Snakemaster

by Austin Stevens

  In between these DCI promotions and parties, I was expected to do live television appearances with popular hosts such as Tony Danza, Regis and Kelly, and David Letterman, to which I was always requested to bring snakes with me. I was, after all, the Snakemaster. People wanted to see snakes—the bigger and more dangerous, the better. I was not keen on the idea. Time slots allotted for each of these shows were precise, allowing just so many minutes on stage, with no margin for error. I voiced my concerns to Amelia, pointing out that, without venomous snakes to contend with, I would have much more time to explain who I really was and what my series was all about, to discuss it all in greater depth . . . but she would not hear of it.

  “Your series is titled Austin Stevens: Snakemaster!” She announced dramatically, as if I didn’t know. “That’s what gets the public excited. The title alone indicates that you will be handling highly venomous snakes. The audience will expect it. And that’s why you are the Snakemaster, because nobody does it better than you.”

  This clever and strategic mix of rebuke and praise was a typical publicist ploy to keep the talent in line. She took a breath. “Just make sure that as many times throughout your performance as possible, you state clearly that your show can be viewed on Animal Planet, and give the time slot.” She stared at me, a frown all over her dark features. “And don’t go frightening the hosts by bringing the snakes too close to them, especially Letterman. He really wants you on his show, but he is terrified of snakes. So behave! I know how you like to spice up your performances, but, if you kill Letterman, my life is over!” And, as if a second thought, “yours, too!”

  Having little idea about the wrangling of venomous reptiles live in a public arena, Amelia suggested that I display five snakes on each show, I disagreed immediately. The time slots allocated would not accommodate for so many, allowing time for little but wrangling. How was I supposed to communicate with the audience and host? These were to be highly venomous snakes and, as such, needed my full attention so as not to get myself or anybody else bitten.

  “But we want lots of snakes,” Amelia argued, stamping her Prada high-heeled shoes. “It has to be dramatic! The shows will be viewed by millions of people around the world.”

  I sighed. Here we go again! “Dramatic will be more evident in quality rather than quantity,” I said. “I’m suggesting just three snakes, three very dramatic snakes.” I paused for effect. “Number one, a full grown eastern diamondback rattler, the biggest rattler found in America, sometimes reaching over two meters in length and thick as a man’s arm. A local species that the viewing audience can immediately identify with. One of the most dangerous snakes in the world.” Amelia leaned closer, her interest aroused.

  “Number two, an exotic species that performs well when handled, like a cobra spreading a hood. Something very different from the rattler, from another world.” Amelia’s eyes gleamed now as she imagined the impact of it on camera in front of a live audience and being broadcast into millions of homes.

  “Then, as a grand finale, a giant snake. And not just any giant snake, but a beautiful albino giant snake, something around four meters long. A heavy-bodied snake that, except for its size, is otherwise docile and harmless, and can be touched or handled even by the host . . . if he or she so desired.”

  Amelia stared at me, her eyes wide and shining with the image of it all. I knew there were plenty of private snake keepers all over the USA, some making their snakes available for film shoots. I did not think it would be a problem to get what I wanted. Having just three snakes to work with allowed for more communication time with the hosts of each show, as well as with the audience, and more time to get the message across. And by introducing one harmless specimen, usually an Asian python that could be handled safely, was always a show grabber.

  To give credit where credit is due, Amelia jumped on the phone and within a matter of hours had arranged for the snakes I had requested—with keeper—to arrive at the studios where and when the shows were scheduled. These specimens would be made available for all the New York, Chicago, Detroit, and LA shows. Now things were really moving along.

  CHAPTER 17

  SNAKES ON THE LATE SHOW

  Arriving at the NBC studios in my chauffer-driven, sleek, black Town Car, I was greeted by the astonishing site of crowds of fans surrounding the entrance to the building, all waving sheets of paper and pens, screaming for autographs.

  Holy Mackerel!

  The first episodes of my TV series had just recently been aired; surely this could not all be for me? How could they possibly know I would be here? The Town Car pulled off to the side, and I watched nervously as the chauffer came round and opened my door. Tentatively I stepped out and was immediately enveloped by a surge of people, surrounding me, still waving papers and pens, and calling for my autograph. I was astonished! Was I indeed a celebrity in New York City?

  It was only later that I discovered that this was a ‘usual’ occurrence, where fans gathered on a regular basis in expectation of seeing someone famous entering the NBC studios, where they knew various TV and film stars—amongst other famous people—were being interviewed on the Late Show on a regular basis. Probably most of the crowd calling for my autograph didn’t even know who I was, but were just content in getting an autograph from anybody entering the NBC studios, with the assumption that they must be famous in some capacity or another.

  Furiously I signed autographs, reveling in the exhilarating emotion of it. Every dog has his day, and I was going to lap it up. There is no greater feeling than “adoring” fans pushing, shoving, and calling for your personal attention, for your personal signature, something that they would display in a special place amongst other memorabilia to cherish forever. (Or, more likely, as I was later also to learn, sell on eBay when the price was right.) Once again I came to realize that there was still a lot to learn in this business.

