I was sitting in the hammock, tossing back a brew the day the snail rebellion began.
The slow fellas were almost to my trailer stairs before I noticed them. Gastropods of all kinds: anthropophilic land snails, marine snails, even a few slugs, all carrying little block-lettered signs in snail language. They seemed mad, chanting something I couldn’t make out.
The snails were forming what looked like the start of the letter “C” with their bodies when I left for the Safeway. I returned some hours later, after I’d grabbed groceries, listened to Mrs. Warner tell about her niece’s knee operation, and had lunch with Charlie Rickles, who I ran into crouching behind the grape bin sampling Thompson seedless.
I checked on the snails’ progress. Now it appeared they were forming the letter “O”, or maybe just a circle — which is what it turned out to be, a circle around one of the loafers I’d kicked off getting in the hammock.
It was game time, so I went inside, donned my Red Sox cap, snatched the Cheese Doodles from the grocery bag, and popped a Miller Genuine Draft. Halfway through my fourth Millers, I stepped out of the trailer to check on the dogs and noticed the snail convoy had completed its circle and lit my loafer on fire. They were all around the fire chanting “Death to the Speedy.”
I put out the loafer fire with the rest of the Millers and went inside to watch a CSI rerun. The snails regrouped and oriented themselves toward my stairs.
I know I should talk to them because snails belong to the second largest class of invertebrates on the planet, yada, yada, but I don’t have time for politics.
Instead, I move the trailer a few feet every other day.