Leslie Anne Tarabella Southern With a Gulf Coast Accent

The weirdest part of my summer (so far) wasn’t when I used my kitchen tongs to fling a snake out of my swimming pool, but it was when I somehow predicted the entire scene the day before. 

Paddling in the cool pool on a nuclear-hot South Alabama evening, I told my husband I wanted to write a scary story. “You don’t have scary stories in you,” he replied just before he dove beneath the surface. When he reappeared on my other side, I tried to convince him. “Yes, I do. I don’t know if it’s hormones or politics, but I feel very creepy lately.” He asked if he should worry about his safety. “Don’t worry, so far, it’s just fiction.” I told him. “I want to write about a woman who sees leaves in her pool but swims over to discover it’s really a snake.” Bob laughed and said, “That would never happen. And besides, your stories always have sunshine and puppies.” I narrowed my eyes to give him a little scare and said, “You have obviously missed my dark side.” Then he splashed me and swam away. 

The very next afternoon, I checked my super-duper fig tree, which had been popping out 8 pounds of figs each day. With my hands full of fruit, I walked past the pool and, what to my wondering eyes should appear, but a two-foot-long snake soaking on the top step. If I’m lying, I’m dying. Twenty-four hours after I established the plot for my story, the main character showed up, doing the backstroke.

He looked like a teenage snake, sort of skinny and smart-mouthed. An explosion of figs rained down as they were tossed in the air, and I ran screaming into the house, “Snake in the pool! Snake in the pool!” Do you think Bob even believed me or cared? “Just leave him alone.” Breathless, I screamed, “If he gets in the drain, he’ll stay in there forever, and I’ll never get in that pool again!” For my mental health and future recreational pursuits, I suddenly had a new purpose: to rid the pool of the slimy creature. Grabbing the kitchen tongs — the short ones that I used the previous night to flip the Chicken Katsu, I ran back outside and gave that snake a poke. 

He took off (ever notice how snakes are always assigned a male persona?) like lightning, swimming in a beautiful “S” shaped slimy slither. He headed to the overflow drain, where I feared he would claim residency. I splashed the water, which caused him to turn towards the shallow end; I finally got a lock on him, then leaned over and snatched him. Much heavier and far more animated than I anticipated that son of a gun opened his mouth wide in serpent surprise. He seemed to dislike the tongs grabbing his hips. 

After a skipping, spinning, screaming fit of excitement, the next thing I knew, the snake went flying through the air and landed on the roof of my back porch, which, after a long day of summer sun, was probably a scorching 800 degrees. Upon searing his rear end, he rolled off into the Ligustrum where he surely lies in wait for me another day. 

How could I have predicted such a thing? It’s crazy, right? But a week later, I told a friend I was watching the old Bob Newhart shows and said, “I think Bob Newhart won’t last much longer.” And the very next day . . . boom. Rest in peace, Bob Newhart. It has been the weirdest summer ever.

This story first appeared in Lagniappe News, Mobile, Alabama.