The Python
written by: James Hanna
Mary and I sit on the front porch of our new house in Franklin, North Carolina. We have a view of a thick green forest capped by reddening clouds. Occasionally, we spot deer and wild turkeys trespassing on our lawn, and one evening, we heard a bear rummaging in our outdoor trash cans.
We are part of an exodus of aging couples who have relocated here from Florida. Tired of record heat waves, hurricanes, and floods, we decided that Florida is no longer a place to spend our golden years. Now, as we sip iced tea on our porch and watch the setting sun paint the clouds, we feel a sense of peace and arrival that is practically alien.
“Those clouds help bring back memories,” says Mary. She takes a long sip of iced tea.
I sense a question coming, and I feel my heart miss a beat. Having no talent for intimacy, I nod like a marionette. “Yeah,” I blurt, “lotsa memories.”
“So, what’s your favorite memory?” she says. “You’ve never told me that.”
“What’s your favorite?” I parry.
She smiles. “It happened before we met. It was the day my first child was born. My whole life changed in such a profound way that it felt like a miracle.”
“Sounds like a damn good memory,” I say.
“Joyful would better describe it,” says Mary. Her eyes begin to sparkle. “I wanted everyone I knew to come see this perfect little human I’d made.”
“A damn fine memory,” I repeat. “There’s no way I can top that.”
“Hey, quit stalling,” says Mary. “What’s your favorite memory?”
I think long and hard, and I finally say, “The day I beat up a greaser.”
“What’s a greaser?” says Mary. Her voice is so tight that I hesitate to say more.
“The high schools are full of them,” I say. “They’re those kids who wear leather jackets, hang around in packs, and put so much oil in their hair that they look like Vitalis commercials.”
“And that’s your favorite memory?” groans Mary. “Beating up some phony hood?”
“Ya gotta put it in context,” I say. “I was beat up myself every day when I was in middle school. Kids gang-jumped me in the bathrooms, clobbered me in the halls—hell, some of ’em even slugged me in class when the teacher was out of the room. And all because I was a daydreamer who never went to recess. Instead of joining the basketball games, I sat alone in the library, reading through the OZ books series. Did you know Frank Baum wrote lots more books set in OZ after The Wizard of OZ was published?”
“So, why did that get you beat up?” Mary says.
“The kids thought I was reading fairy tales, but there’s more to the books than that.”
“Maybe you should have shot a few baskets,” says Mary.
“Naw, the OZ books were more fun. I wasn’t giving them up. I think reading all those OZ books was what gave me my start as a writer.”
“All right,” Mary sighs, “so tell me about this fellow you beat up. I want to know why that’s more important than publishing your first book.”
“It was my day of liberation,” I boast. “The hour I stopped being a victim. I was sixteen years old, and in high school. I’d joined the wrestling team. I hadn’t made the varsity lineup, but I still had some wicked moves.”
“So, how’d that stupid fight start?” Mary asks.
“I was stuck in summer school,” I say, “retaking sophomore English. I’d failed the course because I kept sneaking OZ books into class. Well, the classroom was full of greasers who had also flunked the course, and one day, while I was thinking about the Cowardly Lion, one of them trash-talked me. His name was Bobby “The Bull” Polanski, and he had a thick scar on his cheek.”
“What did he say?” asks Mary.
“He said, ‘Hey, asshole, stop lookin’ at me.’ I had only been gazing around the room, but he took it personally.”
“So, did you avert your eyes?” says Mary.
“Naw, I gave him the ol’ laser stare. That’s a stare I gave my wrestling opponents to spook ’em before a match. So, the Bull, he repeated, ‘Kid, I toldja to stop lookin’ at me.’ Well, I kept giving him the ol’ laser stare, and he got as red as a plum and said, ‘Kid, if ya don’t stop looking at me, I’ll beat the shit outta you.’
“Do it,” I said in a voice I barely recognized as my own. It felt like I was fulfilling a script that was written long ago.”
“How noble,” scoffs Mary. “So, what happened after you gave him the ol’ laser stare?”
“Well, the guy didn’t know I had karma to dispense, so he puffed up like a toad. He said, ‘Kid, yer gonna be worm meat. Yer gonna get beat like a dog.’ So, we met in the parking lot after school and stood, staring each other down, and I heard about two hundred kids all chanting, ‘Fight! Fight! Fight!’
“How stupid,” says Mary.
“What else could I do? He was mixing metaphors.”
“So, then what happened?” says Mary. “Did you hand him a grammar book?”
“Naw, someone pushed him into me to get the battle started, and I punched him six or eight times in the face. He was a stocky kid with real short arms, and he couldn’t hit me back, so I felt like Muhammad Ali as I kept popping him in the chops.”
“That doesn’t seem quite fair,” Mary gasps.
“It wasn’t about fairness,” I say. “Yeah, his face was all red and puffy, but his eyes were glittery and wild. If that goon had had any advantage at all, he’d have handed me my ass.”
I feel myself getting excited as I keep describing the bout, so Mary says, “Calm down, Jimmy. Let’s wrap this story up.”
“Well, the jerk got tired of getting hit, so he tackled me to the pavement, and after we fell, I wrapped him up in my signature wrestling hold.”
“What on earth was that?” Mary groans.
“It’s called a Peterson Roll. I hooked a leg with one arm, put the other arm around his neck, and then I clasped my hands together and rolled him onto his back.”
Mary shakes her head and responds as though scolding a teen. “I think Peterson, whoever he is, had a higher aim for his roll.”
“Hell, that was just the beginning,” I say. “I locked that greaser up so tight that I squeezed all the air from his lungs. He started hissing, ‘Man…I can’t…breathe.’ He tried to claw my grip loose. If some teachers hadn’t butted in and pulled my hands apart, I’m sure that in a couple more seconds he would have passed out.”
“So, did they expel you?” says Mary.
“Naw, they let me walk. They musta known the kid was a punk and had an ass whippin’ coming to him.”
“And that’s your favorite memory,” sighs Mary, “not all the books you’ve published, not our wedding day, not the years you spent roaming Australia when you were young and adventurous.”
“The kids wouldn’t let me forget it,” I gloat. “They even gave me this great macho name. They called me The Python, and when I walked around the school, I heard ’em talking about me. ‘That’s him—that’s The Python!’ ‘Don’t mess with that dude—he’ll crush the wind outta ya!’ ‘Ya shoulda seen what he done ta Polanski. He wrapped him up tight as a drum!’”
Mary blinks as though seeing a ghost, then she rolls her eyes. “That does it!” she says. “You’re going to church. You need an exorcism. How can your most cherished memory be a stupid high school fight?”
I bow my head, feign regret, and promise to unbind my soul. But the memory of that stupid fight burns brighter every year. It shines alongside other occasions when the serpent in me awoke. In Sydney, I tackled a Thursday Islander who challenged me to a fight, locking him in a cradle and stacking him on his neck. In a Darwin bar, when a drunk shoved me for glancing at his sheila, I stretched him out in a cross-body ride until he hollered, “Mate, I give up!”
I don’t share these additional memories with Mary, which makes me feel like a thief. But I see no need to remind her further that I’m a lurking beast.
- The Python - September 5, 2026
- Orville Baumgardner and Young Goodman Brown - March 21, 2026
