There is nothing quite like agonizing withdrawal from months smashed to the gills on an extremely potent opioid derivative to turn to ashes one’s fire for recreational drugs. Intravenous hydromorphone had been my neurosurgeon’s weapon of choice for the last four months—a necessary remedy after a spectacular lifelong, out-of-control, self-medicating, self-destructive vortex had culminated in me being stranded in the City of Angels with a broken back. What a wild ride it had been. The kind of adventures where one lives decades in only weeks. My obsession with venom had taken me across the globe to seek out the world’s most dangerous animals in the world’s most inhospitable places, including conflict zones. I had been in and out of hospitals throughout these adventures. While there had been bodies on the floor along the way, I was still alive. For now. There was, however, the small matter of my paralyzed legs.
Thirty-eight years earlier, I came to my first awareness of self with my head restrained and all limbs strapped to a bed. Intravenous lines had been surgically implanted into my temples and on the insides of my ankles. In this earliest of memories, I was in hospital being pumped full of a wide variety of chemical combinations, all in a desperate attempt to cure me of the spinal meningitis that was wreaking havoc on my nerves. At only two years old, I was one very sick little baby. My spine was cold liquid fire and my newfound existence a tortured hell. The reason I was restrained was that I kept grabbing onto the tubes like a hairless little monkey and pulling them out, even the ones inserted into my temples.
Eventually the electrical storm passed and the cleanup began. This was my first flirtation with death. Well, it was a bit more than flirting; bodily fluids were definitely exchanged. It was a hell of an introduction to the comedy club known as being human.
I had started walking just before I fell ill, but left the hospital so weak that I couldn’t stand. I was back to square one, learning to walk all over again. My paternal grandmother, Gene, bought me a big toy truck so I could brace myself standing against it while I took the uncertain steps to rebuild my wasted leg muscles. During the follow-up treatment at the Walter Reed National Military Medical Center in Washington, DC, the team of neurology specialists had an intricate set of exams planned to test the recovery of my neurological function. However, these were immediately suspended after I spontaneously started doing multiple somersaults across the floor. My cavorting was all the evidence they needed to confirm my successful recovery.
It turned out that in this first critical event I had escaped without any long-term damage except for the hearing in my right ear being almost entirely wiped out and my sense of balance permanently affected. I had perfect hearing in one very narrow range, but on either side of that it was like my hearing had just been deleted, leaving the ear useful for not much more than hanging sunglasses off. It did come with the social bonus of being able to put annoying people on that side, particularly during a movie or a long dinner party. Plus, I could tune the world out by sleeping on my left side: the ultimate noise-canceling headphone. I now had a daily reminder of the concept of mortality—a concept I became familiar with pretty much in sync with the concept of “me.”
My parents became used to my cavalier attitude towards life and its normal constraints. It was quite evident early on that I was not a flower child, rather, I was a flower piglet. Once, when I was three and outside playing contentedly with worms in a mud puddle, my mother saw it and called out to me, “Get in here and get those filthy clothes off RIGHT NOW!” I obeyed to the letter, and a minute later she looked out the window again to see my bare little bottom sprinting back out and flopping back into the same mud puddle. At times I can be literal to a fault.
I was at my happiest wandering blithely through the woods, flipping logs and rocks. I quickly proved myself adept at catching whatever lay beneath. My parents quickly realized that this was more than an interest, more than a passion: it was a calling. While it was certainly not a career path that they might have imagined for me, they were nevertheless extremely supportive. My father was the consummate hunter and fisherman, and he always encouraged an interest in the outdoors. I was lucky to have parents who had their own atypical pasts and interests, and thus avoided the more typical reaction of parents when confronted by an oddball. Which, in most families, could have been along the lines of “The boy is deranged. We need to see a psychiatrist. I told you not to drink during pregnancy!”
