Baby

By Joshua Wetjen

My cousin Jeremy keeps a boa constrictor. I’d never met Baby formally. I agreed to housesit during my cousin’s vacation to Mexico, so I’d finally have to. A favor because my cousin bails me out of a lot of stuff. Normally, I don’t do favors. And I never keep pets. I do appreciate things that scare me a little, I suppose, though not necessarily reptiles. I wonder if that’s why I’m still seeing Lena and Janice, my long-time girlfriend who is also still married, though separated, doesn’t know about it.

            Jeremy shows me around his place with big-shouldered pride. He has one of those state-of-the-art Amazon speakers you can talk to, Alexa. That seems scary enough. I’m mostly a low-tech kind of guy. Then Jeremy opens his door to the bedroom where he lives with Baby who slithers gently, loosening her thick coils. Her terrarium to the left of the queen-size Sleep Number bed with a Star Trek-themed duvet is lit by a blue light Jeremy switches on by talking, the shiny neon-painted rocks under her glowing and her scales gleaming like jewels in a royal exhibit. Her forked tongue darts out a few times, as if she needs me to know she’s a real snake.

            “Tongue is how they smell,” Jeremy says.

            “I know,” I say. But I don’t and I’m not sure why I have to act like I know everything. It’s something I do.

            “Here’s five bucks for the mouse you get from PetSmart in Roseville,” he says, and he says it’s up to me if I kill the rodent via a quick blow to the skull with the hammer he keeps near the terrarium, or just drop it in and let Baby do her thing. He moves the lid on the terrarium to demonstrate and points out the switches on the wall for the heat lamp. He explains that either way, Baby has to be fed within twenty-four hours, or things get “ugly.”

            This time I’m honest. I need to know more about “ugly.” I keep my eyes off Baby, thinking I can get Lena or someone to do it, or just figure it out after I buy the mouse.

            “She gets sick. Not violent. That’s it. One feeding every seven-to-ten days is all.” We leave his bedroom and he shuts the door.

            “After feeding you can let Baby out. Up to you.”

            “If Baby gets out, how do I get her back in?”

            “She sleeps and you carry her.”

            “Pass,” I say.

            “Constrictors are pushovers, as long as you treat them right,” Jeremy says.

            “Right,” I say.

            Jeremy will be back in seven days. I don’t ask if it’s okay if I have people over. Lena and I have plans to watch Netflix tonight. Netflix and chill, as they say. I have to clock in at work the next day, an early shift at the middle school where I do security. It’s good to see all those students. Just smiling at them and handing them a piece of candy from the dish makes it seem like I’m making the world a better place.

            Jeremy does a couple chores in the kitchen—emptying the compost and watering plants. Then he gives me a hug, grabs his suitcase, tosses me the keys and meets an Uber outside to catch his flight—his own vacation with his lady Ruby to Mayan Riviera for an all-inclusive.

            Him and Ruby should really tie the knot someday. They both claim they don’t abide the antiquated patriarchy of marriage and will even take a hit for it financially to defend their position. I get it, but don’t fully believe them. They’re afraid of something, but I’m not sure what.

            Around dinner, Lena shows up to Jeremy’s place with burgers and we eat them. I suggest Game of Thrones and ask Alexa but can’t get it to work. “Let me try,” Lena says. She’s always been better at computers and gadgets and has set up my phone for me a few times and debugged my laptop. There’s a lock on Alexa we can’t get to open, and Jeremy did not give me the code. He’s not returning my texts. It doesn’t matter because Lena licks mustard off her finger after brushing it from my beard and we’re making out on the couch just like any old, good night and she’s putting her fingers through my chest hair under my shirt. We’re half undressed and I have my hand on Lena’s thigh and she’s saying how much she likes it and then my phone dings. It’s Janice who hasn’t texted me in days. I assumed, or rather hoped, she had given up.

            “Answer it,” Lena says, yanking my chest hairs a little before taking her hand back.

            “It’s nobody,” I say. She sits back on the couch. Puts her top back on. Her bra is on the coffee table near the Star Trek boxed set, the red strap over Spock’s eyes, leaving his judging Vulcan pointy eyebrows to question my honesty.

            “You don’t have that many friends.”

            “You’re right,” I say, grabbing the phone and pulling it toward me so she can’t see. “Could be Jeremy needs something at the airport.”

            “Jeremy never needs anything. I’m surprised he got you to housesit.”

            I see that it’s Janice. She writes, Let me see you.

