"Always?" I said, matter-of-factly. That was a bit of a stretch but I played along.
"Always! He always has to pee. He probably has a world record in peeing."
"Really?"
"Really!"
"And what do you base this on?"
"'Cause he's always asking to go to the bathroom. At home. At school. At restaurants. In outer space. Everywhere!"
"Sounds time consuming."
"It is, Daddy. It is," she said angrily, crossing her arms, her face twisting into pure annoyance as she gazed out the window, her mind rummaging through a catalog of very annoying events she had to endure from her brother, no doubt. "He's like a girl!"
Now, I was surprised by this comment considering that it came from my little girl. Not that little Jessie acted anything like a girl. In fact, acting like a girl was the last thing Jessie did. More than anything, she had the spirit of a boy trapped in a girl's body. I wouldn't be surprised if when she was older that she enlisted in the Marines or played an extreme sport or turned her love of taekwondo into a professional career or something along these lines. She was tough as nails and I didn't expect that to go away with age. If anything, I expected her to get tougher and tougher with age. I turned to look at my tough-as-nails daughter and said, "But you're a girl, sweetheart."
"No, I am not."
"You're not? Then what are you?"
"I'm a warrior," she said, a sly grin sliding cross her face. "And don't you forget it!"
"All right. All right. Calm down, killer," I said, looking in the window of the convenience store, trying to see if I could see Nat. I didn't see Nat or Sammie, for that matter. Sammie must have been setting another world record in peeing. "You should be nice to your brother."
"I'm nice to him!"
"Your brother... he's special, you know?"
"Special?" she said, then giggling hysterically as if that was the funniest thing she had ever heard. "Special sauce maybe!"
"Ha ha," I said, dryly. Little Jessie fell into the backseat, laughing at her own joke at Sammie's expense. He wasn't there to defend himself and, even if he was, I doubt he'd have much to say in return. Sammie wasn't very good at zingers or witty comebacks or any of that kind of stuff--mean or otherwise. He was way too sensitive for that. When I said he was special, I wasn't kidding. But soon, I saw Nat's head appear through the glass and Sammie's next to hers. It was a weird sight at first--their two heads floating behind the glass together as if they were part of the same body--until I realized that Nat was carrying my little boy in her arms. I immediately knew something was wrong. I jumped out of the car, ran to the store entrance, and swung the door open for Nat. She passed my little boy to me, his arms wrapping around my shoulders, his legs wrapping around my waist. I held him close to me, so close that I could feel his heart pounding. I knew something was wrong, I just didn't know what exactly.
"You all right, buddy?" I said. He nuzzled his face into my neck, his whimpers barely audible.
Nat's face was covered with concern, wearing her distress and confusion like dollar store makeup.
"Sorry to scare you Simon but Sammie said he, like, saw something but he wouldn't tell me what that meant," she said, worried. "I heard him crying in the bathroom so I went in there to get him. I thought maybe someone was in there with him--scaring him--but he was, like, by himself."
"Yeah," I said, looking around the convenience store for any onlookers. The clerk behind the counter watched us, mostly 'cause we were standing in front of the entrance. Maybe he thought we were going to steal something. Who knows? But all I knew was that I knew exactly what was going on with good ol' Sammie Boy. And it wasn't good. "Well, this happens sometimes."
"What do you mean?" she said, confused. The store clerk was getting irritated now with our standing in the entrance. He started waving his hands all over the goddamn place like he was directing an airplane to land or something. He looked like a big ol' dufus, waving his arms like that.
"Either come in or go out. You're blocking the door!" he said.
"Sorry," I said, indicating to Nat to follow me outside. Walking back to the car, Nat closely followed me, close enough that I could feel her arm touching my arm. Sammie gripped my neck tightly as I walked. "Well, you see. Sometimes, Sammie has these--" And right then, Sammie released my neck then forcefully placed both of his hands over my mouth tightly, as if sealing every bit of air in there. I couldn't speak, a muffled couple of words trapped in my mouth, tripping over my tongue.