Very early on, I was struck with a deep and abiding love for all the nasty little creatures out there. I was only four when I grandly announced I would study venomous snakes when I grew up. I was not into fluffy bunnies or downy ducklings. I liked my creatures sharp and full of chemicals. Just like me. My first proper envenomation came from a decent-sized bullhead catfish while we were living in Alabama, first from getting a pectoral fin spine into the meaty part of my thumb, and then a pectoral spine into the leg as I dropped the catfish in pain. I quickly got up to speed with just how agonizing defensive venoms can be and experienced the joys of the inevitable puncture wound infection over the coming days.
There was definitely a bit of the genius/crazy quicksilver shooting through the veins of the family tree on my mother’s Norwegian side, which had spawned not only the epically bloodthirsty Vikings, but also luminaries such as my distant relative, the composer Edvard Grieg. I grew up listening to his music on the turntable, with “March of the Trolls” quite naturally my favorite piece. The unique wiring of my brain to begin with, and the frying of the circuit boards upon start-up, proved to be a potent nature-nurture combination. I had an ability to focus upon one thing to the absolute exclusion of all else, tunnel vision the likes of which my parents had never seen. Obsession and compulsion are not disorders: they are competitive advantages! Such a gift, however, was accompanied by the social skills of a stoned dingo.
Because of my father’s career in the United States Army Corps of Engineers, we bounced around from military base to military base across the United States, moving almost every year. Our summers were spent back in Norway, my mother’s homeland. This was where my brother was born and where I spent most of the months of my gestation. The constant travel afforded me the opportunity to keep feeding my appetite for new experiences and new animals; for me, the continual upheaval was a wonderful way to grow up. I thrived on the chaos. It resulted in a certain adaptability and, in a sense, universality—while language and culture change, people are still just people.
I was one of very few children not leaving the house unless I had my snakebite kit stuffed into a hip pocket of my cargo shorts. Razors at the ready to slice the flesh in case of a bite, and ammonium carbonate tablets on hand to sear the sinuses; we now know that the former is dangerous, causing great harm and no benefit, and the latter useless. In first grade, after moving to Florida for the second time, I had been in my new school for less than a week when I fell in love with the librarian. She had me at, “Would you like to see me feed a live mouse to my corn snake?” Hell yeah, baby!
At that time, Florida’s natural world was not virgin by any stretch of the imagination, but it hadn’t quite hit the truck-stop whore stage that it has now. Native animal species were still plentiful, but the first tide of alien species had begun washing up on the shores. The Cuban anole was a sign of the times: just another honest capitalist lizard fleeing communist Castro. The introduced marine toad ironically hated salt water but if there was an outdoor pool that was not screened, these toxic Jabbas could be found in the morning serenely floating on the surface. The pool screens were also my richest hunting grounds for basking lizards.
Snakes have a pair of glands located just inside their cloaca (the posterior opening that serves as the only opening for the intestinal, reproductive, and urinary tracts), about 80 percent of the way down their belly, which produce a noxious secretion. Some snakes have evolved these glands for active defensive use. Ring-neck snakes in particular, as it turned out. These snakes are glossy black on their backs, patternless except for the namesake narrow orange ring that circles their necks. The underside of the tail, however, is vibrantly colored with oranges and yellows. When they feel threatened, they curl the tail up tight like a corkscrew, displaying the color. Naturally, this did not deter me when I encountered my first one and I was sprayed with eye-watering stuff that was disgusting beyond description. Ordinary soap was summarily defeated by this foul concoction. I went around the rest of the day reeking of the delightful aroma of Ring-Neck Snake Funk #5, thus deterring even further my peer-level female schoolmates, who thought me rather odd to begin with, as I liked snakes and kept bringing them to school with me.
