Pegasus, Part V "Sid Snacks"

The next morning there’s a sign on the lab door saying Animal Cognition class is canceled for that day and asking anyone who knows about the “break-in” to contact Dr. Troutman immediately.  Rachel and I go have a cup of coffee at The College Market.  We carry our cups out to the patio so Rachel can smoke her cigarette and we can talk privately about what to do with the rats.  But as much as we go over and over and around and around solutions, we can’t find one that’s really satisfactory.  After the second espresso, I’m feeling jumpy.

            “Well, I can’t think of anything else.  And I gotta go.  I promised Wat I’d drop off my physics notes before the test tomorrow.”
            “Oh, yeah.  Your friend Watley,” says Rachel, and her voice, which has been pretty much back to normal, is suddenly full of sarcasm.  “I’m so glad we let him in on this.”

            “He was just tryin’ to help, Rach’.”  I don’t want to get in an argument with her, so I stand and carry our cups back in to the coffee bar.  Rachel follows me inside.  She pulls a handful of change out of her jeans’ pocket and dumps it in the tip jar that sits on the counter near the cash register.  A sign on the jar says, “A dime is a terrible thing to waste.  Please tip your server.”

            I look at my watch.  “I think you missed your bus.  D’you need a ride?  I’ve got the Rocket Sled this afternoon.”

            “I can walk.  I’ve got plenty of time.”

            “C’mon.  I’ll drive ya.  Just gotta stop for a second at Wat’s.”

            “Oh, okay.”  The Rocket Sled’s parked around the corner, on a side street behind The College Market, and Rachel grudgingly gets in.
          When we pull up in front of Watley’s, I hesitate.  “Why don’cha come in?  You’d like his place--it’s pretty interesting.”

            “Interesting in what way?”

            “Well, it’s hard to describe.  He’s got a lot of unusual stuff.  ”

            “Like an eight-foot python?”

            “Well, yeah, but it’s not just that.  C'mon in.  Just for a second.  You’ll see.”

            Rachel snorts.  “You sure I won’t get fed to the snake?”

            I think it’s better not to say anything to this, so I just get out and open Rachel’s door and wait.  She sits there for a minute, then swings one leg out of the car, then the other, and follows me up the steps of the old house where Watley has his apartment.

            “I don’t wanta stay long,” she says as I open the screen and knock on the door.

            “We won’t,” I assure her.

I don’t exactly know how to describe Wat’s place, except to tell you that he went to the Philippines while he was in the Navy--before he came back to Idaho to go to college--and what money he didn’t spend there on drinking or women, he spent on “stuff.”  I say “stuff,” because there isn’t one good category that adequately encompasses all the things in Wat’s apartment.  It’s kind of like walking into a jungle zoo/art museum.  Of course there’s Sid in a huge glass aquarium that sits on top of a tall teak cabinet, but Sid isn’t the first or only animal you notice.  There are birds--big ones, five of them--in cages made from intricately-woven wire or bamboo or willow.  There are exotic species of fish and frogs and lizards in smaller aquariums, as well as a cage of gerbils Wat keeps for Sid.  “Sid Snacks,” he calls them, but, naturally, I’m not going to tell Rachel that.  The screeching and croaking produced by this menagerie sometimes overrules the music Wat usually has playing--reedy flutes and tinkling temple bells--and at night, the couple of times I’ve stayed over at his place, the sound of munching and scuttering makes it hard to sleep. 

            The floor and three or four low tables are littered with sea shells and stones and clay and brass ornaments.  Two lamps made of paper-thin, saffron-colored slices of shell hang in opposite corners of the room above a long, upholstered sofa shrouded in batik scarves and buried in pillows of all shapes and sizes.  There are tropical plants everywhere, kept alive by fluorescent lighting and a misting system that Wat invented himself.  A huge turtle shell, three feet in diameter, at least, and ten inches deep, mounted on the back of a two-foot-tall ceramic elephant serves as a small pond for several varieties of miniature aquatic plants and lichen. 

          The walls are covered with a bewildering array of artwork: tapestries, paintings, carved masks. and hammered metal disks. Mobiles drip with folded-paper birds and painted gliders and lacquered moons and stars. The smell of sage is strong in the air, but sandalwood and an incense Wat calls “tcheetsi” rise in competing wafts.

          There’s more, but you get the idea:  it’s a little overwhelming, even after you’ve been there several times.  I can tell that Rachel doesn’t quite know what to make of it.  She just stands by the door, her senses assailed, until Watley clears a spot on the sofa and guides her to it.

            “I was just having lunch,” he says, indicating a tray of small porcelain bowls on one table.  “Have some.”  He hands each of us a pair of chopsticks in thin paper folders.  “Try this.”

