us to have? We could stay up all night. It would be fun, right?”
I tell her it’s better that we didn’t. I say I’m still a little buzzed anyway, which I’m pretty sure is a lie. She agrees and we keep walking, content to explain to each other all the ways that we think we feel a little different than normal. At home, we drink water, take Advil, fall asleep.
The next morning, I wake up early and make us eggs. I spoon them onto her plate and have a flash of memory: Percy on thepull-up bar after Josh finished a set; Josh cracking raw eggs into protein powder, shaking, drinking.
Sofia says, “Will you be insulted if I put salt on these?”
I say, “No, I mean, I already salted them, so they shouldn’t need any, but go ahead.”
When we’re done eating, we clean the turtle tank. Last year, Sofia bought a turtle and named her Heidi, so now we have to care for her. Heidi lives in an overpriced aquarium next to the TV. Mostly, she sleeps on a rock under a lamp, but every month or so her water gets putrid brown and we have to set her on the bathroom floor while we dump her filth out in the tub.
“Watch her,” Sofia says, straddling the tank, scrubbing the glass with rubber gloves. “Don’t let her run away.”
The turtle hasn’t moved. She’s settled under the radiator for warmth.
“She’s not going anywhere,” I say.
“Well, she’s scared, poor thing,” Sofia says. “Hold her.”
Suddenly, I am enraged. I start yelling.
“I hate that fucking turtle,” I yell. “It doesn’t
do
anything. Why the fuck do we keep it alive?”
Sofia calls me an asshole. I stomp out of the bathroom and she finishes alone. She lugs the clean tank back into the living room, sets it down on the table next to the TV, then glares at me. I pretend to be reading. The church starts up next door. I hear the shaky hum of chords on an electric keyboard. She places Heidi back on the rock, under the lamp, and Heidi doesn’t move. Sofia sits down on the couch next to me, and I apologize without specifics. She pulls a fleece blanket over both of us. We sit and listen to the electric keyboard, and I run my fingers along her neck, careful not to squeeze. We watch the turtle.
“Do you think she’s warm enough?” Sofia says. “I hope she’s warm.”
—
Josh recognized the power of his snake as a metaphor. He got Percy before he got high, but he soon made the connection—those forces that he kept closest to him, that held him tight.
He left behind long, free-associative journals from each time he tried to get clean. They were meant for revisiting, full of little annotations and Post-it-note reminders:
Read this when it gets hard! Learn!
Now I force myself to revisit them, because it’s in these journals that he seems at his most bluster-less. And in so many of them, through dreams and memories and promises, a serpent slithers.
[NOTEBOOK, UNDATED, “DETOX JOURNAL”]:
It seems that my life has been a mental struggle. An aggregate of the madness (panic attacks), fear of sleep (real fear!), fear of darkness, pathological shyness toward girls from ages 14–19. Since I was conscious, cognizant of the world, it has been a mental struggle
.
Paxil is a gift from the Heavens. No more panic attacks. But I still felt short changed. I always tried to like inebriates, but I either didn’t like them or they made things worse. Pot, coke, alcohol, speed, and a plethora of prescription drugs did nothing. That’s when I met the giant python
.
She first came in the form of Percodan and Vicodin. She was still not squeezing me, but she looked so beautiful. I was petting her and she was writhing, ever so gently, around my limbs. I am not stupid. I know the dangers of a giant snake. But after all I had been through, I deserved it. I had been to hell. I was in purgatory. And for what? To be on anti-depressants so that I could be content? Fuck that. I deserved happiness. It was owed to me. The Serpent, she made me happy. She was beautiful.
I tell her it’s better that we didn’t. I say I’m still a little buzzed anyway, which I’m pretty sure is a lie. She agrees and we keep walking, content to explain to each other all the ways that we think we feel a little different than normal. At home, we drink water, take Advil, fall asleep.
The next morning, I wake up early and make us eggs. I spoon them onto her plate and have a flash of memory: Percy on thepull-up bar after Josh finished a set; Josh cracking raw eggs into protein powder, shaking, drinking.
Sofia says, “Will you be insulted if I put salt on these?”
I say, “No, I mean, I already salted them, so they shouldn’t need any, but go ahead.”
When we’re done eating, we clean the turtle tank. Last year, Sofia bought a turtle and named her Heidi, so now we have to care for her. Heidi lives in an overpriced aquarium next to the TV. Mostly, she sleeps on a rock under a lamp, but every month or so her water gets putrid brown and we have to set her on the bathroom floor while we dump her filth out in the tub.
“Watch her,” Sofia says, straddling the tank, scrubbing the glass with rubber gloves. “Don’t let her run away.”
The turtle hasn’t moved. She’s settled under the radiator for warmth.
“She’s not going anywhere,” I say.
“Well, she’s scared, poor thing,” Sofia says. “Hold her.”
Suddenly, I am enraged. I start yelling.
“I hate that fucking turtle,” I yell. “It doesn’t
do
anything. Why the fuck do we keep it alive?”
Sofia calls me an asshole. I stomp out of the bathroom and she finishes alone. She lugs the clean tank back into the living room, sets it down on the table next to the TV, then glares at me. I pretend to be reading. The church starts up next door. I hear the shaky hum of chords on an electric keyboard. She places Heidi back on the rock, under the lamp, and Heidi doesn’t move. Sofia sits down on the couch next to me, and I apologize without specifics. She pulls a fleece blanket over both of us. We sit and listen to the electric keyboard, and I run my fingers along her neck, careful not to squeeze. We watch the turtle.
“Do you think she’s warm enough?” Sofia says. “I hope she’s warm.”
—
Josh recognized the power of his snake as a metaphor. He got Percy before he got high, but he soon made the connection—those forces that he kept closest to him, that held him tight.
He left behind long, free-associative journals from each time he tried to get clean. They were meant for revisiting, full of little annotations and Post-it-note reminders:
Read this when it gets hard! Learn!
Now I force myself to revisit them, because it’s in these journals that he seems at his most bluster-less. And in so many of them, through dreams and memories and promises, a serpent slithers.
[NOTEBOOK, UNDATED, “DETOX JOURNAL”]:
It seems that my life has been a mental struggle. An aggregate of the madness (panic attacks), fear of sleep (real fear!), fear of darkness, pathological shyness toward girls from ages 14–19. Since I was conscious, cognizant of the world, it has been a mental struggle
.
Paxil is a gift from the Heavens. No more panic attacks. But I still felt short changed. I always tried to like inebriates, but I either didn’t like them or they made things worse. Pot, coke, alcohol, speed, and a plethora of prescription drugs did nothing. That’s when I met the giant python
.
She first came in the form of Percodan and Vicodin. She was still not squeezing me, but she looked so beautiful. I was petting her and she was writhing, ever so gently, around my limbs. I am not stupid. I know the dangers of a giant snake. But after all I had been through, I deserved it. I had been to hell. I was in purgatory. And for what? To be on anti-depressants so that I could be content? Fuck that. I deserved happiness. It was owed to me. The Serpent, she made me happy. She was beautiful.
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