At this time we lived just a few blocks away from the iconic Miami Serpentarium, run by the legendary Bill Haast. Seeing him milk the king cobras left an indelible, golden-scaled impression in my soul. Black mambas moved silkily across their cages while rattlesnakes played a one-note sound of warning: a heavy-metal, open-E-string sort of droning buzz. One day my family was supposed to go to the Serpentarium again but went saltwater fishing instead. The king cobras would be there tomorrow. Or so we thought. We headed out into the sort of hard dawn that was characteristic of the Keys at times: harsh, unsubtle coloring with that trailer-park beauty queen kind of attractiveness. The two-stroke engine buzzed like a giant mosquito as we cut through water that looked like polished glass on this windless day. After a sporting time pulling in grouper and assorted smaller reef fish, we headed out into deeper waters than usual because of the calmness of the day. And there we struck green and gold: dolphinfish. The sleekest, fastest things on fins that I had ever encountered. My golf-ball-sized biceps were weak with exhaustion.
Back on land and starting our return home with an ice chest full of fresh fish fillets, we heard on the car radio about the tragedy that had occurred just moments before. Crocodiles at the Miami Serpentarium had killed a young boy after he had fallen into their pen. His father had irresponsibly let him stand on the ledge overlooking the pen. The boy turned and asked, “Daddy, what would happen if I fell in?” His father said, “I would save you.” Ironically, this was not to be the case when the boy fell as he turned back to look at the crocs again. He was rapidly dismembered and partially consumed before Haast shot dead the two crocodiles. Tragically, the young boy and the two crocodiles all paid the ultimate price for the father’s shocking level of parenting. The Miami Serpentarium closed immediately and that was the end of an era.
Two years later, as a northern alligator lizard relentlessly chewed on my classmate’s finger like Luis Su?rez having another mental breakdown on the soccer field, I noticed that the saliva coming out of its mouth was unusually frothy. But any mental notes about this were soon washed away by the copious amounts of blood that emanated from the wounds. This was all accompanied by the strange squeaking/squealing sounds the boy made every time the lizard clamped down and chewed. The only thing I was certain about was that it was entirely his fault; I had warned him about putting his finger too close, saying, “It will bite!” Which it certainly did, without hesitation.
Not unexpectedly, this commotion attracted the attention of the teachers. In the course of the post-mortem interrogation, it was revealed that during the previous six months at my new school on Hamilton Air Force Base in California, my mother had been dropping my brother and me off at the same time for school. The school had a weird staggered start, where grades 4–6 started at 8 a.m., while grades 1–3 started at 9. My brother was two grades ahead of me, so he started in the first wave. It made no sense for my mother to make two trips each morning and again in the evening, so I was simply dropped off with a free hour before school, while my brother had an hour to kill at the end of the day. As I was without explicit instruction regarding where to go or what to do (implied instructions being lost on my very literal brain), as soon as the car turned the corner, I would head straight for the nearby woods to go snake hunting. So each morning I would arrive back for class with my backpack writhing mysteriously with whatever the morning’s hunt had turned up. This particular morning I had flipped a large rock and found the biggest northern alligator lizard that I had ever seen. The body, with its brown and white shingled scales, was flawless, all the way down to a perfectly intact tail. It was very rare to find a large adult without at least part of the tail regenerated after a potential predator was left with the rest impotently squirming in its jaws. I was made to let it go, which I protested loudly against since it would not change the damage to his flesh, which had required ten stitches to close the profusely bleeding wound.
When not causing administrative problems at school, I was invariably out snake hunting with various equally snake-mad friends. One of my favorite spots was a small lake flourishing with amphibians and snakes. I would hit it early in the day, the soft morning light painting the landscape with pastels. By 9 a.m., the temperature would already be in the mid-seventies—perfect for going around rocky areas and looking for cylindrical serpentine bodies halfway out of the grass and basking on rocks. The pond was littered with the multi-colored polka dots that were the lily pads and their flowers. Herons strode majestically through the shallows. Feral Florida bullfrogs provided a sustaining meal for indigenous wading birds.
