When we were little, my brother Robert and I behaved as if we owned this town. We rode our bikes through all the neighborhoods, behind the houses, in every parking lot, through downtown, and all over campus. Bowzer, our faithful black and tan hound, followed us, patiently waiting while we read the magazines in Toomer’s Corner Drugstore, played pool in the basement of the Auburn Christian Student Center, or loaded up on paper bags full of candy at Zippy Mart.
By far, our favorite hangout was Funchess Hall, located on the south end of the university, across the street from the Heart of Auburn Motel. It didn’t hurt that our dad, Dr. Bob Mounty, had an office there, and taught classes in the building now nicknamed “Fungus Hall” by those who don’t appreciate its funky aesthetic.
I loved it, the whole thing, from Charlotte, the friendly diamondback rattlesnake, to the stench of rotting sawdust and formaldehyde.
I loved hurling those huge glass doors open and running up the stairs. Halfway up the flight, a pair of mounted animals, a bear and a moose, hung from the wall. The moose was remarkably huge. My heart longed to see a real one, especially since my mama’s nickname for me was Moose. I’d stand there on the landing and relate to the giant herbivore before me, leaning precariously across a small railing to be nearer.
The bear, on the other hand, scared me silly. Mouth open, huge teeth exposed, his lethal bear claws reached out for me. I stared, awestruck, and to this day, I maintain a healthy fear of being mauled to death by a bear.
Safely past the bear, I’d run up to the second floor where my dad’s office was. Or was it on the third floor? Not only is my brain old and tired, Funchess Hall doesn’t follow the typical rules of physics.
Whatever floor it was, I knew when I’d arrived because there was a great glass display case of various stuffed mammals and reptiles to greet me. I could watch, in real time, their fur slowly disintegrate, and grainy sawdust leak out of their seams.
After a brief hello to my animal friends, I’d look for my dad. He had an uncanny ability to whistle out of both sides of his mouth. Following the tell-tale whistles, I’d find him walking the halls or leaning in a doorway of someone’s office, cigarette in hand. His blue eyes twinkled when he saw me, even when I caught him in the middle of teaching a class.
Then it was off to visit “the museum,” a mystical room of tanks, cages, and buckets full to the brim of live specimens. I remember fondly sirens, hellbenders, millions of feeder mice, a gila monster, snapping turtles, box turtles, and lots and lots of snakes, the queen of which was Charlotte, an impossibly enormous diamondback rattlesnake.
At least I think she was a diamondback rattlesnake. Childhood is an unreliable narrator.
Charlotte has her own stories, those that my dad’s graduate students, now grown men with gray hair, can tell. For me, she was just a big, beautiful rattlesnake. Charlotte was docile, having been in captivity for a long time. Robert and I could put our faces right up to her. Sometimes her body would be pressed against her glass home and we could examine the intricacy of her scales up close.
Despite her pit viper head, a shape that seems to draw fear in humans, we found her cute. She stared at us as we stared at her. Yes, we bonded with Charlotte. Every now and then she’d rattle, a noise now ingrained in my mind, one I’ve never once heard in the wild. How can she rattle so fast, I’d wonder, staring at the vibrating buttons on the end of her tail.
Although we had total freedom to explore Funchess Hall, and all the buildings on campus for that matter, there was an exception: we were not allowed to ride the Funchess freight elevator by ourselves.
“That thing’ll cut you in half,” I can still hear my dad warning us. Yet every now and then, he’d take us on a ride.
We’d step into its great steel maw and Daddy would reach up and down at the same time, pulling on two opposite canvas straps that closed the doors horizontally. Then he’d reach over and yank a metal gate that expanded across the gap. We were in it for real now. He’d push a few buttons and the elevator would come to life, creaking and groaning. Slowly, slowly, it would reach its destination. Daddy would reverse the process, and Robert and I would emerge on a new floor, wide-eyed in excitement, and beg to ride it again.
I haven’t been in Funchess Hall in many, many years. It’s time for me to pay a visit to the bear, the moose, and the ghost of Charlotte, who no doubt slithers the floors of Funchess Hall on quiet, dark nights.
Of note, I did take my granddaughters to Funchess Hall soon after writing this. We were amazed to find my dad’s name, and the names of his cronies, still on the directory, that felt thing with the white plastic push-in letters. And the ghost of Charlotte did indeed slither the floors of Funchess Hall.
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