I’m Not The Snake

A few weeks ago my two dogs had a cottonmouth snake cornered in the garage. These are common in my area and ranked fourth of the six venomous snakes in the state. The snake was right by the door leading into the house and he was coiled up ready to strike. Had he, there is a good chance he could kill my dogs, a bite could even kill me. I managed to clear the dogs back, opened the garage door and used my hockey stick to escort the killer out. I thought about crushing his head with the stick, but decided to let him go. He’s just a snake doing snake shit, right?

Yesterday I was trimming the edges of the lawn and I moved a large flat rock by the garage door. Guess who was underneath, coiled up ready to kill me? Had I not been paying attention he would have got me. He was right by the house, on a path I walk daily barefooted to wash the sand off my feet. This was enough for me; I used the trimmer and chopped up his ass. I spent the rest of the day feeling badly for killing the killer. Why? That snake wouldn’t hesitate to venomize me and send me into a spin, possibly killing me, why would I feel badly about what I did? He was literally a snake in the grass. Why wouldn’t I end his life as easily as he would have mine? Why would I care about his life at all?

Tristan was a new probationer on for multiple DUIs. Anyone who knows me knows I have a special place in heart for drunk drivers; my brother was killed by one. He arrived to his first appointment drunk off his ass. It was 10:00 in the morning and he couldn’t stand on his own. On the walk from the waiting room to my office he bumped into the walls more than once.  The most remarkable thing about it was he didn’t try to hide it or show any remorse. 

“Have you been drinking?’

“Every day.”

“Did you have anything to drink today?”

“Maybe, what’s it to you?”

That was enough for me, I asked him to stand up, face the wall, and put his hands behind his back. 

“Or else what?!” 

It was then I noticed how small he was, maybe 5’8” barely 140 pounds. I stepped into his space and helped him to be fitted for the bracelets. He put up a bit of a fight but he could barely stand, so there wasn’t much there. He wouldn’t stop with the mouth.  It wasn’t long before he was threatening my job, my family, and of course my health. He was loud enough to draw the attention of my boss who was aware of the situation and arrived in my office eager to help. My boss is not a small man, you could tell he spent some time in the gym. Tristan stood up, this time in Swole Boss’ face, again with the threats. Swole Boss glanced over at me, and I could tell it was going to get ugly. Just before Swole Boss got hands on, Tristan sat back down. I was a little disappointed. 

The transport to jail was loaded with more threats and non compliance. Once we started the booking process I could see the fear in Tristan’s eyes. Somehow, despite the headaches he had caused I still found compassion.

“Just keep your head down and mouth shut.” I said with the most kindness I could muster.

The jail was busy that day. As soon as we got into the booking area there was a huge, stereotypical, freshly booked inmate in our path. He looked like a cartoon; tattoos up to his ears, head shaved bald, and a goatee wrapped around a menacing look of anger. His XXL orange jumpsuit was struggling to contain his massive shoulders and arms. Tristan woke up to the reality of the situation, but it didn’t last long. The correctional officers asked him three times to take off his shoes, and when he did, he threw them and demanded he get his phone call. Later, during the pat down of his person, Tristan questioned the correctional officer’s sexual preferences and asked if he “liked what he felt.” Before walking into the tank with Cartoon Crook, he looked back at me and pointed: “I’m here because of you! I’ll get you for this!” I smiled and waved goodbye.

I was back in the jail later that day for other business and noticed a lot of blood in the tank. I guess Tristan “fell” and broke his nose. He was no longer inside the tank but Cartoon Crook was, he had a bit of blood on his knuckles, and curling smirk on his face. Strangely, the officers didn’t see a thing. I thought of Cartoon Crook pushing his massive, tattooed fist into Tristan’s face and I smiled a little. I felt guilty for that… honest.

A few weeks later Tristan had his day in court and instead of recommending more jail time, I asked for a residential program to address his obvious substance abuse issues. After, other officers asked why. Why would I show mercy for such a dick? Clearly he would do this again. If he was gone he would leave this world no poorer. Why help him? 

I’ve known a lot of people like Tristan, rotten to the core and anxious to hurt anyone they can, without remorse. I thought of something I heard long ago; “some people just hate for no reason.” I wondered if it would be better to lock him up forever, and why I should care, why show compassion or try to help such a villain? Then I got my answer:

I’m not the snake.