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Riverboat Snakes

The Source

I took the job as piano player, but I had to idea that snake counseling was a part of the gig. In a moment of semi-insanity I hired on as Honky-Tonk Piano Man for this summer’s run of The Spirit of Peoria riverboat, tinkling my way upstream to Starved Rock for two-day trips and down river to St. Louis for 3, 4, and 5-day runs. It all sounded so easy….do a couple of shows a day, maybe an evening’s performance at one of the state park lodges, be nice to people, smile a great deal, and generally try to give our guests a pleasant few days complete with gourmet dining, folk singers, storytellers, and the thrill of experiencing the Illinois River at 12 miles per hour on a paddle wheeler. Nothing…nothing in the contract about snakes. The plan: sail from Peoria to Meredosia, unload the guests onto their awaiting busses, transport them to Jacksonville for the night then back to Dosh on the morning of day two. The actuality: The Illinois River was too high for a Dosh-Dock so we pulled The Spirit up to the river overlook at Beardstown. In case you ever need to know this, when the water’s high, the wind is blowing you away from the shore, and you have only a paddlewheel to power you, it takes about 40 minutes and fifteen tries to hit the right spot. Our first attempt at tying up pulled a steel post loose from the concrete steps leading down to the river. Attempt number fifteen gave us a more solid hold, but the captain had to extend his gangplank over the river. Thus came the snake. The deckhand told me it was a water moccasin and without Marlin Perkins there to confirm this, I believed him. The thing was perhaps three feet long but to me, all snakes are ten-footers. And truth be told, the snake was simply resting on a slab of concrete some twelve feet below our gangplank. I think he was watching us dock. There was certainly no chance that he’d be able to climb the concrete wall and cause any damage. But for some folks, a snake is a snake is a snake. If there’s a way for the slithery thing to jump twenty feet into the air and bite me, then I assume he’ll try it. Of course I was calm. I mean, I was the seasoned river man by now since I’d been on the boat for nearly seven hours. When the lady beside me pointed to the moccasin and shrieked “Snake!” I assured her that it was a) non-poisonous (you learn to lie on the river), b) probably dead (if the snake had stopped wiggling she might have believed me), and most importantly, c) far below the gangplank she’d be traversing in a few moment’s time. I thought about adding a “d” in that she’d have to fall twenty feet into the water for the snake to get to her and the fall alone would kill her before she reached the reptile. I didn’t mention “d.” Thus endeth lesson number one in being a riverboat entertainer: remain calm, even if you’re more flustered than the passenger. But my teachable moments were far from over and my learning curve was steeper than the gangplank. For example: Do not set a wine bottle in front of the cash register before you push the “sale” button. The drawer will come flying open and you’ll suddenly be engulfed in a sea of Cabernet. Actually, I just made up the name of the wine, because another of my lessons was to tell one wine from another. Around 3 p.m. the boat provides complimentary wine and cheese for our passengers and it was somehow left to me to help man the bar. . .poor Presbyterian me who wouldn’t know his Aspe Spumante from a hole in the boat. Heck, I can’t even work a corkscrew. A sweet little lady would approach me asking for a glass of Merlot and I’d have to ask her if that was red or white. At some point I simply started saying, “Point to it and I’ll pour it.” At several times during my first cruise I asked myself, “Am I too old to be retooling myself for a new occupation?” The question was easy to answer…we were headed downstream and it was too far to swim for the shore. And oh, the people you’ll meet, Dr. Seuss! The spindly little professor from Champaign who insisted on his drinks being exactly one-third Diet Pepsi, one-third soda water, and one-third pink lemonade…with only a few ice cubes. The octogenarian platinum blonde from Maryland who would pat my bottom whenever I passed her playing my accordion. Bayou Bob from New Orleans who’d spent his life on oilrigs and who asked me to play Jambalaya every time I saw him and his Johnny Walker Red on the top deck. The dear and wonderful couple from Germany who often told me that they used to be wonderful dancers before Gustav had his stroke. At one point they asked me to play a waltz just so they could remember. For all this joy I’ll put up with a few snakes.