You Could Do Shakespeare From That Balcony (Conclusion)

This ain't Carey Finnelly.

Okay, where were we?  Oh yeah, so as I said, she was extremely “blessed”  for a fifteen-year-old, and I would have given at least a month’s pay, if I was working, to have a peek under there.  Rumor had it, she tried out for the high school track team and literally had to run with her hands resting on top of them to keep from beating herself to death.  Okay, I guess you get the idea.  She was slender but had wide hips. I figure it was a biological adaption from ancestors that did a lot of sitting on hoofed animals?  I don’t know.  She wore her shoulder-length blonde hair in a pony tail.  You overlooked all her flaws, if you’re thirteen and she’s wearing a pink bikini.  Testosterone levels were off the charts.

“Whatter ya gonna do?” Randy hollered from behind his sister where he had taken a sort of refuge from the big monster snake.

“I ain’t doin’ shit,” I said and backed away from the reptile.

“I have to go to the bathroom,” Carey whined as she pressed her thighs together for emphasis.

“Use the one down there,” I said pointing to another outhouse about a quarter-mile away.

“It’s too far.  Can’t you do something?”

Now I’m not sure what it is, and I’m sure it’s been studied, but it’s what I like to call “machotosterone,” and it takes over men and boys alike.  However, super high levels are found in pubescent boys.  It makes them do stupid things.  Really stupid things.  The effect on the brain is similar to adrenaline, only worse.  Because we think the poor distressed female with the bosom, will be so impressed by our stupid macho display that she will let you see them.  I point out an incident on the Tonight Show with Johnny Carson to prove my point.  His guest was Dolly Parton.  The conversation, of course, turned south when he asked her if she had always been “blessed, ” as she put it.  Dolly said that people where always asking her if they were real, and Johnny, insisted he would never ask such a thing, he had standards…”but, I would give about a year’s pay to peek under there,” he quipped.  I find it odd that I remember that.  Anyway, the machotosterone courses through our veins and we become, for example, an expert snake handler.

You knew I was going to share it with you.

You expect that the poor distressed female will be so thankful and impressed by your heroism and fearless protection that she will just rush up to you and kiss you on the cheek.  She’ll say something like, “Oooh, thank you.  You were so magnificent.  So brave.  I just don’t know what I would have done without you.  There must be something I can do to repay you.”  Ye-ah.

I brandished my four-foot stick and walked toward the snake.  He figured out pretty quickly that he wasn’t going to like what was about to happen.  Now, mind you, as you might remember from my Zooseum experience, I’m afraid of even the smallest garden variety snake.  This sucker was big, menacing, and making a lot of rattling noise.

I stuck the end of the stick into the center of the snake coil and quickly lifted.  He kind of hung over the end of the stick for a few seconds, head on one side, rattler on the other.  I walked backward through the door of the outhouse.  He was biting furiously at the air.  This was a big snake.  A venomous snake of the genera Crotalus and Sistrurus.  One of 32 known species of rattlesnake.  A biting, killing, nasty mother of a snake.  What the hell was I doing this close to it?  He slid off the stick and started towards me, then changed his mind and slithered off into some tall grass.

I turned to Carey with pride, “There you can go in now.”

“Are you crazy, ” she said.  “I wouldn’t be caught dead in there.  That rattlesnake could go right back in there under the door while I’m peeing.  What if there’s another one in there or something?”

Right about that same exact second, I heard Randy scream, “LOOK OUT!”

The snake had decided to go on the offensive and was heading back towards me.  He coiled a few feet away and I heard the rattle again.  A rattlesnake has a group of loosely attached segments at the end of the tail that are vibrated to produce the rattling sound.  The sound the snake makes when he’s threatened and about to strike.  This is probably the only time in recorded history you will hear about a snake, who doesn’t really like people much, preparing for an attack.  I must have pissed this one off pretty good.  I managed to leap backwards out of the way just in the last possible second and ran like hell.

Carey headed off in the direction of the other outhouse down the beach.  I never got as much as a thank you from her.  She didn’t even stay to make sure I was all right.  I thought about that the other day, the way that turned out, and decided to renege on a 46-year-old promise.

You see, later that afternoon I did, inadvertently, get my “reward” for saving the damsel in the pink bikini who was in obvious distress.  Carey and I were out floating on some inner tubes, twenty yards off shore.  She leaned toward me just right, to say something, and the left one just popped out of her top.  Stayed there in plain view for several seconds before she realized I was burning a hole in her chest.

She “stuffed” it back in and looked at me with the most venomous of looks.  “You EVER tell anyone about this and you’re dead meat, buddy,” she hissed.

I swear, Carey, I never told a soul. 

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2 Comments

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2 responses to “You Could Do Shakespeare From That Balcony (Conclusion)

  1. Too funny! I don’t think heroes do things and expect “favors” in return. You were brave to take on the snake, I’ll give you that. And your reward was a good look at the forbidden fruit (or half of the pair). I’m glad you never told anyone! 😉

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