Uncle Snaky

No one ever knew what to do with Uncle Snaky when he came to visit our home in Louisiana. He stormed down the gravel driveway in his always immaculately polished Chevy, bolted from the car with Aunt Hilda dutifully following, struggling to keep up with him. Then, he stood inside the hurriedly slammed door, ready to go home as he entered our house. He shifted from foot to foot, cleared his throat, mumbled to no one in particular, and glared at Hilda. It was the signal to spend the next 17, not 18 minutes, getting the most she could from a visit with my mom, her sister. As Hilda began to settle in, Snaky, still standing, would turn his fedora in his hands, his eyes darting from side to side as though the ‘big deal’ might be breaking somewhere in his world and he was missing it.

Snaky was tall and lean, physically unattractive, if all you did was glance at him for a moment. But, he had an indescribable appeal and perhaps an untold story or two. He was a dapper dresser, crisp white shirts with risky ties, summer weight wool suits and spectator shoes, polished so well you could feel the shine before he entered the room. He often carried a boater or fedora from which he focused an unblinking stare and often wore snuggled down on his forehead allowing a quick getaway without eye contact. Eraste Doucet had one of those gaunt craggy faces with dark shifty eyes that make children stiffen in fear. He loved to tell graphically dirty jokes, his only meaningful contribution to a conversation with my family. Snaky was a Pied Piper of bad little boys. My brothers adored him, and well, so did I.

There was something intoxicating about riding with him in his car as he made his stops along the rural backwater routes of Southwest Louisiana, collecting liquor orders from the barkeeps of his territory. Snaky was a sales rep for Mr. Nathan, Nathan Levy’s, the largest liquor wholesaler in Church Point. He had every novelty item that Black and White Scotch ever produced and kept them enshrined on a sideboard in his kitchen. Big and little, black and white, plastic ‘Scotty’ dogs perched in various sassy diorama-type settings as though the purchase of scotch makes the drinker as tough as the breed.

Aunt Hilda, my mother’s shy funny older sister, shamelessly indulged Snaky by manicuring his house and clothes and cooking his favorites: chicken gumbo and rice, watermelon pickles, and grits and grillades. All of Aunt Hilda’s family, Mother included, scratched their heads and gossiped about what Hilda saw in this slippery, odd dude. We knew. Snaky had cool. He was people reduced like a rich Bordeaux sauce down to a basic, thick glace′. He didn’t have time for bullshit, polite exchanges, or a public veneer of niceness. Even though he spent the majority of his time on his wheels and wardrobe, Snaky was the real deal. He was disreputable and disagreeable and he knew it. He was James Dean, Stanley Kowalski, and Snidely Whiplash all buttoned up in a coarse elegance. Snaky often disappeared from home, several weeks at times, never explaining his absence to Hilda. When I got older, I asked Hilda where he went. “I don’t know, chere,” she whispered. “It’s just something Snaky has to do.”

On one memorable visit to our home, Snaky came limping rather than blasting through the door. One of my intrepid brothers nervily asked, “Hey, Uncle Snaky, what happened to you?” Snaky blurted out, “those damn doctors cut on my balls.” “You ever had your balls cut on, huh?” None of us stuck around for the details.

Snaky and Hilda never had children. So, whenever he could stand for us to visit, Hilda invited us to stay and sleep on the bed and pallets she made on the floor of their extra bedroom. We jumped at the chance to explore the drawers and cabinets of this mystery man. Aunt Hilda let us keep the gum and change we excavated. We had the feeling it made Snaky edgy, but Hilda never stopped our exploring every crevice of their neat little home. The first nude pictures I ever saw hung on the back door of Snaky’s bathroom. There she was, Marilyn Monroe, shamelessly spread on a red satin sheet. I couldn’t take my eyes off of her. A vague thrill sneaked into my imagination as I envisioned being her.

I was similarly delirious riding in Snaky’s car. Each one of us, my brother’s and I, would take turns sitting in Snaky’s lap while he fired up the Chevy. As he pumped the accelerator to 55, we forced the suicide knob on the steering wheel as far to the right as it would go. Then, releasing our hands quickly, let is spin freely as we hurled around the corners of the streets in Church Point. The irresponsibility of it all collided with the deepest values my parents held and made us giddy.

Many years later, when Snaky was 80 years old, I sat in Aunt Hilda’s kitchen and watched tears pool in her eyes as she told me that Snaky’s driver’s license had been taken away by the police. It seems his driving had become hazardous to the general public of Church Point. I never got to see Snaky sitting at home, in his starched white shirt, polished brown spectators and fedora pulled just above his furrowed brow, with no place to roam. I could only imagine what it must have been like, his free spirit harnessed by age. But if he were still here today, he would smile that signature serpentine leer if he knew that his crazy heart had taken up a new residence. Like a hermit crab which moves to new digs when his home becomes too small, I welcome the hint of the spirit of that rogue that now resides in me.