Snakes in a Bar!

My friend Scott invited me to a celebration for one of his clients, who just sold his first screenplay.  The party-goers were an eclectic mix, which included Glen, who is really tall with sandy brown hair, green eyes and a light spattering of freckles across his nose and cheeks.  Scott, who isn’t the greatest judge of character, leaned in and whispered in my ear, “You should go out with that guy.  He’s really funny.”  Yes, Glen was funny but there was something strange about him too.  He was “on” sort of like a ringmaster at a circus; and it was a performance I’d seen before.  Besides, he wasn’t the physical type I gravitated toward .

“He seems odd…”  I hazarded.  “Of course he’s odd!” retorted Scott.  He’s a writer!”

Glen is also an independent filmmaker.  He made his first film five years ago, raising five hundred thousand dollars by going door-to-door selling people “a piece of Hollywood” which they were happy to pay for if their name appeared in the credits of a movie “playing at a theatre near you”.  His script was decent and he assembled his original cast by hiring falling stars who were behind in their mortgage payments. Glen’s movie was good enough to make it into a few mid-level film festivals and he rode the publicity for as long as he could, but was never able to parlay his modicum of success into a studio gig.  So he is back writing another script and knocking on more doors.

“I live on the beach,” Glen told me.  “Why don’t you come down and I’ll grill some chicken and we’ll watch the sun set?”  “She’d love to.” Scott replied for me, then whispered in my ear, “C’mon, how bad could one date be?”  I gamely agreed and offered to bring a bottle of wine.

Two days later I drove to Playa del Rey, following Glen’s detailed driving directions since his address doesn’t show up on GPS.  I arrived at a small, ramshackle house at the end of a cul-de-sac.  Glen and his small but oddly muscular eleven-year-old dog greeted me at the door.

Despite its somewhat seedy appearance, the house did have a spectacular ocean view. “You must love waking up to that view every morning,” I said. He glanced out the window at the ocean and took his time responding, “Especially when I have someone to share it with,” he replied. I hoped for his sake his new script isn’t a romantic comedy.

He took my jacket and the bottle of wine and led me to the kitchen, where the sink was half full of dirty dishes, a swarm of gnats greedily hovering above.  We continued through the small living room and he pointed to a small corner where his laptop was set up on his desk, facing the wall.  “This is where it all happens,” he said proudly.

I followed him upstairs through a small bedroom with the mattress on the floor, out to a large patio, facing the street.  An enormous unmade bed was the centerpiece of the space, with billowy, colorful banners and streamers arranged to create a tent-like roof.

“Do you always sleep outside?” I asked.  “I do everything out here.  I sleep, write, make love, eat…”  Eat, yes. That sounded like a convenient segue out of an inconvenient conversation.  “Is that chicken I smell on the grill?” I inquired, hopefully.  Turns out, Glen had gotten so wrapped up in writing a scene that day, which he then described in detail, and never made it to the grocery store to get the chicken. He suggested we go to a place up the street where “the food isn’t very good but it’s where all my friends go”.

“I’ll drive,” I volunteered. Always have your escape route at the ready. We went about a mile up a gravel road before turning into a unpaved parking lot, with a smattering of cars.  I felt like I was in Baja,  south of Tijuana, where it’s really desolate.  Inside, the place was redolent of fresh grease and stale beer.  The bartender and a few others greeted Glen affectionately as we sat at a table and ordered a couple of drinks.  “Do you want to split a burger?” he asked.

Someone approached from behind .  Glen leaped up from the table to greet him, “Hi Buddy! You brought Critter!”

I felt a heavy weight on my shoulders.  What was this? Was “Buddy” leaning on me?  A few seconds went by before I realized the creature canoodling with my upper torso was of the reptilian, not human, variety. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw two beady eyes and a slithering tongue slowly turn its attention toward me.

I’ve never liked snakes or spiders for that matter.  While Glen talked with Buddy, who felt comfortable draping his python on the shoulders of a complete stranger, I sat there, encumbered, too paralyzed with fear to scream. I wondered how quickly I could pass out to make this entire night disappear.  I also thought of Scott. How bad could one date be, he’d wondered. I vowed to survive this experience only to be able to let him know.

Glen must have noticed the blood rush out of my face and that I was close to face planting.  He quickly grabbed hold of Critter and handed him back to Buddy.  “Are you ok?” he asked me.  There was no water on the table so I swallowed the rest of my stale beer.  Buddy was apologetic, “I’m so sorry.  I figured if you were with this guy, you’d be used to snakes.”  Apparently, Glen’s bathroom, where he houses a seven-year-old python, was the part of the house tour he skipped.

I pulled into Glen’s driveway and put the car in reverse.  “Don’t you want to come in?” he asked.  “No, sorry, I’ve got a lot to do tomorrow.” He persisted. “Didn’t you leave your jacket inside?”  I had.  SPOILER ALERT: But if James Franco can cut his own arm off to survive in “127 Hours,” this was a small sacrifice.  “No, I threw it in the back before we left for the bar.” Glen finally opened the car door and got out.  “Good luck with your movie,” I said, backing out of the driveway and never looking back.