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Tarantula Attack

MEMOIR PROJECT ROUGH DRAFT

Our roommate M— came home. “Whatchya doin?” he said.
“Catching tarantulas.”
“Wow, look at all those. You caught all of those out here?”
“Yep.”
“Amazing. Good luck; happy hunting.” M— disappeared into the trailer. At the end of the afternoon, my tarantula concentration camp contained 17 prisoners, each with its own glass jar for a cell and a laundry basket forming a secured perimeter around the quarters also providing a transport for the detainees as well. But I didn’t see it that way then, they were just cool looking spiders I thought I’d catch for pets and keep in jars like lightning bugs.

My step dad, S—, called the local pet store to see if we had a cash crop on her hands, but these were local common tarantulas, not the right breed for the commercial sale of pets.

My mom left the next day to teach a class at the Way College in Gunnison, Colorado. S—, M—, and I brought the camp out of the back bedroom and selected a choice prisoner with the right coloring—dark chocolate brown— to become our house tarantula. We named him Herbie.

We then set tarantula jars out on the tables and countertops all around the house from my bedroom to the bathroom to the kitchen to the living room: everywhere you looked there sat a tarantula. M—, S—, and I became friendly with Herbie, or I should say M— and S— became friendly with Herbie and let him crawl around on their arms and hands as I watched from a safe distance.

It was all a lot of fun until Herbie reared back on the kitchen table, sprang 3 feet into the air, and bit S— on the neck, instantly paralyzing him with tarantula venom. In a matter of seconds, Herbie sucked all the blood out of S—‘s body: it shriveled up like a white prune. M— and I ran around hysterically looking for something to swat Herbie with, but it was too late, S— was dead and Herbie grew to the size of a dog, my dog in fact, Tumbleweed. That was when Tumbleweed attacked. Herbie and Tumbleweed locked their front arms—er—legs, and jockeyed for a fatal bite, shoving each other around like sumo wrestlers. When I saw Herbie’s foot-long fangs drop down from under his abdomen with a quick “shing” sound like a blade being pulled from its sheath, I slid under Herbie and grabbed the fangs with both hands, holding them dangerously close to my body and conjuring up inhuman strength for a 10-year-old boy, holding Herbie back from lunging on my dog and sucking all the blood out of his body—Tumbleweed may not have had a soul, he may not have been going to heaven, but he was my dog and I loved him so much I would risk my life for him. Herbie tried to launch over and over, but I held on with Kung Fu grip and Tumbleweed kept Herbie locked up with his upper abdomen in the air so Herbie couldn’t drop down and impale my stomach with scimitar-like fangs. Seconds felt like hours, sweat poured off my face and soaked my shirt, my arms started to shake, I couldn’t hold out much longer, my grip started to fail me in my sweaty hands, and just as I felt the fangs slip out of my grasp I yelled, “No!”

But instead of jumping forward, Herbie’s fangs contracted and he flipped over backwards onto the linoleum floor. I heard a “Pshhhht” sound, then I saw M— standing over Herbie with an aerosol can in his hand at the end of an outstretched arm. Pshhhhht! Pshhhhhht! Pshhhhht! M— sprayed Herbie as Herbie twitched and spun and flipped about on the kitchen floor, letting out tarantula screams. Finally, Herbie curled up his legs and died.

M— continued to spray Herbie until the can ran dry, but he still kept spraying. Tears streamed down his face. The house was now dangerously filled with fumes. I stood up and quietly, slowly, walked over to M— who was still pressing the nozzle repetitiously over Herbie. I put my hand over the top of the can, I looked M— in the eyes and said, “Herbie’s dead M—. Give me the Raid. It’s ok.”

M— let the can slip into my hands and he collapsed to his knees and burst into tears. I let him cry in my 10-year-old shoulder. “It’s okay. It’s okay. It’s okay,” I said in a soft whisper, and patted him on the back.

Er—right—okay—that last part didn’t really happen, but M— and S— did become friendly with Herbie, and I did love my dog so much I would have held back tarantula fangs for him even if it meant possibly getting all the blood sucked out of my body.

END
© 2006 Christian Cloud Abraham

Posted on September 6, 2006 in
Emotion: Tender, Type: Creative Nonfiction