Snake at the gas station

Pulled in to gas up at the gas station, just trying to live my quiet little life, and BAM, there it was. Right in front of the pump. Staring. Waiting. Breathing my air.

A voice cried, “Do something!” But that voice clearly didn’t know who she was talking to, I’m the kind of person who calls someone else to kill a spider. The gas lady was not touching it.

I rerouted to another pump like a gas station ninja, hoping a braver soul would intervene. Just then, two dudes pulled up. “This is it,” I thought. “Rescue has arrived.” They saw the creature…made direct eye contact and sped off like they were late to a monster truck rally.

So there I was, alone. Cornered. Dramatic soundtrack playing in my head. I grabbed the nearest stick (a flimsy twig that looked like it retired from tree duty years ago), and marched toward the beast quoting Scripture like a cross between king David and a twitchy squirrel.

“They shall take up serpents,” I declared like a Pentecostal Indiana Jones.

Now listen, I did not stop to investigate its pronouns or decide if it was friend, foe, or just a misunderstood belt. I scooped it up with my holy twig, flung it into a ditch like I was casting out a garden-variety demon, and ran back to the pump like Forrest Gump on espresso.

The gas station attendant? Looked at me like I’d just saved her firstborn. I nodded like, “All in a day’s work, citizen.”

And then my wife, bless her beautiful, unbothered soul, looked up from the passenger seat and said,

“Did you get the gas?”

At $3.00 a gallon, I guess that takes precedent over

“Are you okay, honey?”

“Did it bite you?”

“Shall I call an ambulance or build you a monument?”

But hey. I lived.

Snake’s in a ditch.

Tank’s full.

Marriage intact.

Hero status pending.

Just another day.