Where Are You, Snakeman?

I’m sitting in a coffee shop, writing, and listening to Itunes. I’m relatively new to Itunes, but the other day, I noticed that when I’m in a public place, I can browse through other Ituner’s music libraries. That’s a neat feature. Right now, there are 4 other people using Itunes. Brannon has foreign music. The music is so foreign that I cannot even venture to guess what country it’s from. Iceland? Uzekistan? No clue. Then there is Burgeoning, who has his or her library password protected. Lame. Then there’s a fellow by the name of Johnathan Byrd, who only allows 5 people to view his library per day and he’s reached his limit. I wonder to myself how long John has been here. Finally, there’s a person named Snakeman.

To be honest, when I click on Snakeman’s library, I’m a little concerned what I might find. Maybe some primitive beats, chanting. Maybe some death metal. Certainly there would be more than a few references to Satan. I remind myself not to listen to anything backward for fear of what it might do to me. Regardless, I’m quite sure that I’ll find something that might make it difficult to sleep tonight. This knowledge notwithstanding, I open the door and go in.

Immediately, I don’t recognize anything. But I see that there are 3,433 songs. This, for those keeping score at home, is 25.21 gigabytes of data. If I were to sit in this café for the next two weeks straight and listen exclusively to the songs in this library non-stop, I will not have heard every song, because there are 15.2 days of music in this place. I continue to look for the elusive devil music.

At this point, I feel something like guilt. Here I am, standing in this guy’s living room, not announcing my presence, rifling through his stuff, attempting to get some clue into her persona. I see what magazines he subscribes to. I go take a look to see if he made his bed this morning. I notice what brand of toothpaste he uses. I let the cat out. I leave the snake just where it is. I put on his slippers and help myself to a bowl of cereal and sit down in his easy chair. I put my feet up on the coffee table and turn on the TV. Hey, everyone, look at me, I’m the Snakeman!

As I’m having my fun, scrolling through his playlist, the name Billy Collins jumps out at me. I think for a moment that it’s the name of the lead singer for the Smashing Pumpkins. From what I recall, the Smashing Pumpkins weren’t Satanists, but I imagine that Billy may have fallen in with a bad crowd after he left the bad. His solo stuff must be pretty sinister. Oh no wait, that guy’s name is Billy Corgin. Nevermind. OH! Billy Collins is one of my favorite poets. This must be another Billy Collins. But when I click on the song, sure enough, it’s my Billy Collins, the poet, reading his poetry. What the heck? Snakeman, I don’t even know you!

I practically jump out of my seat to look around the place to see if I can identify Snakeman. Who here would listen to poetry in Itunes? Who here is trying to project the image of a snake-wielding tough guy, but who all the while has a warm chewy center? I’m scanning the crowd for a leather-clad dude with an anchor tattoo who’s wearing reading glasses and a beret. No luck.

I listen to Billy read a poem I really like – Litany. He explains what made him write the poem, cracks a few jokes, and reads it. I don’t care much for his voice and less for his delivery. He sounds full of himself. I can’t stand him. I hate the poem. I’m made to feel like I’ll never buy one of his books again. I’m tempted to go home right now and burn the six or so I’ve already purchased.

Snakeman, what kind of twisted person are you to ruin one of my favorite poets for me? And, why? Because I tried on your slippers? Because I left some crumbs on your carpet? I want to find you now and apologize. I turn to the man sitting to my right. “Snakeman, I’m sorry I let the cat out. I didn’t know he was an indoor cat. I’m sorry I messed up the order of your magazines. I didn’t know you were particular. I’m sorry I rearranged your speed dial settings. I wanted to see if you’d notice. I promise never again to change your alarm clock to PM. I just thought you might appreciate some more sleep. And I promise to never ever change all of your TIVO settings so that it records only the Golden Girls 5 times a day. Don’t you like that show? Don’t you think that little old lady is a riot? Well, I thought you might. And as for moving your mattress to the balcony, well, I don’t really have an excuse for that. I was bored, I suppose. But, like I said, I’m sorry. For everything. And don’t get up. Here are your slippers back. I’ll let myself out.”