"Daddy! No, don't say anything!" he said, hissing in my ear. Nat could hear him, though. She was caught a little off-guard, I could tell. I looked at her and she looked at me and we stood there in a momentary lapse of uncomfortable silence. It was weird, as if time stood still. "Please!"
"OK," I said. "Sorry, son." I squeezed him tightly, giving him the type of hug I know he craved, that comfortable, firm hug kids need so they know you are being sincere. We stood there for a moment in our embrace then I opened the backdoor of the Volvo and placed him inside. "Put on your seatbelt," I said to him. He complied then I closed the backdoor.
"Everything all right?" Nat said, still looking quite concerned.
"Yeah," I said, sighing. "I'll tell you about later. OK?"
"Sure," she said.
I smiled at her, then winked. That was my signal that we should go. So we hopped in my trusty Volvo S70 and drove away--just like that. A quick stop so my kid could take a leak turned into quite the awkward moment.
It's true.
***
***
When I was a kid, my parents used to love going on long day trips around Texas on the weekends and they would drag me along with them. Living in San Antonio at the time made it easy for us to go to different destinations in Texas because San Antonio was almost centrally located, with easy access to many freeways and interstate highways to get us where we were going. And being that Texas was such a large and geographically diverse state, there were--and still are--a lot of beautiful and unique landmarks and state parks and country towns and big cities and amusement parks and so on and so forth. I mean, Texas was a massive state, bigger than many countries in Europe, even. It's a pretty goddamn big place. It's true.
One of the things that used to capture my imagination as a kid when we drove around were these billboards that I would see on the side of I-35 or I-10 that advertised these fascinating, titillating, and sometimes dangerous sounding places: Inner Space Cavern, Natural Bridge Cavern, Aquarena Springs, Enchanted Rock, and more. The thing about these billboards was that they had spectacular headlines and out-of-this-world illustrations, something that sparked the imagination of a kid like me: a brainy and nerdy and curious and imaginative kid. For instance, Inner Space Cavern was a cave located in Georgetown, Texas. It was discovered by the Texas Highway Department in 1963 during the initial construction of I-35. There were many large openings to the cavern during the Ice Age, and several skeletons of prehistoric Ice-Age animals had been found in there. So, by the time the late 1970s came around (the era of the great Burchwood family day-trips!), the geniuses who oversaw the cavern came up with this brilliant advertising campaign of depicting saber-toothed tigers on their billboards with headlines such as "Come See Where this GREAT PREHISTORIC BEAST was Discovered!" or "Innerspace Caverns: Burial Site of the Vicious Saber-toothed Tiger!" Can you imagine what this billboard did to the brain of a child like me? My brain exploded!
But here's the thing: our car zoomed by these signs at top speed. There wasn't enough time for me to contemplate what they were saying or for me to ask thoughtful questions to my parents about what they meant. All I knew was that image of the saber-toothed tiger was burned into my brain and I had to go to Inner Space Cavern. Every time I saw that billboard, I asked my dad to take me. And Colonel Burchwood always--I mean ALWAYS--said no. It didn't matter how many times I said please or if my mother pleaded with good ol' Marv to appease me once and a while because I was a good boy and deserved a treat every once and a while o
r whatever. He was a mean ol' bastard, that Colonel Burchwood, I tell you. Crusty and as cantankerous as can be. It's true.
The reason I tell you all this is because I was pretty sure that we would soon see one of these billboards on the way to San Antonio for our emergency visit to see the crusty ol' bastard, Retired Colonel Burchwood. After we got back in the Volvo S70 and sped away from the convenience store, good ol' Sammie Boy calmed down and continued drawing in his sketchbook while his sister played her Nintendo. I took a peek at what he was drawing; he was drawing more cartoons of him and his imaginary pet bird, Budgie. But he and his sister were nice and quiet. It was like the incident in the convenience store never happened, except that it did and I didn't really get a chance to tell Nat what the hell was going on. I mean, in some ways, it would have been nice to give Nat the full-disclosure about my son. She was helping me and all with the kiddos. In theory, it seemed like the right thing to do. But sometimes, things that seem like the right thing to do in theory really aren't the right thing to do in real life. Do you know what I mean? Of course, you do. Besides, I figured if there was a right time to tell her about my son's ability to see the future, then I would take the opportunity to do so. That was not the right time to do that.
