The Best Spider is a Flat One, part 3

Dickey and I were just minding our own business, checking out the snakes of varying sizes and lengths, wondering if any of them had actually eaten a human being whole, or maybe a goat or a volunteer zoo guide. Neither Dickey or myself was paying attention when our creepy Zoo guide changed my life. I was intently staring into a snake display when I hear gasps and looked at my then best friend and noticed his eyes were as big as two over-easy fried eggs. I looked at him and said “What!!??” He pointed at what I thought was the front of the line and when I turned around, I was about a foot away from Mrs. Applescwartz’s face, her blood-shot eyes and yellow teeth glowing in a smile that telegraphed revenge rather than joy. I sometimes still smell her breath whenever I smell a dead skunk or a rotting animal carcass on the road. I immediately backed away and when I did, Dickey shouted “Holy Shit!” (he was a pro cusser back then and the first one I had ever met who was my age with such skills) and dang near trampled a few of our buddies trying to get away. I thought maybe it might be our guide prepared to crown us with the broom she had hidden under her dress, the one she used to fly back and forth to work on, because we’d not been paying her the attention she thought she deserved. But then I looked at one of the girls in the front of the line, square in the middle of “suck up” land as we called it. She pointed at me, then pointed at her own shoulder, a sign that I should do the same.

I looked left and saw nothing. I looked right and came face to face with the biggest, hairiest, most giant-fanged, big-eyed man killing spider I had ever seen in my life. I looked again at Mrs. Applescwartz and her look of satisfaction, knowing she had just scared a kid damn near to death, namely me. I also noted the look she had was actually one of admiration, reserved for the same spider who currently was taking up space on my eight year old shoulder. I wasn't a world traveler at all, but I guessed that spider must have been French. It had the hairiest legs I had ever seen, and that included my Dad and Dickey's Aunt Edna. Right then, I did what any animal lover would have done. I took my left hand, balled it up in a fist and hit that damned spider as hard as I could in an attempt to get his hairy ass off of my ham sandwich eating self. It fell off of my shoulder to the concrete floor, right on its hairy back. I remember it’s eight giant hairy legs twitching a few times and then spreading out as if to show us all how big it actually was from the bottom. It was kinda like young men showing each other how big their bicep muscle was. But this, well, this was different. I knew that truth when our host began to scream and holler. She reached down and scooped up the critter I thought was like a turtle, unable to operate properly when on its back. That was not the case.

Here is the truth about the whole incident. I killed the spider before it killed me and that’s how an eight year old brain worked. Next thing I know, Mrs. Applescwartz grabs me and pulls me over the railing, by the ear mind you, and we start walking towards only God himself knew where. I didn't have a clue where we were going right then and that was a deep concern for me, considering the speed at which we traveled. For all I knew she was hauling me back to Willie B’s cage and was going to toss me in for murder. I figured all the Zoo animals were friends back then, and Ole Willie was judge and jury if you messed with one of the clan. I tried to wrench away a time or two, my teacher Mrs. Reynolds trailing behind us trying to get the attention of our guide and simultaneously inquiring as to where she might be headed with her student in tow, one who she was solely responsible for that day. I knew this because the permission slip said so and George W. and Ruth Hall signed it and made it law. I was really hoping Mrs. Reynolds was concerned about me, but in reality she was just covering her own ass. As I recall, she had a nice one, but I was primarily concerned with the one attached to me. My dad was going to hear about this one, I was certain.

We marched around that Zoo a few times, I assumed for Mrs. A-hole to get her story straight and to enjoy terrorizing yours truly. We finally landed at what I assumed was the administration building where I was sat down along with my emotionally and physically exhausted teacher. Our guide then disappeared behind an official looking door and from behind it I heard shouting and all kinds of commotion, I guessed was all aimed at me and my dastardly deed. When the door opened, a giant dude in an official looking Zoo uniform emerged and Mrs Reynolds and I were invited into the huge office where I was told to tell my side of the “story”. Mine was simple. I was minding my own business, looking at some really cool snakes, when the next thing I know I am face to face with a man killer in the form of a giant hairy spider. I slapped it off my shoulder out of fear and the rest of the story involved a two-mile walk with Mrs. Applescwartz dragging me around by the ear, me winding up in the seat I was sitting in right then.

The Zoo suited dude looked at Mrs. Reynolds and Mrs. Applescwartz and asked, “Is that the truth?”. Mrs. Reynolds looked at Mr. Zoo Dude and said, “Yes, that’s exactly the way it happened.” I then asked him if my Dad was going to have to pay the thousands of dollars for the exotic and expensive spider that I killed, and if I was going to reform school and grow up to be a bum and eat out of trash cans when I grew up, like Mrs. Applescwartz said I was, all for killing the giant spider. He looked at our Zoo guide like he might melt her “Wicked Witch of the West” style, if he had a bucket of warm water to toss in her direction. I wondered to myself if piss would have done the job, because I think I whizzed in my Levi’s from the whole ordeal so I had some liquid to spare. If I hadn't pee’d my pants yet, I could whip him up a quick half-gallon right then, on the spot, if need be.

That night Mrs Reynolds called my house to talk to my dad. I just went to my room and assumed the position. Again, I thought back then my dad had invented ass whippins, all because of me. And I had just killed the Atlanta Zoo's only man-eating Arachnid and ruined my Dad's financial future. For all I knew, he'd spend the next twenty years paying for the hairy beast Mrs. Applescwartz had put on my person and I sent straight to Spider Hell. He was surprised when he cleared my door and saw me sitting on my bed, looking like I was in for the big one. I thought maybe he was going to tell me the whereabouts of the reform school I was leaving for the next day or what restaurants might have the best garbage can fare. But he looked at me and said:” You've had an interesting day I hear. Why don’t we run down to the Varsity and get a Frosted Orange and you tell me all about it”.

It turned out to be a good day in young Jimmy Hall land. I got to ride shotgun in my dad’s awesome black 63 Riviera. I remember riding with the windows down and the cool breeze blowing on that most memorable of days. All was right with the world. Since then, I have one basic rule when it comes to spiders and it is this:

The best spider is a flat one .