Patience and Reptiles
I had packed my portable audio gear intending to do my Sunday radio show from the road. The golf resort’s wi-fi was strong enough to make that simple and fast. I also had to produce two features and two commercials before Monday, but I could do that when I returned home that evening.
Sunday was one of those beautiful Autumn days you don’t expect at the beginning of November. Gold and burnt orange everywhere, a pale Wedgwood sky and sunlight so bright it makes everything shimmer. It was warmer in York than back home in Binghamton. And it was clock-changing weekend and that meant a whole extra hour of sleep.
The golf-resort’s Sunday brunch was sumptuous even though I had to pour my own tomato juice and toast my own English muffin. The lone waitress, Candy, was as energetic and eager to fuss over me as she had been the day before, and I joined two more new-found friends from the convention, both single women with what I was becoming used to as that friendly Yorkian way.
A short time later, my luggage and computer was packed and I was seated in a cozy chair in the hotel lobby, stealthily eavesdropping on a grandmother, her daughter, a precocious 6-year-old girl and rambunctious 9-year-old boy who had been at a wedding the night before.
I was impatient for Ray from the Monroe to call and give me an update on my car. Minutes ticked by to hours; the family left and it was soon past 11 am. Ray had said he’d call at noon. I could have been reading; I could have been working, but instead I savored the mid-morning quiet before a faux fireplace. At 12:25 I took out my cell phone.
He picked up on the first ring and was as chipper as the previous evening. But it was a busy morning (on a Sunday?) and he hadn’t gotten to my car.
“Give me another hour.” Now I was bored and restless and a little concerned. With the time change it would get dark around 6. I had to leave at least by 3 to avoid too much driving in the dark. I killed another 20 minutes exploring the lobby and the landscaping outside. Then I Ubered to the Monroe. I had to get there anyway, and there was no point wandering around the lobby checking the time every five minutes.
Ray was still upbeat and friendly but every bay had a mechanic and a car up on the lift and not one of them was mine. The waiting area was cramped, the plastic chairs uncomfortable, the place an endless stream of customers in and out: oil changes, tire rotations, tune ups, the odd starter. They all seemed to know Ray from around town.
One couple expecting any minute had an extended conversation. They knew Ray from high school, caught up on other alumni and asked Ray about his other business. Snakes.
He raised them. Lots of them. In cages. In his basement. All kinds. Sold them online or at snake shows.
“Snake shows?” I asked when the couple left.
“Oh yeah…there’s a huge market all over the world. I started small, back in high school, to make a few bucks. My cousin gave me a pregnant boa. I bred the offspring and found out there’s big money in exotic varieties, especially neonates–when they’re just hatched—after a couple weeks. It was just a sideline, but I’m growing it.”
“Maybe one day quit your day job?”
“Nah I got benefits here. My retirement.”
Of course. “Poisonous?”
“Used to. They bring in the big bucks. But I had to stop when my son was born, Now I only breed non-venomous varieties. Don’t need to take chances with a toddler around.”
Scratch a mechanic and find a herpetoculturist—snake-breeder.
I saw that my car had been put on one of the lifts and a mechanic handed Ray a sheet with the diagnosis.
“Brake line needs a part; there’s a small hole from rusting.”
“Expensive?” I queried, fingers crossed in my pockets.
“Not very. With labor, you’d get away for $150, maybe two?”
I could afford that. Things were looking up.
“Only problem is I need to locate the part. It’s a, what, 2002? They don’t use these lines on newer models. I’ll have to call around.”
Ray was persistent, I’ll give him that. He made at least 15 calls—in between serving customers and educating me about snake-breeding. A couple places needed to check and call back. But by 4 pm, with no callbacks and only an hour left in Ray’s day, it was clear I was spending another night in the suburbs of York. Add another hundred to that bill for the repairs.
The thoroughfare where the Monroe was located was a busy shopping area, and at Ray’s recommendation I booked a room at a Country Inn, non-smoking, breakfast included. It was a short Uber ride away.
I sat down to edit the two features and email them in for airing on Monday. Glad I’d packed the audio gear. The two radio shows and commercials could wait until morning. It was past dark when I finished and I hadn’t eaten since breakfast.
My cell phone showed a place called The Stone Grill and Taphouse–less than a mile away, across the street. I could walk. I took my key chain flashlight out as I crossed the parking lot. Pennsylvania: a quiet two-lane: no sidewalks, no street lights, no traffic. Just little ole stranded me, trying not to step in a ditch along the wet, grassy non-walkway, trying not to trip over a branch, or a stone or the curb.
Ah, the curb! At last, sidewalk, connected to a tiny strip mall, deserted except for a warmly welcoming red and blue neon announcing “The Stone Grill and Taphouse.” I had actually been able to see it from my hotel window. It was joined by two other neons offering “Dos Equis” and “Pabst Blue Ribbon.”
A taphouse in York, PA, eight pm on a Sunday evening. Sure, why not?