Woody

We were a little outside of Akron. Six or seven miles. I only stopped off to pick up more frozen mice for Woody. He was out, and we still had another couple of weeks on the road. I didn’t need him to start thinking that I was on the menu, not that he would. He is what you could call a working animal. I keep him supplied with rodents, and he keeps thieves and unwanted lowlifes out of my rig.

I parked my truck along a fence line next to the feed supply store. Thing is, this feed store is right next to a pizza shop. And someone had propped that pizza shop’s door wide open so that the whole parking lot smelled like fresh baked dough and oregano. You know how it is. One thing turns into another, and then that thing turns into a toasted meatball sub. That’s just how it went. The sandwich was delicious, and I was halfway through it before I started paying much attention to the conversation going on in the booth behind me.

The two men had walked in a little after I sat down. Kinda hard to miss, with their shaved heads and tattoos down their forearms. Both of them were in blue jeans and plain white t-shirts. The larger of the two men had a coiled rattlesnake tattoo that took up his entire forearm. It had two 8s integrated into the snake’s coils. I noticed it out of the corner of my eye as they walked past. The other man was about six inches shorter and shaped like a bowling ball. He had a tattooed arrow cross on his left arm and a clock tattoo that read 3:11 on his right. I know the tats from my time in Afghanistan, we had a couple of guys just like that in my unit. Acted like they were tough, but they were just racist assholes.

The second those two walked through the door, the mother, sitting across the dining room from me with her two boys, went stone-faced. She prodded the boys to hurry and finish. “Coamos y vamonos.” She started stacking their empty plates and cleaning crumbs off the table.

The guys working behind the counter, two young Latinos and an older man with a white beard, had been friendly when I came in. Talking about the Guardians’ ballgame on the television, excited about a 6-4-3 double play against the White Sox. But when the tattooed men reached the counter? Crickets. The man with the white beard stood in front like a bulldog, with both his hands planted on the counter. The younger men vanished into the back of the store.

I could smell them as soon as they sat down in the booth behind me. Smelled like sweat, sour milk, and stale cigarette smoke. One of them had on a discount brand body spray, and it was turning up the volume on the stench. I had been losing steam with the sub anyway, but the smell of these two convinced me to wrap it up for the road.

They were speaking in whispers, trying to keep their voices down, but I could overhear them. I could see their reflections in the mirrored Coca-Cola sign over the counter. Watching them hunched over their pizza slices on paper plates.

“Dammnit Tommy!” The shorter man slammed his fist down on the table, and it shook the whole booth. Shook it hard enough to send soda spilling from the tops of their cups.

“You keep telling them that we’re gonna hit these numbers, but we ain’t even close. I didn’t sign up for long hours to still be broke.”

His buddy shot him a glare from across the table. “I didn’t tell them nothing. You think I tell them? They tell me. I don’t tell them shit. They just can’t get it straight. The quotas are trash to start with. They said we been too damn heavy on the female side. A couple more men, and all the ones over that are gravy. Don’t like it? Go back to stocking shelves at Winn-Dixie. See if I give a shit.”

“I can’t. I already spent the sign on.”

“Then quit your bitchin’. Plus, look in the back of the kitchen. Easy money. Let’s finish here, gear up, and get paid.”

“Nah, I don’t know. It’s too damn many people in here. Call it in.”

“Extras? Means we gotta split it. This is easy money. The old man ain’t putting up no kind of fight, and if he does, I’ll spark his ass up. That’s what you get for obstruction.”

I was grinding my teeth, sitting there listening to them talking about point systems for abducting people. Clenching my fist under the table. They reminded me of the skinheads in my unit calling me all kinds of ignorant shit behind my back. Loud enough to hear, but low enough to deny.

I wanted to do something. I needed to do something to keep anyone from getting hurt. That woman and her little boys. The cooks. That old man. I did what I always like to do when I feel like I’m about to do something that maybe I shouldn’t. I called my wife.

When she picked up, I spoke to her in Onyota’a:ka, putting just enough weight in my voice to be overheard. I told her hello, that I loved her, and another hello. She picked up on it and told me whatever dumbass move I was about to make, I should probably give it another think, maybe two. I told her I loved her again. She said it right back, and then tacked on a reminder that we had plans for the Saturday after I got back. I’d better have my ass home by that Friday, she said. By the time that I hung up, the two men had stopped their whispering.