            I sniff the steaming bowl.  “What is it?”

            “Adobong Báboy.  It’s pork, slow-cooked in vinegar sauce with spices.  I like it with bean thread noodles.  Try some.”  He holds the dish for Rachel who cautiously stirs it with her sticks, then scoops up a tiny morsel and tastes it.
            “Delicious,” she says, stabbing her chopsticks awkwardly around the bowl.  She lifts another portion to her mouth, leaning forward to catch a noodle that threatens to escape her inexpert sticks.  She eyes Watley suspiciously.  “Did you cook this yourself?”

            “Of course.”

            We continue to eat, Wat pressing us to sample crispy lumpia and a concoction of mung beans in a hot sauce he refers to as “fire marinade.”  Finally, all the bowls are empty, and the three of us fling ourselves back contentedly on the sofa’s many cushions. 

            I burp softly.  “S’cuse me.  That was great, Wat.  Didn’t know we were gonna get lunch.” 

            “Yeah, thanks.  You’re a pretty good cook,” says Rachel.  She leans forward toward the litter of dishes and runs a surreptitious finger around one of the bowls, chasing the last of the fire sauce.  As she lifts her finger to her mouth, she catches sight of Sid in his glass case.  Rachel pauses, finger in mid-air, and stares at the snake, who stares back with an unflinching eye. 

            Sunlight from the apartment’s east window, filtered through the fronds of a date palm in a rattan basket, scatters itself across Sid’s sinuous body.  His tan-brown-black-mottled skin glows like incandescent camouflage.  Sid adjusts his position almost imperceptibly, and his skin throws green highlights, ripples that make me think of light on the still water of a deep, deep lake.  But there’s nothing wet about Sid: I know from handling him that he’s not slimy; he’s smooth.  Petting him is like running your hand over the grain of well-polished wood.

            “Wanna touch him?”  Watley’s voice is low over Rachel’s shoulder.

            She shakes her head no.

            “Wanna watch while I feed him?”

            Rachel moves her head half a shake, then stops.  As if we’re in a three-way staring contest, she doesn’t take her eyes off Sid, and I don’t take mine off her.  Beyond her, I see Watley get up slowly and go to the aquarium.  He’s careful not to cross Rachel’s line of vision.  He unhooks the latch, lifts the lid, sets it to one side.  Sid takes no perceptible notice.  Watley raises the lid of the smaller cage near Sid’s and pulls out a brown and white gerbil, holding it at the base of its tail, like we were taught to hold our lab rats.  He lowers the gerbil into Sid’s cage and replaces the lid, flipping the latch shut.
            The gerbil sniffs and snuffles around the glass cage, rising on his haunches to explore the limits of his new environment.  He doesn’t seem to notice the huge snake just inches away.  In fact, after a few seconds, he wanders nearer and sniffs at Sid.  At first Sid appears to be ignoring the gerbil: he keeps his eye on Rachel.  Then he begins to ever-so-slowly raise his head.  He maneuvers his lithe neck higher and higher until he’s looming just above the gerbil, who continues to sniff the air curiously.
            Now, the gerbil seems to sense that all is not well, and he makes a short, quick dart to the left.  Sid moves his head in the same direction, keeping it poised just above the worried gerbil.  The gerbil stops, confused, and Sid readjusts his position, ignoring everything but his prey.  I think of old movies I’ve seen--Westerns--where the bad guy and the good guy square off in the middle of the street, each poised to act or react, steely eyes locked, hands rigid over their holsters.

            Both animals hold these postures for one frozen moment, then--faster than I can tell you--Sid grabs the gerbil with his mouth.  His body convulses around the small furry rodent, his muscles wrenching gracefully.  The gerbil resists briefly, scratching the air, then goes limp.

            Like the scoop shovel of a bulldozer, Sid begins swallowing the gerbil, head first, with big, yawning gulps.  The gerbil gradually disappears, until only an inch of tail and one flaccid foot protrude from the corner of Sid’s mouth.  One last swallow erases all traces of the gerbil, and Sid flicks his attention back to us, his silent audience.
           Rachel has watched all this, and I’ve watched her, and so has Watley.  And now we’re waiting for her to say or do something, because, other than a slight flinch when Sid made his strike on the gerbil, she hasn’t moved.  I brace myself for a strong reaction, but all she says is, “Whew!”  She stands up and brushes a few stray crumbs of Crab Rangoon from her lap. 

            As if given his cue, Wat picks up the tray of empty bowls and chopsticks and carries it into the kitchen.  Rachel and I wait a little awkwardly in the middle of the living room, then call our thanks to him.  “Welcome,” he shouts above the sound of running water.  “See you later.”