A Snake Loose in the Jungle

At the same time Andy Warhol was loose at Studio 54.

More than forty years ago, as a member of the Tau Kappa Epsilon fraternity, I was living in the fraternity house on the campus of the University of Kansas, in Lawrence, Kansas (Rock Chalk, Jayhawk!). A fraternity brother, whom I will call Jim (because that’s his name), together with his two roommates, procured a pet boa constrictor to take up residence in their room. Having festooned their room with greenery and other tropical artifacts, they anointed the space, “The Jungle.”

This snake was provided a glass-walled terrarium in which he resided. And, once a month or so Jim and his roommates organized a party in their room, centered around placing a mouse in the terrarium, which was to serve as the snake’s dinner, beginning with a hunting and gathering phase, and concluding with a devouring phase.

Apparently, boa constrictors do not eat every day, and it is not uncommon for them to dine once a month, or even every two months.

The room was relatively small, and the party was held, as I said, only about once a month. Therefore, it was a pretty hot ticket. Now, as you might imagine with young men, the typical guestlist was heavily weighted towards attractive young women, much like the guest admission policies at the time at Manhattan’s trendy Studio 54, which featured regular visits from the likes of Andy Warhol, Jacqueline Kennedy Onassis and Truman Capote. So, even though I lived just down the hall, I don’t know that I ever wangled an invitation to one of their Jungle soirees; that fact won’t prevent me from simply imagining what took place at these parties, however.

Some sort of “Jungle Juice” concoction might have been appropriate at these gatherings. And, I have to imagine margaritas had a regular place on the bar menu; given that it was Kansas in the late 1970’s, there was probably a smattering of 3.2 Coors beer as well. I’m not sure what canapes one would serve at a Jungle party - pigs in blankets, perhaps?

Now, I’d like to think Jim and his roommates were committed to the jungle concept, perhaps inspired by the iconic Jungle Room in Elvis Presley’s Graceland, and not just laying the groundwork for a pickup line, something along the lines of, “Hey, baby, wanna’ come back to my place to see my snake?” (Ed. note: a groundbreaking Rule of Three study of pickup lines will soon be published, and the underlying research reveals that this particular pickup line is successful less than 12% of the time.)

My roommate, whom I will call Brian, because that’s his name, and I, adopted a puppy around the same time, and, I’ll be honest with you: we thought that a puppy would be a chick-magnet; I mean, the dog had blue eyes, for Chrissake! I don’t recall branding our room with a name, but, if it did, it would have been “The Kennel,” because that dog soiled the carpet so completely that, even after he had been sent off to live at the farm, his scent lingered on. . .for months. By the way, being “sent off to live at the farm” was not merely a euphemism in this case, similar to what your parents told you when your dog died; the dog, named Apollo, actually traveled to a farm to live with another fraternity brother, whom I will call Mike, because that’s his name. Brian and I never mounted any “Feeding Time” parties for Apollo, but, I suspect if we had, they would have not have been as eagerly attended as those parties hosted in “The Jungle;” I know there were relatively few volunteers lined up to assist with carpet-cleaning activities, after Apollo’s inevitable “Soiling Time” adventures.

Anyway, back to the snake, who might have had a name as well - I simply don’t remember. One evening, at dinner in the house’s cavernous dining room, Jim stood up during the announcements portion of the dinner festivities (you know, where one guy reminds everyone to not leave their red plastic Solo cups full of Skoal drippings on the urinals; or another will tout that the wine that we fermented each fall, to be served at our annual Roman Party, had been placed in the massive glass jugs in the basement; or a third announcing that one of our fraternity brothers had provided his fraternity pin to a young lady, and would be carted off to the Chi-O fountain after dinner, to be ceremoniously deposited there), and indicated that the boa constrictor had escaped, and was nowhere to be found.

Wait, what? Escaped? Nowhere to be found?

It was at that exact moment at which I decided which point of view to utilize when writing this column some forty-plus years hence. My options included: first person (although, as I indicated, I don’t think I ever made the guestlist of those invited to the snake dining party, so that point of view would have been disingenuous); third person omniscient (I think this would have required me to know the thoughts of all characters in the story, and, I have no idea what a snake is thinking); and, the option I ultimately settled on: first person terrified.

I think I knew intuitively that a boa constrictor was not inclined to kill and eat a human (humans are notoriously difficult to digest), although Rule of Three’s research team has discovered that a boa constrictor did kill a six-year-old child in 1996. Nonetheless, I did harbor an unreasonable fear of being attacked by the snake, maybe in the shower, or in my bed, or, while studying at my desk until the wee hours of the morning (ha! ha! just kidding).

Sure enough, after a couple of months of me painstakingly scouring the area before taking a shower, climbing into bed or taking a seat at my desk to study until the wee hours of the morning (ha! ha! just kidding), much like the Secret Service does in advance of a political rally (or, at least, much like the Secret Service is supposed to do) to ensure that no rogue boa constrictors were lurking, ready to pounce, Jim stood again during the announcements portion of the dinner festivities to indicate that the snake had surfaced, after having slithered into the ceiling through an HVAC vent, there to reside for a couple of months, and had been safely returned to his terrarium. Note to self: Next time a snake has escaped into your home, supplement your painstaking, area-scouring steps with looking up to ensure that said snake is not poised to strike from above).

I don’t know if I would have stood a better chance of being admitted to Studio 54, to join the likes of Andy Warhol, Jacqueline Kennedy Onassis and Truman Capote, than to receive an invitation from Jim and his roommates down the hall - I mean, I did own a killer, bright blue leisure suit, which would have felt right at home on Studio 54’s dance floor.

It seems to me that, of the twenty rooms lining the upstairs hallway in the TKE fraternity house, there were others which had been branded in some way, but, more than forty years removed, I have only a vague recollection of one being labeled, “The Dive” - no others leap to mind; I do know that the large room in the basement, home to eight roommates, was known as “The Pit” - well, that makes sense, I mean, do the math. I invite those fraternity brothers who are no doubt loyal Rule of Three readers (what do you mean, you don’t subscribe? It’s free, man!) to weigh-in to help me fill in the blanks in this story.

My fading memory, and my laissez-faire approach to the practice of journalism (I mean, I could have simply picked up the phone and called Jim, right?) notwithstanding, I can vividly picture the thirty-foot-tall Roman soldier, constructed out of plywood, placed each fall at the front door of the fraternity house, because he was modeled after a figure gracing a popular brand of sandwich bread.

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