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Get your own free home page Snake Boy- The Rave King
by Brad Boes and Cathy Bedwell
It was very hot that day in the New Thames Mobile Home Court. Hot even for late August in Sarasota. Clarinda lay sweating on an old settee out in front of the double-wide parked on lot 34. She watched beads of sweat forming on here bare midriff as she languished in the sun. Amid the heat could be heard the flies' constant humming. As one was swatted, it seemed two more were there to take it's place in some maddening dance of annoyance. The heavy drone created by the approaching vehicle was almost imperceptible beneath that incessant buzzing.
The sandy gravel drive groaned under the weight of the metallic brown Grenada. Little bits of dust flew into the air, forming a fine patina on Clarinda. She really hated it; the grit, the flies, the smell of unburned gasoline mixed with the neighbors cooking odors. Thoughts of leaving, getting away from it all, wafted through her brain as the car door squeaked open and slammed closed.
A loud shriek broke Clarinda out of her reverie. She looked up to see the Snake Boy, a close friend and the self styled Rave King of the Sarasota area. Raging towards her, the Snake Boy (his real name is Gaston Jackson, but he freaks if you call him that) was kicking the dirt at his feet, stirring up more tiny eddies of dust. He was obviously really upset. His chest heaved, and his normally ruddy complexion was deepened by his apparent anger. Evidence of perspiration under his arms and on his chest seemed to emphasize his ample beer gut.
"Stop! Stop kicking that shit at me!" she squealed in a high pitched southern drawl, "What IS your problem?"
The Snake Boy huffed, took a drag from his cigarette, and launched a large lugie toward the neighbor's cat. Smoke poured from his nostrils, making him look more dragon-like than nature had intended. Then he began, in the fake English accent he enjoyed affecting when he was really torqued off, "Them bastards! Them bloody bastards! If they think they can wrestle the moniker 'Rave King' from me they must be bloody out of their bloody lunatic minds! I'll have their bloody entrails for bloody lunch!"
Clarinda took the lunch reference as a cue to lob a can of beer in his general direction. "Calm down," she squealed in a slightly lower pitch than before, "and tell me what in Jesus' name is going on!"
"'old on. I needs to quench me parched throat an' 'ead," he nearly stammered as his faked cockney grew particularly thick. In one fluid motion, he flipped his head backward and slid the entire brew down his throat. A belch ripped from the Snake boy, and this one came from the diaphragm, it sounded as though he had swallowed a router.
"Whoa, now, that's better," he snarled, it seemed his accent had cleared up a bit, but it still had a bit of the continental twinge to it.
"all right, I'll tell you exactly what happened. I was standing outside the Electric Pencil Sharpener, the only place left in town that's even cool, when these filthy bastards came up and put a sign on the door. Closed. Closed it said, no explanations, no apologies, no fucking how-do-you-do. Just closed. I said , ''til; when?' and this bastard just smirked. Then Zowie walks by and says, 'what are you gonna do now, Rave King?', and kinda laughs and keeps on going."
And then I got to thinking, where the hell am I gonna rave? If there ain't no place left that's playin' house music, where the hell are we goin' to rave?" With a heavy sigh, Snake Boy flopped down on the settee next to Clarinda. He face was still flush, and there were the beginnings of tears around the corners of his eyes.
Clarinda put her arm around his shoulder and dug through the cooler for the Snake Boy's favorite: Rolling Rock. She popped the top using the bottle opener she had screwed onto the settee for just such an occasion. The Snake Boy snuffled slightly, taking the emerald-colored bottle from her well tanned hand. She found a cold Old Mil in the bottom corner, and as she pulled the tab she mused, "maybe Sarasota is telling us it's time for a change." She closed her eyes, thinking she had never, in the ten years - Jesus, was had it really been ten? - seen him this miserable. She squirmed. The sun seemed closer... hotter... like God was holding a huge magnifying glass and focusing it on them!
"BBRRRAAAAAAGHGHGH," the Snake Boy eructated so loudly one of the neighbors ran outside to see what had happened. It was Philben, the seemingly homosexual bricklayer. "Hiya guys! I shouldda knowed it was you, Snake Boy." Snake and Clarinda looked at him with the same depressed expression and recited, "Yo Philly".
