RandomPokesA Pack of Winstons and a RattlesnakeSteve Dennie
The three of us--Tom, Mark, and I--were sitting under the Arizona sky looking for shooting stars and telling UFO stories. As we talked, they pulled out some cigarettes.
"Do you want one?" Tom asked me.
"No thank you," I said.
They smoked their cigarettes while I stared into the woods and sky. Before long, I began feeling a bit left out, not to mention very straight and square. What would it hurt?
"Are you sure you don't want a smoke?" Tom asked again.
Well--"No, I'm sure," I told him.
Actually, I did want a cigarette. Only one thing stopped me: I didn't know how to smoke. I'd never done it before. A tenth-grader, and I hadn't tasted tobacco yet. Nor had I tasted alcohol, for that matter. This is what can happen when you grow up in a Christian home.
I knew that if I tried to smoke in front of my friends, I'd make a total fool of myself--probably inhale smoke the wrong way, start coughing uncontrollably, and end up on a respirator by morning. For me, pride overrules peer pressure. That's why I said no.
But I wanted to be prepared the next time.
A few days later I rode my Honda 100 to the Shell station, which I knew had a cigarette machine around the side of the building, sort of hidden from view. I didn't want anyone to see Goody-Goody Steve buying cigarettes.
After looking around to make sure no one was watching, I quickly inserted my coins and pulled the Winston lever. A red pack dropped into the tray. I scooped it up, hid it in my jacket pocket, hopped aboard my motorcycle--and fled the scene.
My guilt was overpowering. I felt like I was trying to shoplift a bedroom suite out of Sears on "Sale of the Decade" weekend.
I sped far out into the desert to a secluded gully, where I parked my bike. Then I pulled out the Winstons and started walking.
Time to experiment.
If you want my opinion, I think I did pretty well for a beginner. At first, I wasn't even sure which end to stick in my mouth, let alone how to properly inhale and exhale. But after five or six cigarettes, I had it down.
I felt quite proficient at what I was doing. I didn't get cocky and try blowing rings or exhaling through my nose--I had some lingering fears about asphyxiating myself in the desolate Mojave and not being found for six months. But I figured I would soon graduate to those advanced practices.
Finally, mission accomplished, I decided to return home. If my friends ever again offered me a cigarette, I could still refuse, but it would be out of principle rather than sheer ignorance. I had become a veteran smoker.
I walked back to my motorcycle. With only a couple yards to go, my survival instincts stopped me in mid-stride. Right there in front of me, right where my foot would land in one more step, was the devil himself.
A rattlesnake.
A sidewinder rattlesnake.
All coiled up, with its rattle sticking straight up in the middle and its head laying next to it.
I hate snakes. When I see movies in which a snake is ready to strike someone, I squirm and shiver. When the girl in "True Grit" falls into the snake pit, I just about turn gray waiting for the snake to spring. Mere garter snakes inspire dark nightmares, so a deadly sidewinder didn't exactly flatter my machismo. Given the choice, I would rather cuddle a crazed crocodile.
So I'm standing there with one foot raised, eyes bugged, heartbeat in overdrive--and what did I do? Did I jump back? No. Did I launch an instant prayer? No. Did I scream in terror? No. Did I die of a massive coronary on the spot? Almost, but no.
Here's what I did. The instant I spotted the snake, my right hand whipped to the side, flinging those Winstons as far as I could. It was a reflex action, pure instinct, done without any thought whatsoever. One second my right hand held the Winstons, the next they lay in desert sand 15 yards away.
It's like my subconscious recalled my childhood Sunday school teacher's admonition to avoid all appearance of evil, and if I ever needed to avoid evil, this was it.
The sidewinder stayed put, fortunately. I made a big circle around it--a big circle, like walking around the mountain--and quietly approached my bike from the other direction. I rolled it about ten yards, hit the kick-starter and, remembering that rattlers often travel in pairs, high-tailed it out of there
When I arrived home, Dad was the only one there.
"Dad, I want to tell you something," I said hesitantly. Then I spilled the whole story.
I'm glad my Dad has a sense of humor. He didn't scold me. He didn't express disappointment. He didn't preach at me. He didn't say, "I hope you learned your lesson." Instead, he listened with a somewhat amused look on his face, and when I was done, he laughed.
That's right, Dad just laughed.
And I laughed.
When I told Mom, she laughed, too. No other response was needed.
We still laugh about it.
God has taught me lessons in many ways, but this was his most creative. I got the message, and it stuck. I've never since smoked a cigarette. Never even wanted to. Stick a rattlesnake under my nose and I'll learn advanced calculus in two hours flat. Or, I'll learn instantly that I shouldn't stick burning leaves in my mouth.
Another time came when my friends offered me a cigarette. I kindly refused.
"Are you sure?"
You bet I was sure.
Copyright 2005 Steve Dennie |
