"Seven-ten, eight-oh-eight. Seven-ten clear in Scottsdale," I said into the radio, announcing my return to my home yard.
"Roger that Seven-ten. Go ahead and wrap it up, call at five for load and start," the voice on the other end came back.
"Thanks Dave, have a great night. Seven-ten out."
I hung the microphone on the dash, shut off the engine, and grabbed my gear. It was two in the afternoon, and I was done for the day. It was time to go home, crack open some beers and watch old music videos on YouTube. Anything to forget Sunstate Equipment Rental for the next twelve hours.
I climbed out of the cab of my Kenworth T-800 and started walking across the yard toward the office, where I would close out the day's paperwork. On my way there, I would pass in front of the large open-air equipment shop. Doubtless, the mechanics would be working like crazy getting machines checked out and serviced in order to be ready to go out on rent as soon as possible.
As I came around the retaining wall that had previously obscured my view, I was not met with a scene of industrial efficiency. Instead, I saw two mechanics, visibly winded and leaning on crowbars, gathered around a fifty-five gallon trash can.
"Hey Matt, come look at this," one of the mechanics was able to gasp upon seeing me.
The two mechanics moved over as I walked up to the can. I peered over the edge. Scattered across the inside of the trashcan was the horribly mangled remains of a four foot rattlesnake. These mechanics were sucking air because they had spent the last five minutes trying to dispatch the snake with the heavy iron crowbars.
"So… how'd that get here?" I asked.
"He brought it!" Richard, the mechanic nearest me said. He was pointing across the shop to the bald-headed field service mechanic. "Son of a bitch had it in a five gallon bucket and dumped it into the trash can! Brought it back from the field with him."
"Why in the hell would he do something like that?" I queried.
"Fuck if I know. You know 'well as I do that he's one weird retard. You saw what he was wearing when he got here this morning."
"How could I forget? Pink spandex and riding a ten-speed. He sure is a different duck," I chuckled.
Richard pulled a pack of cigarettes from his chest pocket. He pulled a smoke from the pack, and lit it. Out of breath, sweating, hair a mess, cigarette in his mouth; the semi-geriatric Richard looked more like he had just got done fucking his wife than fucking-up a snake.
"Well, Bob's gonna chew his ass here pretty soon. He's on a call to Metro Ops, but he'll be back out in a second. Pull up a seat," and with that, Richard slid a rolling mechanic stool to me.
We huddled around for a minute as Ricard and the other snake-slaying mechanic, Steven, told the tale of their recent brush with death. Apparently it took quite a lot to finally pacify the serpent. These were two stout individuals, and years of turning big wrenches and hoisting heavy iron machine parts left them fairly muscle-bound. What they hadn't had since high school was serious cardio work. The visible results of their five panicked minutes clubbing a snake made me struggle to remember where the automatic defribulator was stored.
"Here comes Bob," Steven said.
Bob walked in the shop, a contrast to everyone else present. He was wearing a green polo shirt and jeans, whereas everyone else was wearing dark work dungarees and coveralls. His face was devoid of any expression that would give away his emotional state. With the exception of myself, everyone else in the shop was pretty shaken up.
Bob approached the service mechanic. "So, why exactly is there a dead snake in my shop Mike?" he asked the bald man.
"I brought it in off a job up by Troon North," Mike said, rather calmly. "It was a residential neighborhood, and there were kids nearby."
"Why didn't you just let the neighbors know where it was at?" Bob asked, still calm as ever.
"I didn't think dispatch would appreciate me taking that much time with the service call I was on."
"So you put it in a bucket and brought it back here? Why didn't you just kill it and leave it there if you were so worried about the kids?"
Mike looked around, a little more frantic looking than before. Like he was trying to justify his actions he himself didn't understand.
"I… uh… I thought someone here might want the meat," his voice wavering.
Bob looked over at the three of us. We were trying our hardest to pretend we were doing anything else but watching the entertainment he and Mike were providing.
"Any of you guys interested in snake meat?" Bob asked. His ice cold exterior was beginning to melt, and there was a half chuckle in his tone.
None of us said anything. We responded with blank looks and shrugged shoulders.
"Yeah, I don't think anyone here has a taste for it Mike," Bob said, turning his focus back to the company dimwit. Mike was beginning to show signs of fear. He surely must have begun to see how an action like this could jeopardize his employment.
"Look, Mike. I'm not gonna write you up for this, this time. I really don't wanna deal with the headache. The rest of Phoenix Metro looks at us as the company clowns. I don't want to give them anymore ammunition," he paused and turned toward we three, "so we're all gonna keep this one quiet, and there will be no more bringing wildlife back to the yard."
I could see Mike breath a little sign of relief.
"I just want to know one thing. Can you can see how this was a bad idea?" Bob sternly asked.
Blankness returned to Mikes face. He didn't have an answer. He shrugged his shoulders.
"What if someone got bit?" Bob said, with a bit of forcefulness behind his voice.
It was as if all the illusions and forms had been pulled back and Mike finally saw reality through the eyes of a sane person. His jaw dropped, eyes widened. "Ahhh, I see."
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