Ride the Snake

Ride the Snake

I met Connie twenty-five years ago, when our families celebrated the Memorial Day holiday by camping and partying at Versailles State Park in southeastern Indiana. Connie’s family set-up their tent two sites away from ours and I saw the mousey brown-haired, brown-eyed girl every time I passed her on the way to and from the showers and restrooms. We did not even say, “Hello,” until after I saw her in church on Sunday morning. On Sunday afternoon, when I walked by her tent, I raised my hand and waved at her with little confidence. “Didn’t I see you in church?”

Flashing an inviting smile she replied, “Yes, I saw you there.”

We talked for about half an hour and I found she lived on a farm about six miles from the State Park, and every year her family - cousins included - spent the Memorial Day weekend in the great outdoors. She went to a local school and some of her friends from school were meeting her to “ride the snake.”

“What does ride the snake mean?”

An impish grin lifted the corners of Connie’s mouth. “Just wait ‘til this evening, you’ll see.”

I have since learned “Riding the Snake” is a slang term unique to the world of human trafficking - smuggling humans from China to the United States, South America or Canada by ship or airplane. However, I’m not sure Connie’s version of riding the snake was much better.

As soon as it was dark, Connie came to our campsite and escorted me across the campgrounds to the paved road where four of her friends waited. Chuck and Gina were in a red 1964 Ford convertible with white interior while Ray and Phyllis were in a 1962 yellow Ford convertible with black interior.

The boys looked like they were twins: medium built, dark tans from working in the fields, and both wore denim jeans. The only way I could tell them apart was Chuck wore a plaid shirt and Ray wore a gray t-shirt.

The girls looked nothing alike. Phyllis had raven hair, almond-shaped brown eyes and wore a blue blouse and white shorts. Gina had hair the color of straw. She wore heavy makeup, and her voice had a trashy quality in its tone. She never missed an opportunity to drop an obscenity.

After introductions, Connie announced I was from Indianapolis and had never ridden the snake. Instantly, the farm boys began to hoot and holler friendly insults and the girls giggled. I didn’t even know what they were laughing about, but my face turned bright red. Finally, I asked Chuck, “Have you ridden the snake?”

“Oh, about a hundred times,” gloated Chuck.

“I’ve made more trips,” beamed Ray.

Connie clutched my shoulder and announced, “It’s his turn tonight.”

“What do you have in store for me?”

Chuck lauded, “We start on the square in Versailles and drive seven miles to the theater in Osgood.”

I frowned. “Isn’t that . . .”

Ray interrupted. “The road with all the twists and turns.”

Eager to dominate the conversation, Chuck added, “There’s only one short stretch of road without yellow paint on it. Speeds can get up to 85 miles per hour.”

“Whose car am I driving? I’ve been on that road before and I’m certain I can burn up the highway.”

Connie and her friends began to laugh. “You won’t be driving,” snapped Connie.

More confused than ever, I shook my head. “Okay, what’s the fun in riding in a convertible?”

“Well you leave Versailles in the red car and arrive in Osgood in the yellow car,” said Ray.

Chuck let out a hearty, thunderous laugh. “And we don’t stop so you can walk from car to car.”

“You mean I . . .”

Ray cut-in. “You jump from one car to the other while we are going around turns, up and down hills, and with traffic coming at you from the opposite direction.”

“It’s like riding snakes on hot asphalt,” giggled Connie, “only more dangerous.”

My knees began to knock, but I knew I could show no fear. “That sounds like fun.”

It was still sweltering hot and humid when we left Versailles. The two Ford convertibles raced through the winding roads of southern Indiana. Ray and Phyllis sat in the front seat of our yellow car while Connie and I sat in the back. Chuck and Gina were in the red car that followed closely. We were all seventeen and eighteen which meant we should have been parked at the reservoir watching the submarine races, but we were not that type. Our newly formed friendships and our fancies were based on a need for speed. The teenage lust in our bodies did not focus on sex. The perverse desires in our souls craved danger. The object of the evening was to race from town to town, and to scare the life back into ourselves.