            I respond with Busy. Later.

            Not too much later. She also sends a pic of some kind, and I don’t open it.

            “Looks like it’s the school district. Reminder to do my health quiz to get the better rate on the insurance.”

            “What bullshit,” Lena says. She eats a fry. Puts one near my mouth and I eat it. “Wouldn’t that be funny if it was Janice hounding you again?” she asks. Her eyebrows raise and she eats another fry.

            “That’s over,” I say.

            “I know. You said so,” she says. “Give me a tour, why don’t you? This place is cool. Then I’ll figure out the Alexa.”

            If she wants to, I know Lena can crack the code or find a work around with Jeremy’s set up. I first met her in that context back in the aughts. We were next to each other at a coffeeshop, and I asked her to watch my laptop as I went to use the restroom. I was trying to consolidate MP3s at the time—most of them were Steely Dan—and she did it for me. Steely Dan is the one thing I nerd out on. Lena also snooped into my musical tastes, which she shared, and we hit it off big time, going deep on lyrics about capitalism and broken dreams and she even knew about Larry Carlton’s epic guitar solo on “Kid Charlemagne.” She used to mine her dad’s old LPs, worked at a couple record stores and was even a DJ for a short while at her college radio station. She loves to talk music and go deep and sometimes I just liked to see her get passionate, along with her sexy laugh and lovely face. I could never seem to get my shit together and she would lose patience. Back then I must have gone through five jobs. I’ve steadied with the middle school security job. But clearly, I’ve not yet become the kind of person she needs. I’m tempted to open that text from Janice.

            We pour a couple Scotches from Jeremy’s stash to start the tour. Neither of us knows much about fancy liquor but Lena does a Sean Connery impression, another one of her talents, some quotes from Dr. No, and we almost snort the burning liquid gold through our noses. We both love old movies. After that, I do my best Mike Myers Scottish bit, which fails, but Lena laughs, a turn on, and we go through the kitchen, the DVD shelves and comic books in the living room, the Star Trek posters in the office, and I plan on ending in the bedroom for the reveal of Baby, the pièce de resistance. I push open the bedroom door and Lena says, “My, you’re forward,” then starts rubbing my shoulders near my neck, a place I tend to keep my tension. “I want to tell you something. Ask you something,” she says, and she steps in front of me.

            “Wait,” I say. I hear the phone ding again in the other room and I jump. Over her shoulder I see the terrarium, but the lid is off, and there aren’t slithering coils or a darting tongue. The blue lights gleam over the dayglo rock terrain of Baby’s bed, but it looks like Baby’s escaped.

            “I want to tell you,” she says.

            “Wait,” I say as fast as I can, saved by the moment. “Baby’s gone.”

            “Is that some movie quote?” Lena asks. She stares hard at me. Sees my fear. “I need to be serious right now.”

            “Not a quote,” I say. I point toward the terrarium. “Somewhere in this house Jeremy’s boa constrictor is lost, trying to find home, maybe find lunch. Shit,” I say.

            “My god,” Lena says. “What the hell?” she says, and she pushes me out of the bedroom and slams the door. “Jeremy has a pet snake?”

            “A gigantic one,” I say. “Shit,” I say again. I think back to Jeremy’s tour. Maybe he didn’t put the lid back after his demo. Even the most practiced of us makes a false move now and then.

            “He just lets it out? Or did you let it out? Doesn’t matter. I’m getting out of here,” and Lena shivers, runs to grab her bra, and just before opening the door says, “I was going to say, this is it,” she says. “It’s Janice texting you, I can tell. That’s fine. Not really. It sucks like hell, but I expected it. Fuck,” she says. “It is Janice, isn’t it? I can’t do this all over. This has been too much of my life, too much,” she says. “You’re not ready. I’m worth more than all this bullshit.”

            “I understand,” I say.

            “You understand? You piece of shit. There’s a damn snake loose in this house,” she says. “What the hell are you doing with your life? Take a good look,” she says and flashes me for a split second, wags the bra and puts it back on under her tank top. “That’s the last time you’ll ever see that,” She slams the door. It does seem final. I’m numb, my feet are like anvils, but I make myself move toward the coffee table.

            I go to my phone, looking all over the room as I tip toe over, every corner. What can boa constrictor’s do? Are they like rats or bats that can inch through a nickel-sized opening? I have the phone in my hand, and think I see scales scoot behind a box of comic books in the office. I open the pic Janice sent. It’s not a sexy pic. It’s a shot of her divorce papers.