One particular morning, we weren’t the only ones looking at a body moistly glistening in the new day. Like the fingers of god, shafts of light came through the stone-blue clouds, revealing a “painting”—an unexpected nude portrait. For, standing in the middle of the clearing, striking a pose the likes of which I had never seen, and putting a finger somewhere my nine-year-old brain had never thought of sticking a finger, was the first naked woman I had ever seen. And she was being photographed by a mustachioed man with an oversized camera. The forest was silent as we all contemplated each other. A pair of scruffy urchins with mud-stained pillowcases containing moving creatures of uncertain identity. And them. We just trod on past, staring intently out of the corners of our eyes, experiencing odd new glandular sensations. While life went on, it certainly had a new flavor to it.
Not long after this came the championship game for my Little League Baseball team. As we were warming up, my attention was caught by an aerial traffic pattern of hornets going in and out of a subterranean nest located within a gopher’s burrow. My fast but typically wildly inaccurate method of throwing objects was unusually on-target as I zinged dirt clods into the hornets’ nest from a short distance away. I was momentarily distracted from tormenting the hornets by having to throw a ball back to the rest of the team, so I didn’t notice until it was too late that an enraged stream of hornets was pouring from the hole. I copped fourteen stings in total on my arms, face, and neck. Of the many hornet stings I accumulated that day, the one that really hurt was the disfiguring one on my left eyelid that looked like a small tumor. It was off, again, to the Hamilton Air Force Base Hospital, where I was already on a first-name basis with some of the staff, and I missed out entirely on the championship game.
At this time, California was flush with funding and was wisely putting a considerable amount of this into education, including a flourishing Gifted Program, into which I was enrolled. In addition to learning Spanish and computers, we also competed in the regional science fair. My project, for which I won first prize, investigated whether my pet tarantulas were more likely to eat a prey item quickly if another tarantula was in view. After feeding my pets under a variety of conditions, I observed that in the presence of another spider they ate considerably faster; which I concluded was the arachnid equivalent of a kid stuffing his mouth with the last piece of chocolate birthday cake before someone else could eat it.
At the end of the third grade we went back to Norway for the summer. This was when I saw my first arctic viper, but tragically one that had been run over by a car not long before. A black stripe zigzagged down a dusky body. The tail was still reflexively wiggling from lingering nerve action and the oozing blood on the road had not yet clotted. While Norway has the most infernal winters, it has the most delightful summers. Never-ending days spent exploring the craggy rocks that my overactive imagination turned into the trolls of lore. It was also a rich playground for weird animals. One time, while at the family island home on the Asker fjord near Oslo, I asked for a bottle for a fish I had caught with my hands under the jetty. Eyebrows rose when I selected a long, skinny wine bottle. Naturally there was curiosity as to exactly what sort of fish I had caught. This would not be the first occasion I would target and capture an animal in another country that the locals didn’t know existed. In this case, it was a banded pipefish, a relative of the seahorse. Other animals I successfully sought out during that trip included the Norwegian crested newt, which reminded me of the dragon F?fnir from Norse mythology.
Upon our return to California, the house had a certain pungent odor to it. As it transpired, a family of skunks had moved into the crawl space at the back of our basement. My father dutifully notified Base authorities, who, try as they might, could not find the right path through the inflexible bureaucracy to remove them. Local animal control did not have authorization to come onto the military base until the proper paperwork was shuffled. Which, of course, would take days. There was no one in the military chain of command tasked with dealing with chemical-weapon-laden skunks. As my father was a full colonel by this time, the staff knew exactly who and what he was. The various ribbons and such on his uniform were code for acts worthy of recognition, some of which came during his two tours of Korea and one of Vietnam. So it was accepted by all when, with tacit approval, shots rang out from under our house. A full load each from a large-bore shotgun and a .45 pistol rendered the problem immobile. Various bodily fluids painted the wall. However, this resulted in a dramatic increase in the smell. The invisible chemicals hit us with the same intensity as that experienced by soldiers in World War I mustard-gas-filled trenches. The house was now temporarily unliveable. By the time my brother and I were done helping my father bag the carcasses and then bury them out in the woods, our clothes were suitably ruined and were summarily burnt. To us kids, this was one of the best days ever!