So, back to the billboards.
I was pretty certain we would see a billboard that would blow Sammie and Jessie's minds. Most of the ones I saw as a kid were long gone, replaced by boring advertisements for gas stations and outlet malls and fast-food restaurants and local politicians and shit like that. But there was one that was still around: the Snake Farm. It was a road-side attraction that still existed, a remnant of that long-gone era of country, small-town spectacles that used to mesmerize the ignorant locals of New Braunfels as well as the travelling tourists from across the state who didn't know any better, or were just bored. It was one of those places that as a kid I desperately wanted to go to but my parents never took me. Maybe, this would be a bonding experience that I could have with my own children--bridging the gap between my childhood and their own--and also allow me that opportunity to do something I never was able to do as a kid. I looked over at Nat to see what she was doing. She was quietly gazing out the window, enjoying the serenity of being away from her usual routine, her elbow propped on the door's armrest, her hand supporting the weight of her head.
I touched her arm which startled her. She placed her palm over her chest, where I imagined her heart to be, attempting to calm herself and keep her heart from pounding out of her chest. I felt pretty bad about it, startling her that is. Then said, "Didn't mean to scare you."
"It's OK," she said, catching her breath. "I was, like, deep in my own head just now."
"You know what?"
"What?" she said, sitting up, curious, fixing her hair where she thought she may have messed it up even though it wasn't messed up at all.
"There's something coming up that I want the kids to see. What are they doing?"
She slowly turned her head to look in the back seat, trying hard not to disturb them. She quietly reported back to me. "They are both doing their thing, playing games and drawing."
"So, do you think they can hear us?"
"Nah," she said, whispering, still primping her hair. Young women like Nat love to primp their hair. It's part of their self-esteem, self-care thing. Nat was always fixing her hair. It was just her thing, too.
"I want them to see this billboard coming up. Do you think you can get them to watch?"
"What billboard?"
"You'll see," I said, grinning. "It's gonna be great! I promise."
Nat reached in the backseat and touched each of the kids' knees. They slowly lowered their diversions, a look on their faces as if they were in a deep trance. I could see their glazed eyes in the rearview mirror. They looked like little zombies. It's true.
"Hey guys! Keep your eyes open. Something is coming up that your dad wants you to see," she said, cheerily. Sammie and Jessie shook their heads, shaking off their self-induced hypnosis. Being that Sammie was on the passenger side, he leaned over slightly to get a better look out the window. Jessie had to unbuckle her seatbelt to get closer to his window, placing her hands on Sammie's lap to prop herself up. Sammie didn't like this very much and began to protest.
"Hey! Get off me!" he said, trying to push her hands away.
"I'm trying to see, too!" she said, resisting his attempt to remove her hands.
"Fine! Only for a minute."
"Fine!"
Nat looked at me then rolled her eyes. She was used to this routine from these two, I could tell, but it didn't seem to faze her. She was a professional, I tell you. After about ten seconds of silence, I could see the billboard in the distance, the same billboard that had been in the exact same spot for at least 35 years: the Snake Farm. Just seeing it again gave me the chills like it did when I was a kid.
"Look, kids!" I said, pointing to the billboard. "What does it say?"
"Snake... Farm?" good ol' Sammie Boy said, then I heard a tiny gasp under his breath. He perked up then said, "What's a Snake Farm?"
"Yeah, Daddy!" Jessie said, chiming in. "What's at the Snake Farm?!"
"I don't know. I've never been to the Snake Farm. But I've always wanted to go," I said, sighing.
"I've always wanted to go, too," Sammie said.
"You've never even seen the sign before, dummy!" Jessie said, slugging Sammie in the arm.
"Have too!"
"Have not!"
"Have!"
"Not!"
"OK. OK!" I said, exasperated. Sometimes, just sometimes, their bickering sucked the joy out of life. I found myself taking deep breaths to deal with the unexpected onslaught of stress. "Calm down, you two. Would you both like to stop there and check it out?"
