Turn The Rock Over

As spring gradually envelopes the South a particular time of year is closing in.  It is moving like Godzilla trampling a Japanese village with results both erratic and final.

Just off the interstate in Columbia, South Carolina, there is an access road.  The road passes in front of a menagerie of business selling everything from cars to fireworks and billboards advertising adult novelties.  Wedged between a business selling out buildings including a small lighthouse that would look lovely on my front lawn and an apartment complex is a modest building with a can collection drop and a sign advertising the Jamil Shriner Temple.  These places have always been somewhat of a mystery to me.  It is hard to get beyond the image of grown overweight men wearing a fez and driving a little car in a parade.  The place is however, a humble bastion for events as diametrically opposite as the roller derby and a gun show.  On this particular day, a giant inflatable snake sat on the front lawn and the partially missing letters on the front sign, like the puzzle board on Wheel of Fortune, announced the presence of the Reptile Show.

Under normal circumstances I would have never ventured through the front door however, on this particular day I was escorting a 13 year old boy with a deeply ingrained reptile fascination. It rears its head periodically and is manifested in a nagging desire to own one.  The subsequent response is usually something like, "son, just love your dog."

This reptile desire has been ever present despite the great turtle tragedy of 2009.  This occurred when a father, meaning well, decided to let the aquatic turtle walk around on his back deck.  The turtle would most certainly be safe as, said father, erected a 6 inch high net around the perimeter.  Out of sight for a few minutes while he ventured to the kitchen he returned to find the turtle had vanished.  Apparently it had scaled the 6 inch net, plunged 8 feet to the ground and wandered off.  A search ensued rivaling the hunt for the Loch Ness Monster.  Flash lights were employed and for two days every rock and bush were examined.

The truth only came out three days later when a little girl living in the neighbors house informed my son that she had found a dead turtle on their driveway.  It was in the trash.  Noah and I examined the trash and found the squashed remains of our little friend.  With tears in our eyes a further analysis of the crime scene determined that our neighbor had in fact driven his Audi over the poor creature.  To this day my son doesn't speak to him.

Still shell shocked from the incident I have steadfastly refused any more reptile additions to our home.  Despite this fact my son clings like a trapeze artist to a swing to the hope his parents will relent.  While my wife is quite averse to any of the scaly creatures I must say I do appreciate them.  Like anything they are fascinating in their own right.   That said, I still don't want to own one.  I prefer to watch the geckos in the yard or fight an occasional snake invading my pond.

For my son, the reptile show is a chance to change his father's mind.  Certainly when I wander among the myriad of creep crawly things I will relent.  How could I not?  They are so cute!  Especially the hundred pound monitor inching it's way up a ramp or the tanks filled with scorpions and tarantulas. 

As we approached the door to the Jamil Shriner Temple the first challenge presented itself even before the requisite ten dollar admission.  It was a cloud of cigarette smoke engulfing a dozen heavily tattooed people with piercings in every imaginable location and many as of yet unimagined.   Some had lizards balanced on their shoulders or heads standing like sentinels watching for the slightest hint of danger.

Simultaneously we both sucked in our breath like pearl divers and ran the gauntlet only to discover that the smoke outside was being sucked in by the battery of air condensers next to them and distributed throughout the building.  Yeah, nicotine for all!

The spectacle was immediately overwhelming.  A maze of tables filled with aquariums, cages, boxes and bags consumed the gymnasium sized building.  Poisonous, non-poisonous, vile and spiny filled the hall and those were just the people visiting.  The actual animals were almost as interesting.  With resignation I decided to accept my fate and look upon the experience as a kind of social experiment.  It would be a lesson that allowed me to walk among a side of humanity that is seldom seen in day light.  It is a sub culture of the highest order.  Red neck, goth, white power, nerds, meth heads and a collection of tattoos in an amazing variety.  The most disturbing however was walking among people that seemed normal and unassuming.

As we ventured deeper into the room pairs of nerds would pass us by with small cages in hand.  Some had supplies tucked under their arms and seemed to have a look of victory only found on the faces of a conquering army.  Of even greater interest were the couples.  Relationships built upon reptilian desire.  I only wondered what their houses looked like.  When they made love, did the creature watch them like a dog sleeping in the room?  Did they slither over each other flicking the skin with a tongue and raking their nails?  Did they hiss?

I must admit, I did enjoy the lizard with floating eyes that reached out from it's perch and grabbed my son's finger.  With skill and nearly in slow motion it climbed to the head of it's owner and rotated it's eyes backward still watching us carefully.

People with snakes wrapped around their jugulars walked by us seemingly tempting death with one simple squeeze.  A young girl tried to sell some furry creature to a dealer.  Undoubtedly the cute animal had once been a treasure and had evolved into a nightmare.

My son lead me to a particular table filled with bags of mice.  They were not live mice, they were frozen corpses grouped together each in varying states of development.  I engaged the vendors in conversation and my son suddenly began to harbor a false hope.  Was his Pop suddenly becoming interested?  Was their a possibility he might leave with a creature?  I asked them how they terminated the little furry ones lives.  They explained a careful process of gassing them at precisely the right moment.  I suddenly realized that some where in Georgia there was an Auschwitz of mice.  What had the little creatures done to deserve this?  At least they would go to their fate not feeling fear.  Perhaps that alone was some form of morbid consolation.

The time came to leave and my son's eyes suddenly grew desperate as he realized his reptilian fantasy would not materialize.  We navigated the trucks and mini van's loading creatures and resigned to his fate he attempted to regroup.  He commenced plotting his strategy for the reptile festival that would certainly come again next year.