Copperhead's

Former Senator Zell Miller of Georgia believed he had killed all the copperheads under his porch with a hoe. To make sure, he told his great-granddaughter, Chelsey, an eight-year-old girl on summer vacation, to get under the porch and fetch “the snake meat,” and to “Let Grandpa know if any are still alive.”

Chelsey looked at her Great-grandfather and remembered what her father said: she shouldn’t do anything he tells her to do without running it by someone else first. Still, her Great-grandfather was a man of short patience, and her comprehension of mental health was minimal; he challenged her to a duel if she did not get under the porch and fetch the dead snakes.

“What’s a duel, Grandpa?”

“You’re going to find out, missy, if you don’t get under there and drag those snakes out!”

He looked like a man who designed the Pic pen and the death sentence. Her hair was the color of the fallen leaves, and the freckles across her nose, she was told by Billy Chambliss, who was nine, that it looked like someone had sprinkled cinnamon on her face. She wore short jean overalls and a pink shirt. Zell Miller was in his pajamas at 2 PM, and he began to reminisce about meeting Foghorn Leghorn at a White Citizens Council meeting.

“That crazy ol’ rooster. Now, get under there, Chelsey. There is nothing to be afraid of. Grandpa is here with his garden hoe if one of those snakes is still biting.”

She moved slowly, but decided the fire she saw in his crazy eyes was scarier than a potential copperhead, “whose bite is as lethal as Lester Maddox watching interracial porn.”

She decided, for her own safety, to crawl under the porch. There were a lot of dead snakes, and her great-grandfather told her to start throwing them out, “So Grandpa can see what he has done.”

She started chucking out the dead snakes until she thought she heard some leaves wrestling up against the foundation of his house, but it was a hiss.

“Grandpa, one’s still alive!”

“What? Let Grandpa turn up his hearin’ aid.”

Hsssssssssss.

“Grandpa!”

“Is it a snake? Grab it, honey, and strangle it with your rebel blood!”

“Grandpa, I’m afraid!”

“Stop talkin’ darlin, you’ll only piss it off. Snakes are like liberals. Grandpa is going to fetch the 12-gauge. I’ll be right back!”

Chelsey screamed, not because it was a snake, but because the snake had the same eyes as her Great-grandfather. It snapped at her, but before its fangs could sink into her little arms, the earth had opened, and she had fallen into a time portal. She never stopped falling, travelling through the earth, orbiting the planet’s magma core, and shooting back out, landing in an alley in Houston, Texas, July 16th, 1969.

“The moon!” shouted a Hobo. “They say we’re going to the moon! Popcock, little boy.”

“I’m a girl.”

“Girl? You look like a little man.”

The alley was dry with Texas heat, and this homeless man was covered in grease and was essentially the poster boy for every hobo stereotype. He wore gloves with the ends ripped off and an old hat that looked like it was being opened by a can opener, then stopped. He laughed like John Huston’s prospecting father in The Treasure of the Sierra Madre, and his peppered beard was stained from beans.

“I remember when I was your age, little man.”

“I am a little girl, and my name is Chelsey!”

“Ok, ok, you got a nickel?”

“No, I don’t! I don’t even know where I am. I was under my Great-grandpa’s porch, fetching dead copperheads, though I should have known better than to do anything he says.”

“Why’s that, little boy?”

“Because my family says he’s losing his marbles.”

“That’s true.”

“How do you know?”

“We all eventually do, youngster. Some are faster than others. Look at me. Lost my marbles a long time ago. I think they’re in France along the Meuse River somewheres.”

“What happened in France?”

He nearly choked to death with nothing in his mouth, but from what was communicated to him through the stiff hairs of his ears.

“Little boy, ‘What happened in France?’ Why the war to end all wars, of course. How old are you?”

“Eight. I’ll be nine in two months.”

“So you’re eight.”

“And nine in two months.”

“But right now, you’re eight?”

“But in two months I’ll be nine.”

“You would have died in W One. I remember soldiers like you. ‘Me first, captain! I’ll lead the charge! I’m going to be 20 never, cause I’m dead now!’” He stroked his wispy hairs. “I believe his name was Charles, and his head exploded once he stopped talking. You know what World War One is?”

She shook her head.

“None of you kids do! All you care about is the moon.”

“The moon?”

“Newspapers say we’re landing there tonight, but I could be going crazy again.”

“We’ve already been to the moon.”

“I agree. They didn’t tell us. Probably was that Communist dog. Forget his name, Igor, Sparky? Stalin? Anywho, he’s probably up there now with a bowl of moon water and some moon bones. Probably why we’re going up. Damn Russian dog runs out of food.”

He had not gotten up and leaned against a dumpster. She stared at him the whole time, and finally said, “I have no idea what you are talking about, mister.”

“Neither do I. Can you do me a favor? They’ll let you do it, you’re a cute enough youngster. Go into the diner around the corner and get me a spoon so I can eat these beans in my pocket.”

“Which way?”

“Left. Called Lucilles, and don’t let her catch you. She’s a real snake.”

Chelsey raised a brow, but found herself walking away and turning left at the end of the alley. Sure enough, there was a diner called Lucilles, and sure enough, Lucille was kind as candy to the little girl.

“How can I help you darlin’?”

“Can I borrow a spoon?”

Lucille sighed.

“Did Chester send you in her? You shouldn’t be hanging out with bums in the alley, little one. You could get hurt.”

“He’s strange, but I don’t think he would hurt anyone, plus he’s old.”

“He’s a copperhead, is what he is, darlin’. They all ought to be taken out back and struck with a garden hoe before they hurt someone. You see more and more of them.”

“What?”

“Homeless. Round em’ all up and chop their heads off before they hurt someone like yourself.”

“But he ain’t doing anything!”

“Honey, we’re about to go to the moon. We’re a country that does stuff. We don’t sit around asking for little girls to go get a spoon so someons can eat the beans in their pockets.”

They looked at one another, and Lucille, with her big hair and big weight, sized up Chelsey pretty well and saw that she was not going to take no for an answer.

“Go ahead. Give him the spoon.”

“Thanks!”

The front doorbell rang, and just before it closed, Lucille yelled, “And tell him to get a job!”

Chelsey ran down the alley and found that Chester was surrounded by older boys in white t-shirts, tattoos, and jelly in their hair. They were kicking poor Chester, and when Chelsey screamed, “No!” She found herself back under her Great-grandfather’s porch, being dragged out by her father while her uncle wrestled the shotgun from their Grandfather’s hands. They took it from him pretty easily, but it still did not stop him from getting in a word or two between his heavy breathing.

“Look at all of you. This country used to do things. We used to see problems and take them head-on. We went to the moon, and you won’t let me shoot a snake before it bites little Chelsey.”

“What’s World War One, Grandpa?”

“It’s a war we won because the French hate themselves,” said Zell Miller. “I was a Marine.”

“What war did you fight in, Grandpa?”

“They didn’t have one when I served. The world was scared.”

“Of you?”

“Snakes and Communists.”

The last living snake slithered away as he spoke of different times and the space race.

“We were better then. Treated our veterans with respect. Now we let the copperheads go.”