Too Much Imagination

I hate to admit it, but being blessed – or cursed – with a vivid imagination, I managed to scare myself silly one day in the Philippines. I was home alone one weekend, relaxing on the couch in the living room, reading a book about snakes. Mina, the girlfriend, had gone out somewhere. The house was quiet, the radio was playing softly, and the couch was right next to the bar. Nobody was bugging me. Life was sweet. Lord knows what possessed me to choose a book about snakes to read. I hate snakes.

Anyway, after a bit, the old imagination started to ramp up. Since I was in the tropics, thoughts of all sorts of exotic reptiles started to invade my tranquil morning. I had come to the PI from Vietnam, and tales of the infamous, deadly Two-Stepper were still fresh in my mind. The story went that if one bit you, you only managed to take two steps before you wound up shuffling the rest of your suddenly incorporeal way on off this mortal coil. I think I may have dozed off.

Suddenly, the next thing I knew, I was up and peering under the couch from across the room, frantically scanning for evil, fork-tongued, slit-eyed, scaly, slithery things. Thank God, the couch was raised from the floor on legs, and I could easily see under it from where I was. I didn't see anything, which didn’t mean something scaly hadn’t just quickly slithered away. I cautiously circled the couch. God, I hate snakes!

When I was in the Nam, the first thing I’d do in the morning after pulling back the mosquito netting – and before putting foot to floor – was to vigorously thump the side of the cot before cautiously peering under it, cocked and loaded .45 in hand. Any scaly, legless, uninvited guest that might have slithered in to pay a nocturnal visit while I slept was going to get blasted. Did I mention I hate snakes?

 Of course, if one had ever actually been under that cot, more than likely it would have nailed me dead center before I unfroze enough from the shock of seeing it to get a shot off. Failing that, the ricochet off the concrete floor would probably have finished me.

Oddly enough, it never occurred to me to look under the cot when exploding rounds or the alarm sounded announcing one of Charlie's nocturnal visits. I'd hop out of the sack, into my boots, snatch up my gear in the near pitch black darkness and be out the door with never a thought for  sinister, lurking ophidians just waiting for the chance to ankle bite me. It would seem I harbored a greater fear of two-legged vipers than I did of the limbless ones. And rightly so.

But back to the PI: Fortunately, as I said earlier, the bar was right behind the couch I had been comfortably stretched out on before my brain betrayed me. So I was able to properly sooth my self-induced jangled nerves with a few quick Crown Royals, neat. I put the snake book in the trash, where it belonged.

When she came home, I had to explain to Mina, the Temporary Better Half, why I was half-snockered in the middle of the morning. She didn't believe a word of it.

© T. P. Woodfork 7/6/2008