Sunday, September 18, 2005
Meeting Mickey
I don’t remember ever being without Mickey Snake, though I think I actually do remember the day I got him. He was a gift from my parents when I was a wee tyke, too young to go with them to the wilds of Agoura and the Renaissance Faire. This must have been back in the late ‘60s, before RenFaire was such a freakfest. At least, that’s not how my people saw it. It was just a place where anglophiles and Virgin Queen fetishists could eat ribs, drink beer and watch a little good clean comedia del arte. Wenching was still a family activity. Oh, those were simpler days. Or maye it’s just my parents that were simpler. For sure, there was a generally increased simplicity quotient, and that was embodied by Mickey Snake.
Mom and Dad got back from the faire that afternoon and I, ever the charmer, demanded a toy from them. They, familiar with my aforementioned charms, handed over a hand puppet. It was not in the least Elizabethean - it wasn’t even vaguely archaic. It was just simple: a sleeve of fabric in a classic late-mid-century pattern of green, blue and black, reaching all the way to my juvenile elbow. It was closed at the end by a section of black felt, in the center of which a forked red felt strip had been sewn. Two white felt disks were securely glued immediately superior to this black region, onto each of which were, in turn, glued smaller black circles. Two eyes with big black pupils, over a gaping black mouth with a flapping tongue. Clearly, a snake. Clearly, Mickey Snake. The name seemed his, not one I’d given him. It was as if he’d always been there.
Mickey Snake and I were fast friends from the start. His simple pan was surprisingly expressive and his floppy felt tongue never told my secrets. Over time I played with Mickey less but never gave him up completely, even bringing him to college and breaking him out at parties or for my senior yearbook photo, which caused some consternation among my peers, but to hell with them - those malcontents have dropped out of my life but Mickey has endured, even unto the present day.
And so we find ourselves in the present day again. We have this kid now, Zach. Zach is enjoying his many stuffed animals and teething toys and multifarous playthings; he stands up in his exersaucer and smacks, whacks, and chews on all he can reach with glee and abandon. One of the things arrayed around that saucer is a cheerful fleecy dragonish fellow with a slot in the back of his head so I can insert my hand and open and close his black felt mouth. He rings a very familiar bell, with his big staring eyes and his forked tongue of red felt.
So I went back to the shelves over my closet and pulled Mickey Snake out once again. The old man is back in circulation, and he’s never looked hipper. It will be a while before Zach fits his little arm into that old green sleeve, but I can kick in some paternal puppet assistance. If Mickey and Zach are ready to span the generations, I’m happy to lend a hand.