*****
Philben Durthamer had lived alone in the trailer next to Snake Boy for the past three years. Before that, no one knows. He claims to have been a drifter, a lone wolf who flitted from place to place, taking odd jobs or living off the land. He came to Sarasota when word got out about the Rave scene. Living alone in a shack in Pine Valley, Pennsylvania, he chanced upon a woman who was badly mangled after being struck by lightening. Her dying words were useless, something about a sled, but it was the contents of her purse that changed Philly's life forever. In the purse he found eleven dollars, some half used lipstick, a set of rusty keys, a diaphragm and a brochure. The brochure was stuck in the bottom of the purse, and worn around the edges, apparently from excessive handling. It bore the legend- "Rave at the Electric Pencil Sharpener- Sarasota Fla." The letters were large and friendly, and tore him from his momentarily static existence.
Philly stuffed the brochure, lipstick and the eleven bucks into his deep pocket, glanced quickly around to make sure no one saw him, then headed for his ride. Moments later, he slipped behind the wheel and turned on the practically useless map light. Tingling with apprehension, he pulled the brochure from his pocket and pored over the remaining legible words. "...hyperrealistic clothes, videographics and people who are waaaayyy too friendly. No cover before 11 PM on Friday." Further down the page, he could barely make out, "...Friday catch Planet E with The :ics. Saturday rave with quepasque (Spain) and Applepie (Norway), the finest technoacoustics available this side of the Atlantic." Philly feltthe itch of perspiration on his upper lip. He wrenched the rear view mirror around and looked at the image it contained. He extracted the sled-woman's lipstick from his pocket and, staring fixedly past the mirror, smeared the greasy stick in the general vicinity of his mouth. A grotesque grin attached to his lips as he realized this was the closest thing he had had to a real experience in years; as though he stuck his finger in that 'electric pencil sharpener...'
Reaching for the key, Philly felt as though his hands were working on their own, his consciousness was a disembodied spectator, along for the ride. As he hit the starter, the burst of sound from the engine ripped through his psyche- creating a near orgasmic rush of adrenaline. He wouldn't feel a rush of endorphins that strong again until he hit Sarasota. And had a chance encounter at the Electric Pencil Sharpener.
***** It was cold and wet the night that Philly arrived in Sarasota. The wet pavement combined with the bright fluorescent and neon light of the city's main drag threw his mood into an even deeper depression. Philly had lost the inertia that had driven him at the start of the journey- torrential rains and cold weather had dogged him the entire trip. Now Sarasota- cold and wet, no longer seemed to be the promised land. Perhaps if he could just find that club.... "Damn!! I cain't read the goddamned address!," Philly muttered as he leaned into a darkened doorway. "At least I ain't gettin rained on anymo - Heya!" Suddenly a Gray-green light oozed out of the doorway and someone said, "It's after eleven, ten dollars cover." Philly drooled a little, "Wha - cover? For wha?" The gray-green voice adopted an authoritative tone, "Look buddy, you want to rave, or not? Ten dollars to rave." Wet, tired and light-headed, Philly handed a ten-spot to the voice. The gray-green reached out to him, pulling him toward the future..
*****
Clarinda Denton was born and raised in Goshen, Indiana, and had spent most of her life within the strict Amish culture that flourished in the area. Her father was a barrel wright and her mother spent most of her time taking care of the home, but did help out by making maple chews to sell in a little shop run by the community. It seems those cities are full of those who enjoy a voyeuristic thrill watching the technologically impaired, and the Amish are more than happy to fuel this twisted need- if there's a buck to be made.
Clarinda's world view changed drastically on May 4. It was a calm, clear morning and the cow Clarinda was milking lowed nervously. Clarinda hummed softly - the cow seemed to enjoy the constant buzzing sound and usually milked more efficiently - but this morning Flossie seemed agitated no matter what Clarinda did. The cock crowed, breaking Clarinda's rhythm. A strange blue-green light illuminated the barn, and Flossie kicked almost knocking over the milk pail. The next thing Clarinda could recall was seeing two buttons, one green and one red, each shaped like giant M&Ms. She had never eaten M&Ms before, but was drawn to the bright red color, so she pushed the red M&M. Three smaller versions of the giant button appeared through a little tube. Clarinda picked them up, examining them closely. Some of the red coloring rubbed off on her fingers. She pressed one of the M&Ms between her thumb and forefinger, squishing it into a chocolate mess. The smell of the chocolate made her lick her fingers.
The taste was intense and sweet, like nothing the shawl-bearing technophobe had ever experienced. She hungrily pressed the green button, and three similar treats popped down an adjacent tube. The sweet shell crunched noisily between her teeth, causing a moment of elation, immediately followed by a surprised pause as she discovered a new secret hidden within the chocolate morsels- a peanut filling. Amazed, Clarinda felt an intense craving, a need to have more of these sweets. But as quickly as it had arrived, the strange illumination faded and was gone, taking with it it's crunchy confections.
