Snake vs. Bad Breath Boogie

“Didn’t it look like he’d had a buncha plastic surgery?”

“His face looked like he was once really fat and lost too much weight.”

My girlfriend (Sue) and I were discussing the man portraying the titular present-giver at Santa’s Land in Putney, Vermont. We’d taken some photos with her stuffed rabbit (Hildegard) and lion (Hippie)—both bedecked in shiny holiday garland—before driving south to Brattleboro while debating Santa’s appearance.

For the sixth year in a row, the two of us had visited Santa, this time opting for a nostalgia-fueled visit to a dumpy, painfully cold location where Sue’s parents had taken her four decades prior. Our other takeaway was pondering how one man in the gift shop could be wearing shorts when my feet (covered in two pairs of socks and Timberlands) felt nearly frostbitten and Sue’s hands behaved as if they were loaded with novocaine.

After record shopping and getting offended by $24.99-per-pound turmeric at the local co-op, we couldn’t locate the subtly named Superfresh! Organic Cafe. I stopped a police officer meandering through the co-op parking lot to ask where it was.

“It’s that brick building there by the bridge,” Officer Softy said while pointing. (The cafe’s name was only printed on the side window, not the front, hence the confusion.) I didn’t inquire for his surname, but the man’s hushed tone and extreme politeness led to a shared conclusion that he was the kindest police officer Sue and I had ever met.  

“Are you here to eat?”

This was the first question from the sole waitress at the Highlyrotten! GMO Bistro.

Despite being served a ten-dollar pesto grilled cheese the size of a dust mite, our half-hour dialogue praising Harry Styles’s new album and admiring the Connecticut River flowing through ice blocks outside the window made the time more festive. Before leaving the area, Sue wanted a photo of the Carter’s Little Liver Pills sign on a brick building we’d seen earlier in the day. It reminded her of a corny joke her father used to tell.

“How is there no bookstore in this town?” I asked only to notice one directly across the street roughly a second later.

Admiring the liberal bumper stickers covering the store’s walls, Sue read one aloud.

“Those who abandon their dreams will discover drawers.” 

“What does that mean, ‘discover drawers?’” 

“I said ‘discourage yours.’”

★ ★ ★ ★ ★

A couple miles north, we requested normal-sized portions at an Indian fusion restaurant. Our waitress took our order then commented on something outside.

“Oh my God! Why is there a little boy wandering around our parking lot? He’s been out there for five minutes!”

“That’s our son,” I said. “We gave up looking for him after the last two hours because we were starving.”

“ARE YOU SERIOUS?!?!”

“Of course not.”

“I am SO gullible!”

Just after exiting Vermont, I felt a shiver of panic and fiddled inside my pocket to confirm I’d left my credit card at the restaurant. We returned so I could grab it from the motel lobby nightwatchboy (he looked young enough for it to be the first shift of his first job)—and yes, a motel and Indian fusion restaurant share a lobby—and headed to Northampton, Massachusetts, for ice cream.

“Sssss!” Sue hissed at me while we recapped the latest snake-heavy Rick & Morty episode.

“Snake jazz!” I said in reference to the (fake) musical genre featured in the episode, offering my own “Sss suh sss suh sss…” in harmony with snake jazz’s tempo.

I parked in front of Herrell’s at 10:57. Attempting one last snake impression, Sue compared the hissing sound that emerged from her mouth to the Bad Breath Boogie, a routine she’d originated upon awaking in a hotel room a couple years prior. She clenched her jaw that morning while adopting the closest similarity I’ve ever witnessed a person approach to having googly eyes. A sibilant sound exited her clenched teeth as she tried to spread morning breath on my face. (It may have been mostly incomprehensible, but it lasted as a goofy reference.)

We rushed inside—the door unlocked—and Sue asked, “Are you still open?” knowing they closed at 11.

“No,” a girl mopping told us. Liar.

Driving out of town, I spotted a restaurant used for a recurring joke whenever I saw it.

“There’s The House Where Anti-Masturbation Crackers were born,” I said about Sylvester’s.

Sylvester Graham created his crackers to help nineteenth century folks fight the urge to jerk off, however it was that people in the 1800s performed such a task. (Probably using one hand to create lewd shadow puppets on the wall by candlelight while pouring lube-wax all over their nethers with the other hand.) I offered to stop at the grocery store after Sue mentioned how she wouldn’t mind dunking some onanism-free crackers in the mint chocolate hummus in her fridge.

Upon parking at Stop & Shop, Sue fumbled around with her backpack. I knew what was going on. We’d taken road trips where she’d lost a notebook at a Mass Pike rest stop, left her phone under the seat in my car and at a restaurant, never mind numerous trinkets (scrunchies, inexpensive rings, buttons) that had been misplaced for good.

“Nothing’s wrong!” she said in a mild panic.

After searching the car thrice over with my flashlight, we knew her wallet was either in a snowbank outside Herrell’s, in the parking lot of the grocery store where we stopped for cucumbers and Humpty Dumpty cheesy french fry-flavored potato chips after dinner (and gasped in horror at two more men in shorts) or gone. She dialed the Brattleboro Police Department number and handed me the phone while I drove back to Northampton, no self-gratification-free crackers in tow.

“Brattleboro Police Department. This is Kate.”

“Hi Kate, this is Adam. I’m calling because my girlfriend might have left her wallet in the Hannaford parking lot. I know this is a weird question, but if an officer is available, would you mind checking to see if it’s there? We’re home in Connecticut but can come back tonight if you find it.”

Kate said that an officer could check, asked where we had parked, and what to look for. Officer Softy was now the second nicest employee of Brattleboro PD.

“It’s pink and there’s a monster on it. I wouldn’t call it a traditional wallet.”

“Is it fuzzy?”

I laughed.

“Yeah, it’s fuzzy.”

“Okay, we’ll call you back at this number once we check.”

As soon as we passed Sylvester’s—Sue and I repeatedly discussing if a homeless person might have grabbed her wallet, how she’d never leave her backpack half-zipped again, and how all police officers should train in Vermont—Kate called back.

“Hey Adam. We looked everywhere but couldn’t find it. I hope you guys have better luck.”

“Thank you so much for trying, Kate. Merry Christmas.”

Pulling up Old South Street, I told Sue to say a prayer (“Like I haven’t been this entire ride,” she replied) and flashed my high beams. There was a pink, fuzzy blob at the foot of a dirty snowbank.

“There it is!”

Sue clutched my shoulder grateful her wallet wasn’t lost (mainly for her dad’s irreplaceable World War II dog tags and the tiny Jesus figurine her mother had given her). It seemed like some Christmas magic had rescued our recent losses.

“Well, we can always remember this one for debating if you sounded more like a snake or the Bad Breath Boogie.”

If only we had Formerly Obese Nip/Tuck Santa’s Venmo address. We owed him a few ducats for bailing us out of our jams. I hit seek on the radio dial; Andy Williams sounded more fitting than ever, but we needed a little snake jazz while the adrenaline wore off.

Sssss.