While my mother forbade me to run around barefoot, this lasted only so long as it took me to get out of her view, then off came the shoes. I liked the feeling of the dirt under my feet and the grass between my toes. The game was up, however, after one typical day spent wandering through a creek catching rough-skinned newts when I sliced the sole of my right foot deeply on a glass bottle that some cretin had thrown into the murky water. As it was being stitched up after yet another trip to the Base hospital, my mother naively exclaimed, “I don’t know how this could have happened. He never goes without shoes!” The doctor gave me a knowing look and said, “Lady, this kid has feet tougher than my dog.”
After five idyllic years in California we were off north to Portland, Oregon. People didn’t tan there, they rusted, and the state bird was a mosquito. The only saving grace was the stellar salmon and steelhead fishing. The offshore fishing at this time was also phenomenal. It wasn’t long before I clicked on one little tidbit that seemed to have escaped the notice of others—there was a mighty discrepancy between the spearfishing records and line fishing records. So for my sixteenth birthday I requested an offshore fishing trip with my father. The sky was cold fusion blue-black as we met the boat and the skipper at the Garibaldi marina in Tillamook Bay at 5 a.m. I had a well-researched list in my pocket of ten species for which the spearfishing world record was dramatically different from the line fishing world record. These were all very common fish that were the bread and butter of the charter boat industry. It was just pure oversight because they were weekend-warrior sort of fish, not the sort featured on fishing shows.
The day started productively, getting plenty of decent-sized but far from full-grown black rockfish. Then it happened. I pulled up a massive cabezon, the largest species of sculpin. Huge, hand-like pectoral fins jutted out from the big-mouthed, toad-shaped body. It was not massive in the grand scheme of things, considering the spearfishing record was a bit over twenty-six pounds. However, crucially, the line fishing record was only nine pounds, as this was viewed as decent eating but a trash fish, not a sport fish like salmon or marlin. I took one look at this fish and started to get very, very excited. It was definitely larger than the record! The crew met this with much confused amusement. One of them drawled, “Boy … I’ve caught ones of that same type you could fit this one into the mouth of.” To which I cheerfully responded, “Yeah, but did you report it to the International Game Fish Association?” which elicited the reply of, “Uh … the International Game what?”
Back at the marina, the fish topped the scales at nearly seventeen pounds—a new world record. Once we were done with all the measurements and certifications my father asked if I wanted it stuffed and mounted. I replied in true Viking-child manner, “Nah, it’s too ugly. Let’s just eat it instead.” The blue-green flesh had a decidedly alien quality to it, but baked with bacon, chilli, garlic, butter, and lime it turned out to be extremely tasty. Easily the most satisfying fish meal I have ever had.
My world record would last less than twelve months, as long as it took for another annual round of entries. It turned out that despite the previous record having stood for over ten years, I was not the only one who had noticed this oversight. In a remarkable coincidence, someone that same year had in fact submitted an eleven-pound specimen, which I am sure they thought was a sure bet. This flurry of activity naturally caught the attention of others and the following year someone submitted an eighteen-pound specimen; within a few short years, the record was up to a much more realistic twenty-six pounds.
I had been maintaining, at this time and at home, a large collection of non-venomous snakes, with the kitchen freezers containing foil-wrapped dead mice to feed them. Once, while in a hurry, I tried to defrost a mouse in the microwave. With the incredible timing of mothers the world over, my mother walked by and glanced at the microwave at the exact moment the mouse swelled alarmingly and then exploded. The painting of the microwave walls with various internal organs was accompanied by an incredibly noxious smell. She was not amused.