Clarinda felt an instantaneous sense of loss, wondering where the light had originated, who was behind the chocolates, why she had been chosen to receive the candies. As she made her way through the barn on her somewhat shaky legs, she felt a strange sensation creeping into her belly. Very like an intense nervousness, the feeling slowly spread, until her heart was racing. Feeling the need, she sat down in a corner of the rustic barn, and looked around. The play of sunlight through the cracks in the weathered building began to form patterns that she had never before noticed. Everything she saw took on an animated fringe of neon- breathing in an unworldly life of it's own. Frightened, Clarinda shook her head, trying to make sense of what was happening- to keep some grasp of her slowly decreasing sense of self awareness.
Flossie lowed loudly. Clarinda, sensing the cow's hunger, untied her and flung open the barn door. The dazzling sunrise made Clarinda sink to her knees in awe as the cow waddled toward the pasture. One moment, she thought, "I must be going insane", the next, nothing existed but the clump of grass in front of her, and then, that beautiful sunrise! She felt too joyous and alive to be crazy, yet could not begin to explain what was happening to her.
She passed the entire day in an eventful/uneventful manner. The other women often asked, "Dost thou feel ill?", noticing Clarinda's complete absorption in a task, followed by long pauses of distraction. As the day wore on, Clarinda realized she would eventually be required to explain her weird behavior. Her mother and sister had begun whispering, and that always meant trouble. Clarinda was beginning to feel more like herself, and yet very unlike the Amish girl she had been until today.
After their mother had wished them pleasant dreams, Clarinda witnessed to her younger sister, Leah. Leah clutched her quilts tightly as Clarinda described, in incredible detail, what she had seen, smelled, tasted, felt and heard during the day.
"Tweren't like nothing thee had ever seen," she began. As she described the candies, the machine, the bizarre hallucinations, the feeling of elation and freedom, she began to understand something. She could never go back to the simple life she had lived until this day. Somehow, her eyes felt as though they had never seen real color before, her brain had never had a real thought. Every taste and smell, the feel of the air, it was all new, and vibrant and tangible in a way the simple folk of Goshen could never understand.
"I got to go, Leah, I got to go. Somewhere out there are people like me, who have tasted the candies, and felt the glow, and I must find them." As she spoke she felt hot tears running down her cheek, and wondered where she'd be tomorrow. She glanced over to her sister, and saw she was frozen in terror, eyes wide, a death grip on the quilt. "Be not afraid dear sister, I'm leaving."
The next morning, Clarinda packed her bag, and began the long walk which began down the dirt path that led from her village to the highway. A small crowd had gathered, and those seeing her off threw small rocks and flashed hand signals to ward off the "evil eye." She would miss them all.
Highway 15 is a small, two-lane road running about one third the length of Indiana. Farm houses and barns rise out of the corn, human-made zits amongst the sea of tassels. Few vehicles travel this road, and those that do are locally-owned and operated. Consequently, Clarinda's first attempt at hitchhiking attracted the attention of Bill Spedly, a Hoosier with a temperament as level as his surroundings. Hearing the roar of the big Chevy's engine, Clarinda wheeled around and began waving. He pulled up beside her in a cloud of dust and said, "Mighty hot evening ta walk along this stretch a road, Ma'am. You want a ride?" Without a word, Clarinda pulled on the door handle. When nothing happened, she tugged again. Bill leaned over, grabbing at some of the papers littering the seat and opened the door from inside. "Where ya headed, Missy?" Clarinda climbed into the seat, closed the door, and shrugged. Bill drove off. "I'm goin' home," began Bill, then he paused. Clarinda watched him so closely and quietly, Bill suspected she was deaf and mute. "It's gettin' late and I know Marymartha will want you to stay fer dinner... If you need somewhere fer the night, we'd be happy to have ya, if your willin' to help feed and cook..." Clarinda smiled broadly. She relaxed into the vinyl seat, vowing to remain silent until she learned how to fit seamlessly into her newly chosen world.
The Spedly home was a plain affair, a cheaply built mass produced ranch style home, old aluminum siding, white with fake red brick wrapped around the bottom three feet. The lawn was mowed, but otherwise ignored, the grass was patchy, sprinkled generously with dandelion and buck horn. But to Clarinda, the home seemed a wonderland of modern living. As she stepped inside, she felt the cold slap of dry, processed air- this must be the 'central air' she had read about, secretly, in the Ladies Home Journal. She realized the magazine did not lie, but she never thought she could know such comfort. It had the flavor of forbidden fruit.
