My sister is afraid of spiders. She’s not alone. It’s
the fourth most common phobia behind fear of loneliness, death, and public speaking, in that order according to one psychologist who I
presume has a fear of actual research.
I only say that because no one else on the planet ranks
phobias the same way that person did. Fear
of speaking in public nearly always comes in first, and on other lists it’s
second following the fear of death. As a former dues paying member of
Toastmasters, I can tell you from experience that the fear of dying and
speaking in public are two sides of the same coin. So pick your poison.
On almost every list I found, the fear of spiders falls
somewhere between fourth and tenth. My sister’s paranoia is so severe, though, she
says if she sees a spider in her house, she’d rather burn the whole place down
than have to kill it herself. I think she’s kidding, but that would explain why
her husband is such a dedicated member of their local volunteer fire
department.
I’m not sure why spiders scare my sister so much. I
never put one on her head or in her bed when she was little. Maybe she saw a
scary movie once or read a scary book about them. Or maybe her older brother is
to blame. I’m betting the odds there are pretty good.
For myself, I have a co-existent relationship with
spiders. We have an arrangement, a quid pro quo. They are free to cavort on the
outskirts of my house but never on the inside. And if I see one of them come
out in public while I’m watching television, I will chase them down like the trespassers
they are, smash them into oblivion, and then lecture their dead carcass about
how this is all their fault.
“We had a deal,” I always tell them while their eight
broken legs lay there on the floor, twisted like an untalented contortionist. “Stay
outside where you belong or I’ll kill you. Tell your little friends.” But, of
course, they can’t because they’re dead. That’s what they get for not
listening.
I have my own fears, but it’s not spiders that scare
me. On the list of phobias, the fear of dying from poison is in first place.
Specifically, dying of scorpion poisoning. This arachnid scares the living crap
out of me. Scorpions are of the devil. Wolf spiders may be big and hairy, but
they only cry wolf. Daddy longlegs can be big, too, but they just walk weird. I’ll
admit that black widows and recluses are worthy of respect, but they’re both
introverts and we leave each other alone. But scorpions? Their only reason for
living is to try and kill you. Even their tiny little offspring are murderers. Just
step on one and find out. No, I’m kidding. I absolutely do not recommend that.
Trust me.
Unfortunately, here in the desert scorpions are more indigenous
than Native Americans. Yet, while various tribes were pressured unfairly to
vacate the premises in past centuries, scorpions have been allowed to remain. This
I do not understand.
Tribal people taught us how to cultivate land and grow
corn, survival skills that should have led to gratitude and peace instead of the
left foot of fellowship. Scorpions, on the other hand, which carry on their
persons the literal Sting of Death, have never once been
rounded up and deported.
I call that injustice. The only possible conclusion is
that even the government is afraid of scorpions.
I live in a house that has apparently issued an open
invitation to the vile things. This at a time in my life when my eyesight is going
on the blink, so to speak. My only self-defense is to pay close attention whenever
I walk to the bathroom, spotting these terrorists and nuking them before they nuke
me.
This is challenging. See the paragraph above.
I’m not saying that I’m going blind. I’m just going
old. And I like to go barefoot when I’m inside which makes me a prime target
for golden, floor-inhabiting assassins who range in size from a chia seed to George
Washington’s face on a quarter. They’re not that big and they blend in with my
wood floors.
Unless they’re on the move, they’re hard to see.
After living here for a few months and executing the
first couple of dozen scorpions who invaded my turf, I called for some backup.
I hired professionals who swore they’d make my home “scorpion proof.” We must
have had a misunderstanding. They were not promising an exterior as unyielding as
Trump’s border wall. By “scorpion proof” they meant it would take some serious
alcohol to get my mind off the next twelve hours of throbbing pain if I killed
a scorpion with my bare feet. No chaser.
Turns out they weren’t kidding.
Following the inevitable and horrible assault I suffered,
the company came and re-sealed the foundation of my entire home with their
expensive product. Three times. They then sealed every plumbing pipe connected to
every source of running water. Stood on my baby grand piano to unscrew the vent
in the ceiling above, sealing that and the other eighteen or so heating vents scattered
throughout my home. They sealed every door, skipping the double-paned windows, and
when my bank account went belly up, I still managed to squeeze out enough to
buy a warranty that will last for perpetuity or until the bug company goes
belly up, too.
And still those little b . . . bugs find ways to show
up in my house and scare the bejeebers out of me. And who has to confront and
destroy them? Me. Just me. It’s grisly and gross and gives me the chills. But
brother, I want you to know that practicing on dead spiders has paid off. I’m
getting pretty good at doing this nauseating thing I can’t seem to pawn off on someone
braver than me.
First, I make sure I’m wearing sturdy shoes and I
stomp them to death. Just one good solid stomp because I don’t want to tick
them off and have them run at me if their little armored bodies survive what I
did to them during my adrenalin rush. Next, I grind them into the earth with my
leather soles and then, if they’re not stuck to the bottom of my shoe, I grab a
pair of scissors and cut the little sucker into so many pieces it meets Jesus
dressed like a piece of sushi. That way I know it’s really dead. If it turns
out it is stuck to the bottom of my shoe, I burn my shoes.
Then, just before I scoop up their deceased selves
with an entire roll of paper towels, I lecture them. I remind them that we had
a deal. That I paid out all of my children’s inheritance to a highly
recommended pest control agency to make my home impenetrable. Every demonic
little scorpion within ten miles was put on notice to never cross the DMZ into
my house again. And if they’d just paid attention, they’d still be living the
good life outside with their little friends.
Turns out scorpions got no scruples. Nor can they read
the fine print. And not once has one of them ever apologized.
It’s hard to eradicate arachnids. All we can do is try
to protect our borders. But I do think if I ever build another house, I’m going
to dig a mote around the entire thing and fill it with so much Jack Daniels you
can see it from space. I did a little research and it turns out that alcohol is
not only a threat to humans, it’s lethal to scorpions. When intoxicated by the
stuff, they repeatedly stab themselves with their own stinger, which leads to
their own deaths.
Maybe that’s what Muhammad Ali meant when he said the secret
is to “float like a butterfly, sting like a bee."
With thanks to Josh More for permission to use the terrifying photo seen above. The original can be viewed, if you dare, by following this link: Bark Scorpion | Josh More | Flickr