            I text sorry. Seems like you two had a lot of problems.

            I want to be with you she writes. I do not write anything.

            I walk over to close the door to the office, but Baby slides between my legs on the floor, heading to the front door, which is not all the way closed. Lena slammed it, but it didn’t close all the way. It’s an old Minneapolis bungalow and all the wood parts swell and contract in weather, like snake muscles, and nothing ever seals up all the way. As Baby oozes toward it in her S shape, I swear she looks back at me once with deep eyes of pity. She arches up, as if she comprehends a doorknob but pauses against the wall, thank God, and turns back toward me.

            “Hungry?” I ask. I toss a piece of burger toward her, and it hits her body, and she flicks her tongue out to smell and see that the burger is not alive and therefore no dice. I step back because she’s climbing toward the couch. I push the front door all the way shut. Then I keep backing up, and I see a book on boa constrictors on display on a shelf near the kitchen. There’s one on the cover photo in a tree, all wrapped around the Central American branch, looking a little too much like the devil in the Adam and Eve story. But something goes off in my homo erectus brain and I realize they might like climbing. I could offer Baby a tree branch, or something like it, get her on it and back in the cage, feed her, and then drown my Lena and Janice-related sorrows in Scotch. I run through the kitchen to Jeremy’s backyard, where I hope to find what I need. Two empty garden boxes, some half-grown grass, and an old maple. The garage is at the back of the yard, and he’s got a ladder and a hack saw set up with all his tools. Before setting to work, I pace the tree a bunch of times to make sure nothing is fallen that would make it easier. Jeremy clears things as soon as they fall. I get on my toes to look over the back fence to the alley and there’s nothing there but the clean garbage, compost and recycling bins in perfect order. I set up the ladder and choose the lowest, deadest-looking limb I can see to saw off.

            Then I wonder if a few leaves would help for effect. So I choose something half dead, half alive. I start sawing at it toward the base, working up a terrible sweat. Of course, I’m out of shape. The tree does not come apart easily, but I get the branch off. As I’m lugging it into the house, prying the screen door open with my foot, I think for the millionth time about how I’ve screwed up with Lena and Janice and owe them both some kind of apology, something final, and need to set them free, so they’re not like Baby, or me, trapped in terrible patterns, dependent on the care of idiots. I don’t see Baby when I’m in the house, but I hope for the best and lean the branch against the wall near the door to the bedroom.

            “Alexa, James Bond!” I say. Like a miracle, Jeremy’s system queues up a Daniel Craig movie. Not Sean Connery, but good enough. I pour a big Scotch and wait.

            I watch three of the recent James Bond movies. All the explosions run into each other, all inconsequential. Nothing rids the world of evil, I decide, despite the prettiness of everyone, and the glamorous locales, the shiny motorcycles, planes, cars and guns. I pass out on the couch. When I wake up, it’s past midnight, and Baby is on the branch, wrapped around it, darting her tongue, looking for dinner. I take a deep breath, grab the branch, hoist it over to the terrarium and Baby slides home. I close the lid. Her dinner will have to wait.

            “Sorry, I can’t keep you company,” I say, because the queen-sized bed looks great, but I can’t be sure I’ve done the lid right. I think about Ruby and Jeremy getting sunburns, and I realize Baby and I have been through a lot, and I fall asleep on the Star Trek duvet, deciding whatever happens, happens. The last thing I remember before falling asleep again is making out Captain Kirk’s stern expression near my face in the dark, and the blue lights of Baby’s home from the corner of my eye.

            At work the next day I pass out Jolly Ranchers and tiny Snickers to kids as they traipse through the door. They always perk up when I say, “Hi” and know their name. I don’t know that much about them, but then, I guess I know the essentials. They each get scared, want things, avoid or take responsibility. One thing the school does when a kid really screws up is brings in all the parties involved and does a restitution circle. I sat in on one once. They wanted the kid to write a letter of apology and then for the teacher, the parents, the other kid to write their own letters. The kid said, “I can just say it.” I thought that kid was wise. The meeting was over time and had to end at that point. I wonder if he ever said, “it,” and if so, what it was he said.

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About Author

Joshua Wetjen is a high school English teacher living in Minneapolis and working in St. Paul. When not grading or chasing his children, he likes to tinker on his jazz guitar and try new restaurants with his wife. His work has appeared in Opossum, Newfound, and the Yalobusha Review. You can keep up with his work by following his Facebook Author Page.