Two weeks after high school graduation, I suffered my first snakebite. The animal responsible was a particularly beautiful timber rattlesnake, a captive-born baby. The parents were both caught near the Florida–Georgia border and were of the sunset pink type commonly referred to as canebrake rattlesnakes. I was over at my friend Richard Richey’s place picking up the first venomous snakes that, after much pestering, I was to be allowed to keep at home. Small snakes can be much more difficult and dangerous to handle because the room for error is so small and, as I was examining the snake, one long, mobile fang flicked out of the side of its mouth and into my thumb. There was an almighty KLONG as the emotional wave of shit hit my heart and sweat ran down my brow. Over the next thirty minutes, there was a lack of the pain and swelling at the bite site that are the hallmarks of a rattlesnake envenomation. So, we came to the hopeful conclusion it was a dry bite and I proceeded to commence the drive home.
The first indication that maybe I hadn’t got away scot-free happened ten minutes into the drive, when a strange metallic taste developed in my mouth. It wasn’t long after that that something much more dramatic occurred. I lost my ability to see red, blue, green, or any color other than yellow. It was a monochromatic world ranging from white to black with only shades of yellow in between. “Uhhhhh, that’s no good,” I thought to myself. Reality retreated. Shapes swirled. Sounds distorted, some bursts echoing like the reverberating distortion for electric guitar often overused in eighties glam metal to cover a pathetic lack of skill (such as any of the offerings by the lipstick-wearing monstrosities in the band called Poison). I descended down the rabbit hole and into a hallucinatory vortex.
I managed to steer the car into a small service station that was the first place I came upon in this remote country area. I stumbled inside and asked the girl at the counter to please ring for an ambulance as a venomous snake had bitten me. A red-and-black-flannel-shirt-wearing, lumberjack-looking customer waiting asked, “Are you sure it was venomous?” My answer came in the form of me doing the “full Exorcist:” projectile vomiting all over the lottery tickets for sale, cash register, beef jerky, and all else in the front counter firing line. My eyes rolled up into my head and I collapsed into a convulsing heap on the black and white checker-patterned dusty linoleum floor.
During the course of the ambulance ride to the hospital, I suffered a series of heart attacks. It turned out that the venom of this particular population is unique in possessing neurotoxins of the sort more typically seen in rattlesnakes from Brazil. There were no local effects at all throughout the ordeal, other than the flesh wound from the fang. The neurotoxins, however, were of a decidedly sinister type and gave my nerves a great big chemical raping.
After much chaos and frantic activity in the emergency room, where I was definitely the star of the moment, things were stabilized and I was admitted to the Intensive Care Unit. I then had to ring the friend whose car I had borrowed. “Where’s my car? I’m late for work!” was her opening gambit. My reply—that I was in the hospital and had no idea where her car was—was met with, “What the hell do you mean, you don’t know where it is?!” I explained that I was hallucinating from snakebite and didn’t know where I had ended up before an ambulance took me away. This was met with stunned silence. If she had been told I had been caught smuggling Mexicans back into Mexico, in search of a better life in a civilized country with a functioning medical system, she would have found that more reasonable and believable than what I had just said.
I was released the next day and my parents and I went to pick up my friend’s car. It was quite amusing to watch my father, who cared for his own vehicles with military precision, driving this completely unroadworthy vehicle. It was of a type favored by female college students who view vehicle maintenance through the lens of “The oil doesn’t need changing yet since the light hasn’t come back on” and who parked using the “bumper car” method. Compounding matters was that it was a Renault, which when new would have been more intact but would still have demonstrated the shoddy quality of workmanship for which French union workers are notorious; a “construction” that is the inevitable result of an assembly line worker proving he is in control of his destiny by doing an artistically crappy job putting the car parts on. Several owners later in the hands of a Legally Blonde type, and voil?! One rolling wreck coming up. Notice that back left wheel wobbling alarmingly? It really shouldn’t be doing that. Only the first and third gears worked; it handled like a Doberman on acid and cornered like a three-legged water buffalo.
