Human Interfingering
Musings of a Teenage Snail

Yet another brave
  teenage attempt
foiled by foolish
  human fingers

If we had ears, it would go in one of them and out the other of those things. I’m sure you’d agree, once you’ve met my mother—who like all snail mothers agonizes her children telepathically. Bet you didn’t know that. Though, be that as it may.

Overprotective is a word not so much used among us snails, but it does come to mind as far as Mother is concerned. Never silent would be another, though that would be two words, of course.

The list my mother must have compiled from massive piles of family records is endless: The never-ending list of Don’ts. She probably has a list of Dos stashed somewhere but she has yet to quote from it. As far as her children are concerned, this entire world is made up of things not to do.

Dad, though he doesn’t say much as a rule and is rarely at home, seems to agree. At least he never counters her or speaks up. No fatherly opinions to go with all these don’ts. None.

Of all the hundreds, no, thousands of don’ts we’ve been force-fed over the days, weeks, months the one that reigns supreme and is voiced at least once a day, if not once an hour, is: “Don’t cross the road.”

 Well, of course, don’t cross the road. Death is the expected result. Yes, of course, we know what a car is, we’re not stupid, and of course, we know what being run over by one of those rubber wheels means: Death. Yes, yes. We know, Mother. Everybody knows.

But what everybody doesn’t know is that road-crossing is the biggest dare a snail can sign up for. If you want to become a legend, cross the road. If you want to count every snail in the field (except your mother) as a fan, cross the road.

Heroes cross roads.

Yeah, I know, snails and road-crossing usually do not belong in the same sentence and many a snail, even supposedly tough ones, would never consider such a stunt. Some, however, do. And some, however, have.

The trick, rather obvious when you think about it, is to cross the road at night. Any time between midnight and four in the morning—yes, in the pitch-one-car-an-hour black—would do. Still, we are not sprinters by any stretch, and not a few young upstarts, reaching for legend-dom have been crushed by late-night (usually drunk, as I understand it) drivers.

So, don’t cross the road, at any time of the day or night, harps my mother on and on.

There is one dare that trumps road crossing at night: road crossing in the daytime. Sheer lunacy, of course, but one of us did it, sprinted across in the morning, and returned the following night. He is still revered. Still a legend. And, yes, still alive to brag and brag and brag about it.

And then brag some more.

One day I had had enough of that bragging already. “I can do that, too,” is what having had enough came up with.

“Say, what?” said the bragger legend.

“No problem, I can do it, too.”

“Daytime cross?”

“Daytime cross,” I confirmed.

“Oh, I’d like to see that,” he said.

“Me, too,” said a small choir of bragger fans.

“When?” said bragger.

“Tomorrow morning,” said yours still-shellshocked-by-my-own-audacity truly.

Word spread like wildfire. He’s gonna do it. He’s gonna do it. “He” meaning yours truly in this case. Word even reached Mother, which I knew it would have to that way it wildfired, so I had to hide or she would have gotten Dad and some of his pals to lock me up or something.

So, I stayed hidden all day and all night, waiting for first light of the new day and the snail dash across the very wide tarmac.

Four of my pals (bragger said he would come to see, too, but he didn’t) stayed close enough to bear witness.

And here we go. Slowly cross the tarmacy edge, and damn, I counted three cars already. Perhaps this was not such a brilliant idea. But no way to back down now. I would never, ever, in a snail’s age live that down. Death much, much preferable.

And here rumbles past the fourth, truck they call them. Huge. Stirs up winds you actually have to battle, and so I battled. Successfully.

Crossed the edge and now up onto the asphalt itself.

There’s a huge, wide stretch of bicycle and walker lane before you enter the road proper, the dangerous part. And here’s the fifth, swooshing by. Damn. Wide, white paint separates the relative bake-lane safety from certain death. Still, no way to back down. No going back. I snail my way across the bike lane.

That’s when I hear him. Well, I don’t hear him. Don’t have any ears. But I (as do all snails) sense the vibrations through the ground. Footfalls. One and two and one and two and approaching. Oh, man, what a fate, to be trod on by some oblivious human. That would be worse than death, or, rather, a death worse than death if that makes any sense.

Closer and closer and then right upon me and then stop. Well, this particular human has seen me and will not tread. So, that bullet dodged.

Still no human movement. And then it dawns, it’s him. The snail lifter. The snail mover. We all know about him. He lifts and moves any snail that as much as looks like trying to cross the road and carries him off to safety. Goodhearted, perhaps, but incredibly arrogant.

Must be him.

I feel studied. Contemplated. Oh, no, he’s going to do this to me now that I’m about to cross over from the bike lane to the tarmac of death. I can feel him bend over and I can see his arm extend and his hand approach. Yes, definitely him. And I see his fingers open up and now firmly, but very gently, thank you, grip my shell and lift.

He lifts me up in the air and, carrying me, steps off the bike lane and into the foliage, still carrying me. Oh, how incredibly humiliating. And now, quite a ways from the road he gently puts me down, pointing away from the road. Lets me go, and now steps back up on the bike land and continues his stomp, stomp, stomp away and farther and farther, and soon I cannot even sense him.

Damn.

And in the middle of all this grass. Not easily navigable for a snail like me, or of any size for that matter. What a mess. It will take me far too long to work my way around and then up to the bike lane again for a second attempt this morning.

And the cars keep coming. Too many now. Far too many. Certain death. This is ridiculous. I’m gonna have to wait till tomorrow.

::

I’m on my way back home from the airport. That’s my daily walk, from my house to the airport (it’s a very small airport), round the flagpole, and head back up. I’m taking in the sun that shines glitter on everything after the overnight rain. I’m in a very good mood. The air is clear, crisp, the ocean rumbles its friendly surf and I could not be happier.

Oh, my, but what do we have here? Oh, dear. Another snail suicide?

They do come out after the rain and now and then they head for the other side of the road, stupid little things. Don’t they know it’s sheer suicide, certain death? So, the good person that I am, I stoop down and gently lift the little bugger up by the shell and carry him off the road and into the greenery where I place him, facing the other way.

“That away, little thing,” I say. “Stay off the road if you want to stay alive,” I say.

Ah, what a good-deeder I am. And what a great day it is. I resume my walk, a little more briskly, heading for home.

::

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