"Uh, hell yes I do!" I say. Because honestly, who doesn't want to get a better look at a giant tarantula? Actually, no I don't but I can't back down in front of the Wrangler, can I? That wouldn't be very manly, not manly at all.
But as she gets the tarantula out of its cage/evil lair, I start to question a couple of things. Do I really care if I look manly in front of a random stranger at this new nature center? Why the hell does this matter to me? It doesn't matter to Bacon Hoss, my four-year-old. As soon as the spider cage is open, he yelps and then buries his head in the back of my knee, his little hands clenching parts of my blue jeans.
The lady in front of me, who seems like she has no fear, starts to try and coax the spider out.
"Come on, Elvira. Come on out," she says. She clicks her tongue like she is calling a dog or a pig on the farm. I begin to question her qualifications. Is she really a spider wrangler, is that a thing? I assume it is but I'm not sure the one in front of me is part of the guild. I haven't seen any paperwork nor any kind of official badge. Something gold plated with her name on it would be nice, just to put everyone at ease here. Is her only qualification for handling this little gem of nightmare fuel is that she isn't dead yet and hanging from the rafters in a cocoon?
"So, it's a she?" I ask, mostly to break the tension and to remind my self to breath.
"Yup!" the Spider Wrangler says.
"Does she bite?" There you go, probably a question I should have asked before I agreed to this. I try and be polite about it, I really don't want the Wrangler freaking out here as the spider approaches her hand.
"Oh, of course not. She's gentle," the Wrangler says. I notice that she's wearing a glove as the tarantula climbs from the cage.
Bacon Hoss digs his face deeper into my knee as the spider climbs aboard. I stop breathing myself, make no sound what so ever. The thought of spooking the Wrangler sends shivers down my neck. What if she gets freaked out and accidentally throws the spider at my face? I bunch my fist as I think of this, fully prepared to come out swinging at myself if anything goes wrong.
Elvira makes the transition to the Wrangler's hand. The wrangler stands a little straighter now and takes a step towards me. I should punch the spider now. Suddenly, I'm a very big believer in pre-emptive strikes.
The tarantula doesn't jump. Its mouth seems to be working overtime. Is this the tarantula equivalent of licking its lips? It's 8 legs (I did indeed count) shuffle a bit forward, but slowly. The Wrangler still seems to be in good spirits as she comes even closer. It is possible that the tarantula has sucked out her soul before I got here and now she only does Elvira's bidding? "Bring me closer to the fresh meat, Wrangler! YESSSSSSS, CLOSSSERRRRR." I know spider's don't hiss, I get that. But it's what is in my head as the wrangler brings the tarantula up closer to my face so I can get a better look at it.
I close my eyes.
"Oh, she's nothing to be afraid of," Says the Wrangler.
Bacon Hoss takes off. I can feel him let go, he squeals as he runs back towards the bunny cages. The nice safe bunnies. I should follow him but I'm of the mindset of "NO Sudden Movements!"
I open my eyes and look at Elvira. I learn a very weird lesson. Tarantulas grow 12 sizes the minute they get out of the cage. Who knew, right? In the cage, Elvira seemed very small, no bigger really than Bacon's little hand. Outside the cage, and a foot from my face, she looks about the size of a dump truck. A dump truck with mandibles that want to rip my lips off. I breathe and see the hairs on the spider's legs bend back in the breeze.
"Do you want to pet her?" the Wrangler asks me.
"Hell yes, I do!" I say. I want to punch my own self in the throat, blocking those stupid vocal chords from speaking any more. That is not what is on my mind, not at all. Do I want to pet satan's pet? Fuck no, I don't. But I don't say that. Is this that macho thing welling up in me again? Motherfuck, I hate that. It can't be suppressed though, it's too ingrained, a natural mechanism that I'm sure has gotten plenty of cavemen killed through our evolution. Why it remains, I have no idea.
I reach out my ungloved hand. Moving the speed of a glacier, I put one finger forward. The payoff, the moment. I either make friends with the beast or it rips me apart like I'm in some sort of John Carpenter movie.
I touch the abdomen, and I swear to all that is holy, it looks like it was pulsating. Elvira goes still. No turning back now. I stroke her and whisper "Good, Elvira. Aren't you a pretty girl. Human meat tastes sour, doesn't it? Good, Elvira."
She's softer than I would have imagined. The hairs are a bit prickly, but once you stroke they go a bit flat. If I closed my eyes and go to my happy place, I could imagine that I was petting a docile garbage disposal. But honestly, it's actually a bit pleasant. I wonder if tarantulas purr?
I take my hand back, again slowly. The fear has been faced, I thank my ancestors for their macho bravery, forcing me to do something that I didn't want to do.
"Thank you," I say. I also figure it's a good idea to be very polite to the lady that is holding the giant spider. "I really appreciate it." I smile, no threats here. I'm a good boy.
"You're welcome," The Wrangler says. She steps away and puts Elvira back in her cage. I head to the bunny cage to collect my boy. He's probably freaked out and I need to show him that dad isn't cocooned. I text Hossmom as I walk.
"Guess what we just did..." I text Hossmom.
"What?" She responds.
"We got to pet a tarantula!" I text back.
"Don't come home. Getting divorced."
Hossmom is not a big fan of spiders. So I make sure I send her a picture that I took of Elvira, out of her cage.
I still believe that I can hear my wife scream 40 miles away.
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