Thus I passed into adulthood in my own inimitable manner and to Portland State University I went. Based upon the grades I obtained in high school and the strength of my SAT scores I had been awarded a scholarship that covered my tuition and most of my costs, so I only needed to come up with entertainment money. I didn’t want to work during university terms so I set about becoming a bit more creative in making money. Working as a male model for print and runway paid well, but was very feast-and-famine. Working as a bouncer also brought in some cash. To further supplement my income, I settled upon selling my bodily fluids: plasma and sperm. Not in that order. Having plasma stripped out of the blood and the red blood cells returned was a weird sensation. One that also required a good meal afterward to replace the lost nutrients. Which in turn cut into the profit margin. But this procedure also left me in no shape for the selling of sperm to Portland’s premier eugenics factory. So, it was always sperm first. I struck up a friendship with one of the nurses who worked there and she kept me up to date on how many times a “mini-me” was spawned. It ended up being nineteen. Selling sperm in a nicely decorated uptown medical facility with a quite amazing selection of high-quality porn was, of course, infinitely more pleasurable than joining the queue of winos outside the blood clinic, where I was always the stand-out in being the only one who had showered in recent history and had all my teeth intact.
It was in this period of time that I made what would become one of my all-time great friendships, a friendship that persists to this day. Arun Sharma looked like Gene Simmons would have looked if he were in an alternative universe as a motorcycle-riding Bollywood pimp living in Harlem during the late seventies. Long, tangled black hair set off a meticulously maintained goatee.
We met when I sold him a nicely patterned Asian water monitor. A week later he rang me and said, “Dude, this thing is possessed. I thought you said it was tame?” I was pretty confused because it was really chill when I had it. So I rolled up and opened the lid of the shallow, opaque-blue plastic box he had put it in after removing it from its cage ahead of my arrival. I saw the dark pink back of its throat as it rose straight up and deep-throated my thumb. It hung in the air suspended from my thumb, then started chewing vigorously. There was silence for a moment before Arun gave me the biggest, toothiest grin and said, with evident delight at this turn of events, “See? I fucking told you!” In order to get it off, we had to fill its mouth with clothes pegs with the ends pressed closed and then release them inside the mouth so that their springs would collectively fatigue the monitor’s jaw muscles and allow my finger to be extracted. My finger emerged mostly intact, but over the next hour it became swollen and throbbed more than I would have expected from the mechanical damage alone; it also bled longer than I expected.
I swapped the lizard over for a gorgeous six-foot female red spitting cobra from Mozambique. Like all beautiful females, it was extremely high maintenance. Not because it was nasty—it was a totally relaxed animal that never spat once—but because it was in continual motion as it glided fluidly around the spacious cage. All that activity meant it was always hungry and required daily feeding of a pair of mice. This inevitably resulted in a daily crapping in the cage that this feral creature would then proceed to happily smear all over the cage and glass.
After this inauspicious beginning, Arun and I joined forces to start a reptile business, with much the same motivation as a drug addict who starts a drug business to support a habit. Running a reptile business with Arun was an amazing time. Not just because of the plethora of cool animals we obtained from all over the world, but also because of the intersection of people radiating from the core. There might be Desert Storm military types, home from a region of the world full of things far more dangerous venomous snakes, checking out freshly hatched albino monocled cobras at the same time as some hippy-trippy types were gaga over rainbow-colored panther chameleons. People who would normally pass like ships in the night were instead on the same wavelength because of this broader common interest and would happily chat the hours away while beholding these pieces of living art.
