Back in the days of my former life of going to classes (or, more often than not, avoiding classes) at RPI, there were several informal organizations of students, alumni, and various assorted randoms that could almost be called "anti-frats". One of these, which formed during my sophomore year, was called Pi Rho House (say it out loud and then groan). The house itself was one of the old two-deckers along 15th Street. It was in need of a few repairs, having some holes in the walls, a slightly leaky roof, and the occasional problem with unwanted inhabitants of the four-, six-, and eight-legged varieties, but still serviceable, especially for a group of low-budget students. It was purchased by one of these students who actually had some money, and decided that it would be cool to fix up a house and play landlord for his friends. He ultimately found out that this was not, in fact, such a good idea, but it was fun while it lasted.
Pi Rho House was a place where I could always go to find good conversation, music to my tastes (which in those days tended to be dominated by Genesis, Yes, Marillion, Rush, and similar progressive rock), and occasionally cool computer toys if the regular inhabitants weren't already wired up to them. If I remember correctly, the lifetime of Pi Rho House was about two years, from the summer of 1988 to sometime in 1990. The tale you're about to read took place during the summer of '89. (All of the above has little to do with Lynda and the snake, but it does help to establish the background.)
The tale proper actually begins towards the end of the spring semester in '89. At that time, several Pi Rhos decided to chip in and purchase a pet for the house. Their choice of animal was not surprising for a house full of geek guys: a six-foot Burmese python. A couple of the guys were decent carpenters, so they constructed a snake box from wood and Plexiglas. This served quite well for several months, and provided no end of entertainment at the house, especially at feeding time. The snake was provided with a steady diet of white mice, and one of our favorite games was "hide the mousie", in which we'd put a mouse inside a small cardboard box and drop it into the snake's lair. Eventually either the snake would smell the mouse, or the mouse would become aware that something was amiss, and soon one or the other would figure out how to open the box, and the chase around the snake box would begin, with its inevitable ending and the twitching tail sticking from the snake's jaws.
All was well for some time, but towards the end of the school year, events took an unexpected turn. Snakes, like almost any animal, dislike being confined, and this snake was both clever enough to discover the corner of the box where our intrepid carpenters had neglected to sufficiently secure the Plexiglas, and strong enough to take advantage of this, pushing against the wall until it had made a little escape hatch for itself. We became aware of this one day when, at feeding time, the box was empty, and nobody in the house had the snake with them. Closer inspection revealed the snapped-off corner of plastic, and as far as we knew, that was probably the last we would see of the snake. This was the beginning of a rather hot and humid summer, so the climate was agreeable enough for reptiles, and Troy has no shortage of wildlife roaming among the backyards and alleys, so we assumed that it would probably be able to survive on its own at least until the weather got colder. We figured that its most likely fate would be to end up stretched out across 15th Street with a couple of tire treads across its body, but the months went by and no further sign was seen of our erstwhile mascot.
Summer came, and as is the custom in college towns, brought about a changing of the guard as some students went home to the parents, and others who had been living in dorms sought temporary housing for the summer. One of the Pi Rhos, Mike, was spending the summer in Connecticut, so his girlfriend Lynda, who was taking some summer courses, took up his space in the house. And it was to Lynda, one bright summer morning, that the snake decided to reintroduce itself.
With hindsight, the chain of events seems quite logical, and we all expressed consternation over our failure to foresee it. Due to the ongoing construction and repair efforts in the house, there was no shortage of places where a curious reptile could get inside the walls. There was also, within those walls, ample food to sustain said reptile for at least a few months. Looking back over the period when the snake had been missing, we realized that the formerly annoying problem with mice in the kitchen and basement had ceased. There was no need for the snake to go hunting for food elsewhere -- until the native mouse population had been exhausted. At that point, it being easier to get back into the house than out of it, the snake simply moved back into its former environs. And so Lynda woke that morning to find a large snake coiled in the patch of sunlight on the floor near the foot of her bed. She reacted as you would expect any modern, sophisticated woman to do in such a situation: she stood up on the bed and screamed. (Hey, be honest -- how many men can say they wouldn't have done the same?)
The Pi Rhos who were present promptly arrived to save the day, and the snake was soon pleased to be returned to its newly repaired and reinforced box, safe from the terrifying creature into whose habitat it had blundered.
Claimer: All of the characters in this story are real. No names have been changed to protect anybody. Lynda, if you read this, I hope you don't take offense.
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