I've been tapping my foot or anything, but in fact I have been tapping my foot.

My husband looks tired. Too bad. His foot barely crosses the threshold before I'm all over him with verbs, nouns, and expletives describing the black legless thing in our basement.

Thank God we had sex last night!

If we hadn't, he would never have agreed to so quickly address the intruder.

“Fine, let me get my gloves.” Donning his snake-bite-proof protection, my husband descends into the bowels of our home, while crouching at the top of the stairs, I watch his every move. He lifts the bed frame. No sign of life. “Get me a small box.” Cardboard Mountain is the area in our home we’ve designated for boxes to recycle from our vast online shopping. In fact, we’ve been considering whether to invest in a cardboard company as the proverbial writing is on the screen. Mom and Pop shops will soon be things of the past. Amazon.com will be the only place to buy anything, and our world will consist merely of dwellings and fulfillment centers.

Coming back with a box, I gingerly toss it downstairs to my husband. He draws close to the snake and nabs it by its head. “Poor thing,” he calls up, “it's still alive but very weak, maybe dehydrated.” Carrying the crated carnivore he walks outside in search of a new home for our unwelcome guest.

This is not the first time a snake has been in our basement. Last spring, while bringing Apples to Apples downstairs, I saw it. Just as I was about to set the box down, I watched a black computer cable slither off the shelf. Shrieking, I levitated across the basement, landing a good 15 feet away.

The snake shimmied under our ping-pong table and stopped. While backing out of the room, I heard an odd noise that sounded like someone was shushing me. Following it, I came to one of our water pipes. There, at a copper colored joint, water was spritzing out like liquid fireworks. Being a quick thinker, I ran upstairs, got a hand towel and leopard print duct tape. Returning to the faulty sprinkler, I wrapped the towel around the damaged seal, and duct taped the crap out of the pipe.

When I called our plumber he asked, “Is it an emergency?” “Well how should I know? Doesn’t water shooting out of a pipe seem like an emergency?” Half hour later, George the plumber arrives. Swiftly he finds a lever near the leak, and turns it from vertical to horizontal, cutting off the water supply. George tells me not to do laundry and that he’ll come back tomorrow with the parts he needs to finish the job. George, though not my husband, is still a man I’m grateful for, and as my husband is nowhere to be found, I flash my coyest smile and ask, “So George, are you any good with snakes?” He is up the stairs and out the door faster than my kids after they’ve raided my wallet.

Catching this reptile falls to me. I round up a pillowcase, a sponge mop, leather gloves, binoculars, and put a note by the coffee maker, SNAKE IN BASEMENT!

About three steps up from the cold concrete I set up camp. Putting on the gloves and placing the mop and pillowcase nearby, I lift the binoculars to my eyes. This must be what it's like to be on Safari, alone on the Serengeti, woman against nature. All I need is a pith helmet. Climbing back upstairs, I find the bug hat I wear while weeding, the kind with netting that drapes around your head, synching at the neck. It does make it harder to look through the binoculars, but it also helps me feel more in control. I am so not in control. Every time I imagine going over to the snake and trapping it under the mop, all I can picture next is standing there and screaming. A woman in a bug hat, binoculars around her neck, pillowcase in one hand, sponge mop in the other, standing next to a ping-pong table shrieking. I remain on the stairs.

After what feels like days, I hear my husband’s footsteps above. From where they’ve stopped, I can tell he’s reading the note by the coffee maker. Beaming, I watch my hero descend the stairs and take care of the situation. He doesn’t even flinch when he sees what I’m wearing. Just another reason I’m oh so grateful that this particular man is my husband.