Whenever we’d make a run to the airport it was like venomous Christmas. While we knew what we had ordered, what actually arrived might not strictly match the manifest, and in any case the shipments always contained something we’d never seen. In addition to overseas suppliers, we often got shipments from Florida, with Tom Crutchfield, Glades Herp, and Strictly Reptiles being the major connections. Clearing the consignments was usually pretty routine, with the airline officials not keen to inspect a shipment of reptiles, particularly ones containing venomous species. When we had to open a load for inspection it was done in a room off to the side and away from other customers. One time I was showing a shipment from Malaysia that contained cobras as well as blood pythons. The official was particularly keen to see the blood pythons; the name had caught his eye and sparked his interest as he had a pet boa constrictor at home. I was holding one of them when I was distracted by a question from him and it struck right for my crotch like a heat-seeking missile. Luckily, I was wearing sweat pants, so the long teeth got caught up in the fabric. The official’s eyes bulged like that of a hypertensive toy poodle. It took me thirty very embarrassing minutes to extract myself from it and I left with my dignity as shredded as the front of my pants.
Going to university was a wonderful walk through the woods of knowledge. Because of my high-school grade point average and SAT scores, I was accepted into the university’s honors program. This meant all the general university requirements—a collection of random courses that take up almost half of the time spent during the degree studies—were waived. While the intent of these courses was to broaden one’s education beyond the narrow focus of one’s chosen major, they were of supreme disinterest to me, so I was very happy with this arrangement. Instead, in addition to my molecular biology major, I was enrolled in a scientific philosophy co-major along with all other members of the honors program, leaving me with time to also do a psychology minor. I became fast friends with one of the biology department graduate students, Ed Degrauw, and he came in with Arun and me on several reptile shipments. We spent many happy hours having rambling conversations about all things reptile. Within my science major, there were not any courses on offer that dealt specifically with venom, so I packed my major full of courses on pathogenic microorganisms, learning all about bacteria, parasites, and viruses.
The lessons soon went from the abstract to the crushingly real. Towards the end of my undergraduate studies, it was evident that a good friend of mine’s health had taken a turn for the worse. Jon had been diagnosed with HIV/AIDS when he was twenty, while stationed in Germany after joining the US Army straight out of high school. Everyone in his unit knew he was gay and no one cared. He was just an ordinary, average guy. The kind you could have a beer with while watching athletic men in tight pants chase a bouncing ball down the field, then slapping each other on the butt in celebration. Extremely intelligent with a delightfully twisted wit, he used to try to shock me. But come on, I’m me. I’m unshockable. Or so I thought. He did have a way with words when it came to describing geometric combinations that even if trapped on a desert island for a very long fucking time, such considerations never would have come to mind. Some, I reckon, I could have done without hearing. No amount of mental bleach could get rid of those stains. At the end of the day, however, I very much appreciated his dark elf sense of humor.
Once Jon was diagnosed, he was given an honorable discharge on medical grounds. He then promptly enrolled in the honors program, where we met on the first day. He was combining engineering with the required philosophy dual degree. I remember asking him one day why he was studying stuff he would never get to use. Why wasn’t he lying on a sandy beach somewhere tropical with a high-octane drink in his hand? He replied that he wanted to see out his days doing what he loved the most: learning. He ended up having to drop out during the fourth and final year. As he became more skeletal, he became progressively weaker and tired very easily; he was in serious decline. His immune system was now totally wiped out—he was like a computer hooked up in a Thai Internet caf? with no antivirus software.
The summer before my last year of university, I went to the University of Southern California to do my first real stint as a venom researcher. The data I obtained later formed the nucleus of my molecular biology honors thesis. I had been awarded a travel grant to head down to the laboratory of Professor Frank Markland, one of the premier researchers on the medical use of snake toxins. My project was to test the efficacy of a peptide called contortrostatin, from the venom of the southern copperhead pit viper, in blocking the spread of Kaposi’s sarcoma, the type of cancer that causes the characteristic skin lesions in HIV/AIDS patients. So it was with no small amount of bitter irony that, as Bang Tango’s song “Someone Like You” blasted out of the lab stereo, I got the phone call about Jon’s death. Ultimately, it was an ordinary bacterium that infected his blood and killed him.
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