Bill removed his shoes at the door, and Clarinda followed suit, luxuriating in the brutal softness of the green sculptured carpeting. "I think I'm gonna like it out here in my new world", she thought, and mentally gave herself a hug.
"You can go on into the kitchen, and introduce yourself to Marymartha, she'll find plenty to do to keep ya busy."
As Bill watched Clarinda paddle out to the kitchen, his face broke into a crooked little grin. He was certainly looking forward to dinner- and dessert. Hearing Marymartha's exclamation of surprise at seeing Clarinda, Bill turned and headed toward his radio room, where he religiously spent the hour before dinner trying to contact UFOs.
Clarinda beamed as Marymartha fussed over her, rearranging her hair and cooing. Marymartha seemed unaware of Clarinda's silence, contentedly babbling on and on and on about nothing in particular. Her manner suggested to Clarinda that talking to herself came quite naturally.
At precisely 6pm, Bill switched off his equipment and conscientiously closed the door. Marymartha and Clarinda were placing the last casserole dishes on the table just as Bill sat down and began to say grace. Clarinda sensed that this was a well-rehearsed scene. As Bill said "Amen", Marymartha handed him the pot roast and asked, without enthusiasm, "Anybody answer?" "Naw," said Bill, scooping potatoes and pale yellow carrots onto his plate, "but the reception's real good tonight, and bein' The Anniversary and all... I think I'll try again later." Marymartha took this as her cue to tell the story of The Encounter. She launched into the hour long saga about how Bill had been kidnapped by aliens 15 years ago today. Clarinda listened with amazement, often finding that her mouth was hanging open in a socially unacceptable manner. When Marymartha began describing Bill's interaction with the M&M machine, Clarinda began choking on the peas and corn she had just shoveled into her mouth. Bill and Marymartha seemed oblivious as Clarinda's eyes bulged and her face turned beet red.
"Ach, Aach, aack, " the violent sounds of choking ripped through the kitchen, tearing a gash in the sentence that hung in midair. With a hurried chorus of Oh my God, Bill and Marymartha were on their feet, rushing to save their house guest. Bill had once aspired to become an EMT, but had washed out in the training, still his experience made him the home's urgent care specialist, and Marymartha gave him a wide berth.
"Shit, you're choking," he exclaimed as he yanked the girl from her chair and grabbed her around the waist. With two hard squeezes, the procedure was complete. A large egg noodle, encrusted with cream of mushroom soup, flew across the room and, with a crisp 'fwak,' adhered itself to the green and rose flowered wallpaper.
Clarinda gasped, and panted violently as she tried to regain her breath, and her composure. "Thank you, "she cried, tears welling in her eyes," you saved my life" "Oh hell, that ain't nothin'," came the answer," and it sure as hell ain't no reason to cry,"
Bill sat back down as Marymartha got up to clean the wall. There was communal sigh of relief.
"But that ain't' why I'm crying," began Clarinda, " I'm cryin' because you seen the machine, and you ate the candy. I never thought I'd really meet no one else that did." It was obvious that Clarinda felt at home, even her pattern of speech began to resemble the Spedly's.
"You mean to tell me that you ate the candies, too? Did you feel the glow? Did you get the empty feelin', after?" Incredulous, Bill began to weep. He and Clarinda fell into each other's arms and sobbed. Until this moment each had felt alone in the torment of their peculiar experience. Until this moment, no one understood.
Bill spoke until his voice was literally a whisper. Marymartha provided the sustenance necessary to keep Bill's three day, `close encounter' workshop ning. Clarinda took in every word, posing questions only when Bill stopped to eat or drink. "That's evry blesst thing happen'd me," rasped Bill as he collapsed on the table. Marymartha began tugging on his arm, "Grab the right side an we'll move him to the davenport, Clarinda." They wrestled Bill's sizable hulk over to the couch and plopped him down. Marymartha headed toward the bedroom, "I need some shut eye myself, dear, you get some rest too." Yet resting was the last thing on Clarinda's mind.
Clarinda packed quickly and confidently. As she closed the Spedly's front door, Clarinda's sleep-deprived mind chanted the name and address of Bill's nephew like a mantra: "Gaston Jackson, 32B Tarpon Springs Apartments, Sarasota, Florida." She had learned everything Bill could tell her about aliens, but Gaston had seen them too...
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