Our cars left the Versailles town square and rolled gently out of town to where the highway split. We took the road north, and immediately I was thrown back in my seat when Ray stomped down on his gas pedal. Chuck’s headlights were only inches from our rear bumper until a car in the southbound lane shot by us in a blur. Chuck veered quickly into the southbound lane and easily passed our yellow convertible. He slipped in front of our car and slowed about ten miles per hour as if he were taunting us.

“You big fudge monkeys!” shouted Gina. “Grow a set and see if you can pass us.” I know. She said it, not me. What in the world is a fudge monkey?

Another southbound car rocketed by in the left lane, and Ray pulled his yellow Ford next to Chuck’s red convertible. Without hesitation, Connie stood up in the backseat, placed her right foot on the top of the back door and jumped into the back of the red convertible.

Chuck bellowed, “WA-H-O-O!” and Connie screamed with glee as she sat atop the backseat with her hands high over her head. I looked at Ray’s speedometer; we were travelling seventy-eight miles per hour.

Chuck increased his speed so Ray could pull-in behind. Two seconds later, the blur of a car’s headlights passed us heading south. Phyllis knelt on the front seat and turned to see me. “Well? What are ya’ gonna do? Do you have a set or are you going to let Connie show us who’s boss?”

My mouth went dry and I felt my knees quake with fear. I mustered every fiber of bravery, and stupidity, in my body and growled, “Will this heap go any faster?”

“Sure will!” shouted Ray as he pulled into the left lane. When he was next to Chuck, Phyllis shouted, “The dude wants to go faster.” Simultaneously, Chuck and Ray accelerated to eighty-six miles per hour.

When I stood in the backseat moving to the passenger side of the convertible, the wind felt like it was going to blow me out of the car. I shouted, “Move up a little!” Ray inched ahead of Chuck’s red demon. When I was even with Chuck, I sprang up and towards the other convertible. As soon as I took my foot off the top of the back door, the wind caught my body and pushed me towards the back of the red car. My death flashed before my eyes as I visualized myself missing the backseat, and then missing the trunk, and then seeing the ugliest license plates in the country on the back of Chuck’s car as I crashed to the road. The coarse blacktop would grind the skin off my bones after each bounce on the weather-beaten pavement.

Those were my thoughts, however I jumped spread-eagle at the red car, and although I missed the backseat, I hit the trunk. I’m sure I looked like a giant gecko on highly-polished red glass, but before I could slide off the car I felt two hands grab my left hand. It was Connie. She tugged me into the backseat and yelled, “Not bad for your first attempt at riding the snake!”

The cars slowed to the speed limit, and we turned on the first county road we came to. In seconds we pulled to a stop in a gravel parking area next to an iron bridge. There, Chuck and Ray pulled me from the car to inspect my body in their headlights.

“No cuts,” hollered Chuck.

“Only minor bruises,” roared Ray.

Chuck acted like he was inspecting my head and yelled, “Here’s the problem.”

“What is it?” quizzed Phyllis.

“His head shows no signs of damage,” snickered Chuck, “but I can’t find a brain.” Even I laughed with the group at his comment.

When I got back to our tent I could not sleep. Flashbacks of riding the snake and the euphoric feeling of living through the ordeal filled my mind. That evening I learned you live most when you are the closest to death.

The next day I could hardly wait for nightfall, but late in the morning Dad had us pack up and move to a farm in the back hills of Kentucky. Before leaving, Connie gave me her phone number and the address of her home. We wrote letters and stayed in touch for over a year, but one day the letters stopped.

Two years later, when I had my own car, I drove to her family’s farm and knocked on the door. I did not recognize the lady who answered. “Is Connie here?”

The woman dried her hands on a faded blue and white dish towel. “I’m sorry but Connie doesn’t live here anymore.”

“Do you know where I can find her?”

“No. Her mother died and the family sold the farm to pay medical bills. I heard the family moved out of state.”

She was a memorable flash in my life, and then she was gone. However, as luck would have it, I saw her in the Denver International Airport last week and we reconnected . . . but that’s a story for another day.