Looking out my Backdoor: The creature from the white lagoon

My son and his fiancé are both sick with the dread coronavirus. I had not heard from him so I hounded him, knowing something was wrong. Ben managed to send me a two line email letting me know they were home in bed with a nurse coming regularly.

Aside from that, I know nothing except they are too ill to be in communication with me or with anybody else. I understand all they do is sleep. Sleep is good. Washington State has good health care and I hang onto that as a life line.

It’s been at least three weeks now. And I really don’t know when Ben and Kristen began to be ill. But Ben was sick on his birthday, unable to call. To say I am worried sick is the understatement of my year. By the way, “worried sick” is not a cliché. It is a reality.

Worry is a mother’s prerogative. In the last two weeks I’ve aged another 10 years. By definition I am nothing but worry contained in a wrinkled bag of skin.

To stay healthy, I’ve barricaded myself within my garden walls. Now I’ve added a wellness check to my morning routine. I understand that symptoms of the coronavirus include inability to smell and taste. So when I wake in the morning, I open my mouth and huff. So far, each morning — ewwww — I’m assured that I am still relatively healthy.

While I keep occupied with a variety of daily activities, I suppose one could say that my mind is preoccupied without let up.

Still, life dishes out a measure of excitement. I live in Mexico, a country rife with creatures. Each morning I shake out my shoes, hoping if a scorpion has crawled inside, he will fall out of my shoe before I insert my foot. When I lay out my bathmat in front of the shower, I do so carefully, aware of the wide variety of spiders. I scan the shower before turning on the water, looking for cockroaches I hope not to see.

This afternoon while reading on the patio, I felt the call of nature. I sashayed into the bathroom unzipping as I went, when I let out a blood-curdling scream. (“Blood-curdling” is not a cliché; it is a reality.)

I am not given to hysterics. Paralysis in the face of danger, yes, but not hysterics.

Head to tail, there was a two-foot long beast in my biffy. Sleek and black, half body, half tail, with big grasping iguana-style feet, my own personal loch mess monster.

I ran for the phone and called Leo, whom I thought was working at a neighbor’s. “Leo, where are you?”

“I’m in town. What’s wrong?”

“There’s a dragon in my toilet.”

“I’ll be right there.”

I went back to the bathroom to make sure I was not hallucinating. Two feet long and lounging like a tourist with an umbrella drink in a resort pool.

Back to the living room, I propped open my screen door for Leo so he would not have to touch it to enter. Even in emergency I am careful about my coronavirus safety. Back to the bathroom to stand guard. What would I do if the creeper crawled out?

Leo came. Leo saw. Leo went next door for help.

Josue was in his shop welding. Soon both men returned. Josue, masked in welding gear and wearing huge welding gloves, with a long-handled grabber in one hand, assayed the situation.

Though I wasn’t willing to put my own life at risk, I couldn’t understand why one of the guys didn’t just reach in and grab it, until they informed me that the critter had big teeth and could bite hard.

With armored gloves, Josue plucked the dragon creature out of the pond and carried it away.

The juvenile iguana had climbed down the open (now screened) top of the vent pipe for my sinks and toilet, crawled all the way into the septic tank where, given how skinny he was, he’d been trapped a while. Eventually the monster doubled back and found the outlet into the toilet. I don’t even want to know how the guys figured out that progression.

Dragons being an endangered species, perhaps Josue let it go. Perhaps the creature came in attracted by my morning dragon breath. Perhaps I’ll not soon enter the bathroom in the dark of night without flicking the light switch.

Remember when we carried a lantern to the outhouse to check for rattlesnakes before entering? Remember chamber pots?

Ben, my son, please get well soon. Have I got a story to tell you!

——

Sondra Ashton grew up in Harlem but spent most of her adult life out of state. She returned to see the Hi-Line with a perspective of delight. After several years back in Harlem, Ashton is seeking new experiences in Etzatlan, Mexico. Once a Montanan, always. Read Ashton’s essays and other work at http://montanatumbleweed.blogspot.com/. Email [email protected].