Wheel Well with a Rope Inside

One Hour Ago:

Driving up a tight curve on Murphy Blvd, which cuts across Joplin, I hear a thunk-thunk-thunk-thunk in my front right wheel well. Still driving, I glance out the widow and see something long catching the yellow light. Long like rope, and it’s stretching from front wheel to back window in its spin cycle. I wonder if I ran over some nail strip or something and start to pull over…

One Minute Ago:

I ask Kiddo to come outside and look. She’s been packing boxes all morning in her robe and protests coming outside.

“Only for a minute,” I say. I get her to walk down the steps and come to the driveway where my car is parked. I point to the car where blood has splattered in a large spiral pattern.

“No way!” she says and starts giggling and squealing. “There’s blood everywhere…” She emphasises the word “everywhere” again as if announcing the name of a pro wrestler.

Last night:

We’re headed to dinner at this older couple’s house and I open the door for Kiddo. I then come around the car and jump both feet up off the ground and backwards: there’s a five-foot black snake stretched out with its head just under my car, probably looking for some cooler shade. I hate snakes. I hate them. I don’t hate them enough to take a life unquestioning, but I freaked out and felt squirms all down my limbs. As I was planning on finding a shovel to move it, it started to rear its head and slither into my back right wheel well. “No no no,” I beg, but it’s not listening and has already curled under my gas tank. Images from Michael Bay films come to mind. Ones invoking massive explosions.

We bracket all five trips over the course of the evening with flashlight searches under the chassis to make sure it hasn’t crawled out.

It hasn’t.

I suddenly wish it had.

One hour ago:

With the rope twirling and catching that hot gold light, I pull over at Edward Jones. There’s a four-foot black snake writhing under my front right tire. I jump back in, pull away, and watch its flattened form squirm in my rear view mirror.

Which means two things:

  1. At some point last night that massive nether beast did relocate from back left wheel well to front right wheel well.

  2. I owe Edward Jones a sincere apology for the very large, very dead black snake I left in their driveway in route to my 10:00 meeting.

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  1. jennifromrollamo

    One less snake to worry about in Joplin!

    1. lanceschaubert

      Truth. The snakes… gosh I hate them.

  2. sedula

    Nagini….

    1. lanceschaubert

      Too bad I don’t speak Parseltongue…

Quick note from Lance about this post: when you choose to comment (or share this post with your friends) you help other readers just like you.

How?

Well, see, your comments & sharing whisper a few things to those who come after you:

The first is that this site is a safe place to speak up & stay curious. That it's civil. That discussion is encouraged. That there's no such thing as a stupid question (being a student of Socrates, I really and truly believe this). That talking to one another and growing together is more important than anything we could possibly publish. That the point is growing in virtue and growing together and growing wise. That discovery is invention, deference is originality, that we all can rise together. The only folks I'm going to take comments down from are obvious jerks who argue in bad faith, don't stay curious, or actively make personal attacks. And, frankly, I'd rather we talk here than on some social media farm — I will never show ads and the only thing I'm selling anywhere on the site or my mailing list is just the stuff I make.

You're also helping folks realize that anything you & they build together is far more important than anything you come to me to read. I take the things I write about seriously, but I don't take myself seriously: I play the fool, I hate cults of personality, and I also don't really like being the center of attention (believe it or not). I would much rather folks connect because of an introduction I've made or because they commented with one another back and forth and then build something beautiful together. My favorite contributions have been lifelong business and love partnerships from two people who have forgotten I introduced them. Some of my closest friends NOW I literally met on another blog's comment section fifteen years ago. I would love for that to happen here — let two of you meet and let me fade into the background.

Last, you help me revise. I'm wrong. Often. I'm not embarrassed to admit it or worried about being cancelled or publicly shamed. I make a fool out of myself (that's sort of the point). So as I get feedback, I can say, "I was wrong about that" and set a model for curious, consistent learning, and growing in wisdom. I'm blind to what I don't know and as grows the island of my knowledge so grows the shoreline of my ignorance. It's the recovery of innocence on the far end of experience: a child is in a permanent state of wonder. So are the wise: they aren't afraid of saying, "I don't know. That's new: please teach me." That's my goal, comments help. And I read all reviews: my skin's tough, but that's not license to be needlessly cruel. We teach one another our habits and there's a way to civilly demolish an idea without demolishing another person: just because I personally can take the world's meanest 1-star review doesn't mean we should teach one another how to be crueler on the internet.

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