Nat gave me a concerned look. She pointed to her wrist as if she was wearing a watch and said, "We have to be in San Antonio for your dad. Remember?"
"I remember," I said, a little annoyed that she remembered. "But I want to experience this with my kids. We won't take long. OK?"
"OK," she said. "Put your seatbelt back on Jessie."
Little Jessie politely obeyed her babysitter--leaning back in her seat and putting her seatbelt back on--then I navigated the Volvo S70 to the far right lane, approaching the exit ramp. Once we exited and were on the access road, the small compound of white, stucco buildings quickly approached us. I slowed the car down and turned into the gravel parking lot. We had made it.
"Is this it?" Sammie said, worried.
"What a dump!" Jessie said.
Boy, was she right. Instead of the world-class, magnificent facility of exotic, wild animals and endangered species that the billboard promised, the sad compound looked more like an abandoned motel from the 1950s that hadn't seen a visitor since 1959. The compound consisted of three, white stucco buildings--all with dilapidated window screens, sagging and rusted window-unit air-conditioners, chipped and yellowed lead paint that once was white but was now the color of mucus, over-grown thorny shrubs, and mushy agave cacti--with a gravel parking lot that sprawled across the front of all of them. There was a foreboding feeling in the air since my Volvo S70 was the only car in the parking lot. No one else was as excited to see the Snake Farm as I was--neither my kids or anyone else in the state of Texas for that matter. We had the place all to ourselves.
"Is it, like, open?" Nat said, skeptically.
"I'm sure it is. Let's go check it out."
"Are you sure, Daddy?" Sammie said, skeptical too. "It looks haunted!"
"It'll be fine," I said, turning the engine off and unbuckling my seatbelt. "And look! There's a pet store and a taxidermist, too. How exciting!"
"What's a tax-er-der-mist?" Sammie said, all cute and confused at the same time.
"It's part of their very strange business model," Nat said, laughing. "Who puts a farm and a pet store, like, next to a taxidermist?"
"I don't know but I've always wanted to visit the Snake Farm. Ever since I was a kid! Who wants to go wit
h me?"
A collective groan was released from the mouths of my three, reluctant participants. It was a sad, lifeless groan but I didn't let that deter me. I was determined to go inside with my kiddos, excited or not. We got out of the car--the hot, Texas sun baking our arms and faces--and walked across the parking lot, the gravel beneath our feet crunching as we stepped on it. The passing cars on the highway created a collective hum similar to the crashing waves of the Gulf of Mexico on the sandy shores of Port Aransas, Texas. It was hypnotic. As we walked toward the entrance, I looked back to see all the cars passing by, not concerned or curious at all about the Snake Farm like I was. Maybe they all knew something I didn't know or maybe they just had somewhere better to go. I wasn't sure. The kids walked through the front entrance of the Snake Farm and I followed them.
Inside, the bright sun had constricted my pupils and it took a good twenty seconds for my eyes to adjust to the dark interior. While I stood there--my kids in front of me and Nat next to me--a hissing sound could be heard, low yet steady, and very ominous. I imagined a pit in the floor with poisonous snakes in it, their long, limbless bodies slithering over each other, and their mouths opened with fangs exposed, ready to snap at any human limbs they could lunge at. But instead--once my eyes adjusted to the darker interior of the Snake Farm lobby--what I found was a teenage boy sitting on a wooden stool behind a grimy glass counter with a rickety cash register sitting on top, and he was inflating balloons with a helium tank. It was a weird sight to see, this young kid who wasn't a day over 17 with his red "Snake Farm" polo shirt and his red baseball cap with "Snake Farm" emblazoned across the front of it in bright gold, bold letters--all by himself. After he inflated each balloon, he tied a colored ribbon to cinch the opening then released the balloon to the ceiling, where dozens congregated, impeded from flying to outer space by the ramshackle, stained ceiling above us. He had a name tag on his shirt that simply read: Juan. For all intents and purposes, "Juan" was white as can be (just so you know), not Hispanic by any means. But to be fair, you just never know about someone's true background, although he didn't come across to me as a "Juan," more like a Buford or a Cleetus.
Sammie & Budgie Page 19