Marty is a comfortable man. He’s worked at the same place for over two decades, getting a decent raise every year. He’s pleased with most of the people he’s worked with. Sometimes they’ll hire someone slightly agitating but his co-workers typically gaslight them into quitting before they can annoy him too much. He wears expensive clothes and drives a luxury car to a nice house in an affluent suburb—the kind with not a lot of character and a large, well-manicured lawn. His wife is numb and drugged so he’s able to engage in his various pursuits when he gets home. Sometimes they go out for a nice dinner and attempt to have conversations like the people in their age-appropriate sitcoms and films. They do not attract attention. He goes to bed every night with nothing to worry about. His wife floated the idea of a sleep divorce a decade ago and Marty pounced on it. Now he doesn’t have to worry about her flailing or keeping her awake with his snoring.
One day, people online begin mocking comfort. Marty feels like a meme. He looks a lot like many of the middle-aged men in the most viral online content. He feels soft.
That night at dinner he says to his wife, “I feel soft.”
She tries her best to focus on him and says, “You’re only a little overweight. I like my men with a little meat on their bones.” They haven’t had sex in seven years.
“No, I mean, too comfortable. I need my edge back.”
She snorts, thinking it’s inaudible, and says, “Did you ever … have an edge?”
“We used to get out and do stuff. Play tennis. Go to vineyards. Mini golf.”
His wife loses focus. She’s running the tip of her index finger around the rim of her water glass.
“I’ll figure it out,” he says.
He finds a man online and the next day he goes to this man’s house. The house is a state away in a town that makes Marty think the apocalypse might have already happened. The man sells him six venomous snakes. Marty happily takes them home and places them in separate plastic totes in his bedroom.
Feeding them makes him break out in hives but he feels more alive than he has in years. Sleeping amidst them fills him with nightmares and he once again starts sleeping in his wife’s bed.
When one of the snakes escapes, he doesn’t call anyone to come and wrangle it. He and his wife start spending less time at home. They take vacations, visit old friends, book local hotel rooms where they start fucking again because it feels kind of sleazy.
His wife notices the change in him and he’s pretty sure he sees more life and clarity in her eyes than he’s seen in a while. She asks if she can start feeding the snakes too. He knows she’ll probably forget to latch their containers every now and then and the thought of another venomous snake on the loose fills him with adrenaline he wholeheartedly welcomes. In only a couple of months, all the snakes are free-range.
One of the snakes, seeking refuge and heat under the refrigerator, strikes at Marty as he’s retrieving the dinner salad. Because he’s now constantly vigilant, Marty’s reflexes are pretty good. He lunges out of the way, grabs a cast iron pan, and beats the snake to death. He brings the salads into the dining room and places them on the table. His wife asks him what went on in there and he gleefully recounts the encounter.
He alert, engaged, and passionate. His wife listens attentively. They talk about downsizing, about going nomad. The five remaining snakes slither out from their hiding spaces, ready to follow them anywhere.