  Finally escaping the “fans,” I was ushered into the building where Amelia and everyone else were waiting for my arrival. I had a quick touch-up in the makeup room, a few minutes with the sound engineer as he fitted me with an on-stage microphone, followed by a lecture from Amelia and the stage manager as to what to expect and how to act . . . nothing was left to chance. I was to enter at this exact point, at that exact moment, from this particular angle, and face in that specific direction. And Letterman was at no time to be approached with any snake.

  I then went to meet with the snake keeper, who held the reptiles in closed containers awaiting my attention. It was decided that the only practical way to manage the snakes was to have the containers already stashed out of sight behind a closed-front table on stage, well away from Letterman’s usual place of operation. Letterman would then approach me from a particular angle, all the while keeping a safe distance once any reptile was exposed.

  If I was not nervous before, the feeling was now steadily growing in me. How was I supposed to remember every little move and detail that was being described and dictated to me? How was I supposed to handle and control venomous snakes safely, while at the same time having a discussion with one of the world’s most famous talk show hosts, trying not to get him—or me for that matter—killed in the process, and all the while still offer interesting entertainment, not to mention correct camera angles. Whatever happened to good old fashioned spontaneity—going with the flow?

  Finally, with all possible details discussed, I was set free to watch the first part of the show from behind a curtain, as it was being recorded in front of a live studio audience. On his own instructions, for reasons I was never to discover, Letterman’s studio temperature was air-conditioned to a freezing 16°C (60°F). I immediately pulled on my jacket, which would have to come off again before I went on stage. My arrangements with the positioning of the snakes would come into play during the break, after which time I would be out of sight, on standby for my cue. I began to shiver; whether from nervousness or cold, I don’t know, but I just decided there and then to push all the added hullabaloo out of my h
ead and simply do what I do best, the only way I know how. The world would be watching . . . I just had to be myself.

  My immediate job description was to entertain and enthrall an audience, supply good visual material for the cameras, make a good impression as a representative for Animal Planet, get my conservation message and broadcast time slots across, while at the same time attempting some intelligent Q&A with Letterman. Piece of cake.

  Part of my character, however, is that I like to include people in what I am passionate about. What is the purpose of trying to describe to someone how amazing and smooth the glossy scales of a snake feel to the touch when you can just hand them the snake to feel for themselves? At the same time, I do understand that some people have an indoctrinated fear of snakes, most often acquired through false information, mythology, or both. But that is why I am present, the expert, controlling and handling the snake in such a manner as to make it completely safe for anybody else to touch. I am not asking or expecting that person to suddenly be converted into a “snake lover,” but only to experience a little of what I am physically demonstrating.

  In my experience, most people are thrilled by an opportunity to safely come into close proximity with a reptile. There is a fascination that draws them in. A chance to safely be close to—or even touch—one of these feared creatures so enveloped in mysticism and adverse publicity. And one would imagine that this opportunity offered on your very own TV talk show, before millions of viewers, would be a dramatic and unusual inclusion. Indeed, on all the other TV shows I did across America, there was much excitement concerning this very opportunity, with some presenters even helping me handle the harmless species, game to dare and thrilled by the opportunity.

  Not so with Mr. Letterman. The fact that the man allowed me on his stage at all was a credit to his professionalism. Letterman has a real fear of snakes, venomous or otherwise. But I respected his fear, and after the showing of a short clip from one of my series episodes, he introduced me to the audience and the world at large. Then, with some further stern, though good-natured-warnings not to pull any stunts in his direction, he cautiously leaned over towards me and read aloud, for the benefit of the audience, the signs printed on my reptile containers: “Danger. Venomous snakes. Do not open.”

  Looking up he pointed a warning finger in my direction: “No heroics! No cowboy stuff! Just show us what you’ve got.”

  He backed away, a meter or two off my left shoulder. His discomfort was obvious, and the audience loved it. Probably nobody had ever seen Letterman really nervous before. Even Paul Schaefer, the leader of the Letterman show-band, who usually continuously offered comment while Letterman was doing interviews, was now completely quiet as I introduced the first snake, an enormous eastern diamondback rattler.

  The snake immediately showed its displeasure by rattling its tail, filling the studio with the sound, while I actively controlled it with a combination of my bare hands and a hook stick. The snake was big and active . . . and potentially deadly. The audience lapped it up and “oohed” and “aahed” and strained their necks for a closer look, while three cameras rolled, displaying in close-up my every action on various screens and monitors around the studio.

  Letterman, now some three meters behind me, strategically maneuvered his distance between the snake and himself, making it very difficult for me to coordinate my angles for the cameras while at the same time attempting to converse with him, answer his questions, and entertain the audience facing me . . . a frustrating task when handling two meters of fast-striking, highly venomous reptile.

  This is the main reason I dislike handling venomous reptiles during live TV talk-show interviews. My attention, by necessity, must be wholly focused on the potential danger the reptile represents, allowing me little freedom to otherwise communicate articulately with my host and the audience, with scarcely time for meaningful conversation and Q&A. With all attention drawn to the activity of the reptile in question and my handling of it, little else is achieved.

