Fear

Tarantulas have always been truly frightening to me, and while it isn’t a weight borne by my shoulders for an extensive period of time; an encounter with one of these creatures is petrifying and will make all aspects of life disappear into the “momentarily inconsequential” column.

I don’t know where or when it began, but the immense fear exists and will remain for quite some time. Tarantulas are absolutely the epitome of evil. The name should be capitalized out of respect, because somewhere they are plotting against me if I refuse to exhibit deference. They have eight legs, which just isn’t right under any circumstances. One must take into account the hilarity that must’ve ensued when the first spider adapted to its environment by growing a seventh leg, and then next, an eighth. The other spiders in the family must have been initially disgusted by what would probably appeared to have been a tail, and then immediately entertained by watching this new creature attempt to move quickly with the extra hinges and fir finding themselves a burden as they got tangled. The newly acquired appendages must have been difficult to adjust to, especially as quickly as these demons tend to move. Do they trip, like we do? Do these horrible abominations stumble on rocky terrain or move so quickly that their legs connect in a dysfunctional way and send them hurdling front side first into the ground? “Face” can’t be stated, because what are those things that come out where a mouth should be, and what are those black little bedazzle beads that adorn the area that would normally be above a mouth?

The fear may have started in first grade. Mrs. Pingry was a teacher I remember well because she had an unfamiliar affinity for these things. My desk sat at the wall adjacent to the entrance of the classroom, right next to the chalk board. On the wall behind me hung a six by four foot poster of a halfway dissected version of one of these colorful beasts. The front end was intact, yellow, red, and orange, with those little beady eyes and the tentacle bits falling out of its mouth, while the back end was cut away to reveal its intricate anatomy, complete with the little hook hairs it fires out of its ass at attackers when it’s frightened. This decoration was the bane of my existence, and if I hadn’t been so disturbed by it, I might have gotten close enough to it at some point to remove the multicolored thumbtacks that held it up, or add many more, in an aggressive dartboard pattern throughout. She also kept one as a pet in a terrarium at the entrance of the classroom that jumped at me every day as I came in to school hoping that while I practiced cursive, just one day, that I wouldn’t have to look over my shoulder and assure myself the massive arachnid hadn’t moved. I constantly expected to feel the weight of a large hairy leg on my shoulder one of those days as I practiced my spelling.

My Dad found one on the carport one night as my family returned from dinner at some Mexican restaurant. He was excited. “Look David! It’s a cool little Tarantula, this one is flesh colored, look at its hair, and it’s got its front legs up in the air!!” I heard this as I cowered behind the screen door. You see, it had been the first word out of his mouth that had sent me sprinting, screaming like a little girl. By ten years, I had learned that most things Dad thinks are interesting are usually terrifying. Now, it’s remarkable how many adventures I couldn’t live without that he’d never dream of partaking in. I had barely missed it with my foot placement as I expeditiously exited the car, I never even saw the monster; just ran, as fast as I could. He scooped it up with a shovel and hurled it through the night air into the neighbor’s yard, cackling hysterically as he did it, hoping he would hear a shriek of surprise from an unsuspecting fellow inhabitant as the eight-legged brute soared toward their face as they calmly enjoyed a PBR in a lawn-chair. Sadly, no such luck. I was too frightened to participate, but far away enough to laugh.

When I left SEAL training the first time, they asked me why, and I said verbatim: “Fuck you, I’m not going over there, they got big-ass spiders over there.” I had read up on my dread, those massive and crafty little organisms burrow into the sand and jump out at soldiers in the middle of the night. The majority of the muzzle flashes and the night fire are the result of troops defending themselves from these insects or mammals, whatever the fuck category they fall under. Even the insurgents choose to attack during the day when the beasts slumber. The real reason was far more complicated, but the simple and honest nature of the statement was humorous.
 
Fear takes many forms, simple to the complex, existential and emotional; it is an amazing and dynamic thing. There is a shocking illumination of human nature whenever something as simple as a light phobia presents itself, however, and something mundane and funny out of context becomes absolutely the most gripping and immediate priority. Bullets, bombs, and blood; life-altering decisions, excruciating stress, and insurmountable responsibility; for me an eight legged ugly makes it all inconsequential, how many legs does yours have?