At the counter, settling up, I slapped a twenty onto the chipped laminate. The bearded man asked me about the change. I told him to keep it and mouthed ICE. His eyes shot right to the skinheads. He nodded. I put my eyes on the exit behind him, back to him, then the exit again. I squared my shoulders, turned around, and took my time leaving. Caught the reflections of the skinheads in the door on my way out, two faces following me. Didn’t need to look back. I figured I had their attention.

Maybe I went ten steps back toward the feed store before I heard boots on pavement behind me. The skinheads were heading out into the parking lot in a hurry. I kept on walking. Slow and steady. Picked up the frozen mice for Woody from the feed store. Had them in a bag alongside my half eaten meatball sub and was heading back to my rig when their F-150 came howling around the building. I jumped back out of the crosswalk. For a moment, it looked like that pickup was dead set on running me over. The pickup screeched to a halt in front of me, blocking me off from my rig.

Between my few words of Onyota’a:ka and my skin color. The perfect shade of tan that these sorts of men see as “fine to mess with.” My bait trap worked. The pickup just sat idling, and I couldn’t see anyone behind the blacked-out windows. I figured that if they were going to start something, they’d get around to it when they were good and ready. I couldn’t see any sense in standing around waiting for them.

I was just past the front of their pickup when the two front doors flew open, and out came the skinheads dressed up like they were storming Kandahar. The two of them came charging at me with their hands on their pistols, faces covered. Both of em shouting orders, “Hands up!” “Identification!” “Get on the ground!” “Hands behind your back!”

I couldn’t figure out how I was supposed to do all of those things at the same time, so I just waited. Hands up on either side of my head. The tall one got right in my face, barking at me to get my hands up higher. He shoved me hard, both hands on my chest. I reeled backwards a step, but still kept my hands up next to my ears. This was textbook. Shove, wait for a reaction, and the second you twitch, they pounce. That’s the dance. They push, trying to get your temper up. Trying to push you to the edge. Waiting for the justification to do that thing that they lie awake at night dreaming about.

The shorter man with the clock tat barreled forward. His movements were jerky and quick.

“Give me your ID!” he spat.

I made slow movements, kept my hands visible, turned to face him and reached for my wallet in my back pocket. The wallet chain jingled against my belt. He snatched the ID from my fingers with a snap. Flipped it over in his palm, and I couldn’t tell if he was reading it or just going through motions. He asked me what my name was, and I said, “John Sommers, same as on the license”. He was showing off for his partner, but I could see the fear in his eyes. I could hear it in his voice. I could smell it on him.

He was asking me questions about where I was from. I told him New York. He kept pressing, insinuating that I wasn’t supposed to be here. That I wasn’t supposed to be in this country. He told me that they had the right to haul people away who weren’t supposed to be here. I asked him who was supposed to be here, and he said Americans. I told him that’s what I was. He looked over my shoulder and said.

“We’ll see about that.”

I heard the footsteps, and then the tall man slammed me onto the ground. The hit was like a football tackle, and he was on my back, digging his knee in. The bastard tried to get me into a chokehold, but my neck is thick, and he struggled to get his arm around it. Failing his choke maneuver, he grabbed my braid and jerked my head back, forcing my face up to his partner.

I didn’t struggle too much against them, but I didn’t make it easy either. Passive resistance. The short one emptied my pockets while the tall one had me pinned against the asphalt. He chucked my bag with the sub and frozen mice toward my truck. I watched it slide to a stop under my rig. The big one ground the side of my face into the pavement and held it there. Those two kicking the crap outta me was taking them a long time, and I had all day. The little one slapped cuffs on me and then snatched up my truck keys. He started jingling them in my face like he was trying to make a point.

“I’m searching his truck! I’m gonna toss the cab.” He told his partner. Spittle hit my cheeks.

I told him it was a bad idea. That he should think twice about opening the truck door.

He asked, “Why? You got anything good up in there?”

I told him that all I had in the truck was a little food, a bag of clothes, and my rattlesnake. He didn’t buy it and said.

“Bullshit, rattlesnake. I bet you got yourself a wad of cash up in that rig.”