  The fact that Letterman was so nervous about the activity of it all led to him asking numerous questions in quick succession, all rolled up on top of one another, often without allowing me time enough to answer comprehensively. Being suddenly exposed to the bright lights of the studio, the snake was alert and lively. In terms of action, the show was going great. In terms of education, the audience was not getting much, especially with some questions posed by Letterman in a nervous attempt at humor.

  “Do rattlesnakes drink coffee?” And my quick automatic response, in similar vein, while grabbing at two meters of fast escaping snake, was, “Oh, they love coffee.”

  Any herpetologists watching were going to have a field day with that one. I was joking of course . . . going with the flow! Why on earth would a rattlesnake get to be fond of coffee?

  “Why is he rattling?” Letterman asked at one point.

  “Because he’s getting rattled,” I answered automatically again, without malice, but with full concentration on the snake’s head trying to get at me.

  The audience clapped and laughed and seemed to love it all, apparently blissfully content to be visually entertained without the accompaniment of any educational value being dispensed in their direction. The rattlesnake continued to rattle.

  “Put it away,” Letterman said, motioning from his rear view of the proceedings. “Show us what else you’ve got.”

  Dispensing with the rattler, which continued to rattle furiously in its container, I quickly pulled out the next snake: an Asian cobra. The snake was fast and agile—much more so than the rattler—and immediately tried to escape my clutches. This necessitated a lot of skillful maneuvering on my part just to keep the cobra on the table surface I was working on, as it continuously slipped over the edge as though to escape, then would as quickly pull back and slip across to the other side. Letterman was not impressed, and further increased his distance between us.

  I was finding it increasingly difficult to communicate with Letterman standing behind me while still facing the audience, till finally I swung round, with dangling cobra in hand, in an attempt to include him more closely with the action. This did not sit well with Letterman, whose discomfort was becoming all the more apparent, and he pointedly reprimanded me, emphasizing that I should please refrain from throwing the snakes in his direction.

  In all honesty, and in my frustration with not being able to have close participation with the host, I was just attempting to include him in the action, never intending to exacerbate his nervous disposition. (No one would believe me.)

  “You can put him away now, too,” Letterman suggested, continuing to keep his distance. “Show us what else you’ve brought.”

  Gratefully I maneuvered the cobra back into its container. I felt relieved. The worst was over, and Letterman was still alive and kicking. I had just one more snake to show, and it was a harmless species: an albino Asian python, a beautiful, placid specimen some four meters in length. I turned to face Letterman.

  “This next snake is completely harmless, but I could use a helping hand in getting it out of the container,” I suggested, peering at Letterman hopefully. What an accomplishment if I could get Letterman to actually hold a snake on his show. The ratings would skyrocket. Cautiously he moved nearer, to peer into the container at my feet, which housed the snake. My hopes rose significantly. He was actually coming closer, and the look in his face told me that he was experiencing serious internal conflict with his fears. Then suddenly he looked up.

  “You brought the snake . . . you take it out.” And he stepped back, apparently content for me to struggle on my own. I sighed. It was worth a shot . . . but no gold star for me.

  Bending down to collect the huge snake, I made a big show of struggling to bring it up and drape it around my body. The audience, always predictable, “oohed” and “aahed” and voiced their amazement as more and more of the huge body was exposed. I was obviously struggling to hold the weight of the animal, and turning to Letterman, who once again had
retreated to his safe position behind me, I gave it one more shot.

  “I could really use a hand here. If you could just take the tail end . . . ?” I swung the tail end in his direction. But Letterman was having none of it. Backing off further, he waved his hands in dismissal. His mind was made up, no matter what I had to say, he was not going to touch any snake . . . today or ever.

  Disappointed but resigned, I supported the heavy snake wrapped around my body on my own, while Letterman and I for the first time were able to exchange some meaningful Q&A, simply because I could be more relaxed with a nonvenomous species that was of no threat to either of us.

  As we wrapped up with closing statements and reminders of where and when my show would be aired, and with loud applause from the enthusiastic audience and music from the band, the show drew to a close. Thankfully, I unwrapped the python from around my body and placed it back into its container. It was all over. And after so much fuss and preparation, the whole episode seemed to have passed so quickly.

  With the show concluded, through all the chaos involved with the packing up of equipment, stage props, and other paraphernalia, I attempted to make my way over to Letterman, in the hope of shaking his hand and expressing my appreciation for being on his show, but within seconds he was out of the studio, without so much as a wave or a goodbye. I turned away with mixed emotions and headed out of the studio, somewhat confused, not sure if I had done a good job or not.

  The very next day, by coincidence, I was spending some free time sightseeing through Times Square, when I ran into the show’s production coordinator. We recognized each other at the same moment in the crowd. Stepping aside for a few minutes chat, I expressed my concerns to her about having achieved the right impression on the show. All I had gotten from Amelia was that it was a great show and everything went well. This was standard response for whatever I did.