I told him that I didn’t keep much cash, but I left the lid off my rattlesnake pen so he could sun himself up on the dash while I was out.

He didn’t listen. They usually don’t. He strolled off with my keychain jingling from his pudgy fingertips. My lucky pink rabbit’s foot dangled back and forth at the bottom.

I yelled after the man. “Listen, bud! Woody, my rattler, doesn’t like new people!”

The one on my back drove his knee in deeper to punctuate his power trip. That was just fine, though, because I heard Woody starting up his rattle as soon as my truck door swung open. “Ptssssch-ch-ch-ch-ch-ch.” It was a good, loud warning. And if you know what it is. If you know what that sound means, you listen and give it plenty of room.

Problem with some people is that they just don’t listen. The shorter man’s legs were dangling out of the door, kicking in the thin air for something to push against as he pulled himself up into my rig. Woody’s warning got louder. “PTSSSSCH-CH-CH-CH-CH!”

I yelled over to him, “Woody doesn’t like what you’re doing, Bud!”

The man on top of me grabbed the side of my head and whispered, “Shut it! Only reason you’re still breathing is cause we ain’t done yet.”

Then Woody’s rattling stopped, and the screaming started up.

The man was howling inside the truck. He twisted onto his side and started kicking my door. Thrashing and screaming.

The guy on my back stood up and took a few slow steps toward the rig. Then he just stood there with his big teeth in his mouth, watching. Hell, who wouldn’t? It was really something to see.

The man was standing up on the truck’s top step, his little arms flailing in every direction. Woody had his fangs clamped into the side of the guy’s face. He grabbed Woody and started fighting to pull the snake off. And the sound coming out of the little skinhead’s mouth was like nothing that I could say I’ve ever heard coming out of a grown man before. He was tugging and pulling on Woody, but Woody is one stubborn-ass rattlesnake, and he sure as shit wasn’t letting go.

I don’t know if that man was in shock or if the venom had already started working on him, but he stopped flailing and went dead calm. Then he came off the top step of my truck backwards like he was falling into a pool. His body sounded like a sack of wet potatoes hitting the ground. The side of his head was already swelling up and turning chimney red.

I got myself turned over, and was sitting on my rear end about to stand when the taller skinhead started jumping up and down yelling, “Shit! Shit! Shit!” And he couldn’t figure it out. Go help or go get help. So he was just hopping around and cursing. I got myself up off the ground, walked over to him, and then I asked the man.

“Think we should get the snake off his face?”

The way he looked at me was like he’d never considered it, but it was a novel idea, and he bolted for his partner. I followed close behind, and when we were both standing over his partner. I asked him about the cuffs. He fumbled getting the keys but then unlocked the cuffs in a hurry.

I don’t know if you’ve ever tried to pick up a rattlesnake or not, but they strike like lightning. Like they’re spring loaded. Like a switchblade. If you ever decide to pick one up, which I do not recommend, grab it right behind the head so it can’t bite you.

I walked over to the man lying on the ground. The side of his face looked like he was trying to hide a pumpkin in his cheek. Time seemed to slow down, and I shot my hand down toward the snake and grabbed Woody just behind the head. Holding him tight so that he couldn’t twist his head around and clamp down on my arm.

The snake let loose of the man’s face and coiled its body around my arm. He still had his mouth wide open and was trying to twist around to give me a little nip.

I told the tall one that he maybe had thirty minutes to get his partner to a hospital. That he should lay him flat if he could. I said, “You can try sucking it out, you want. But he’d be better off with antivenom.” Told him that Woody was an eastern diamondback, if they should ask.

He fumbled, trying to wedge his hands under his partner’s arms. Took him a couple tries to find his grip. He groaned, hoisting his partner upright, pulling that dead weight off the hot asphalt. His partner groaned with every pull towards the pickup. Every time his shoes scraped against the pavement. I told him I’d like to help, but had my hands full with this deadly animal.

He turned, braced himself, and got low so he could use his back and legs to shove his partner up into the bed of the pickup. He screamed, shoving hard. The man’s body flopped over the tailgate. Boots pointed up to the sky.

Woody flicked his tongue, tasting the air as I collected my keys, the frozen rodents, and, of course, my meatball sub.