I have only come across a tarantula once in my life
outside a roadside souvenir shop, along an empty Arizona road.
The faded, corn-yellow cinderblock shop was wider than it
was deep,
and was topped with a matching corrugated roof.
Dinosaurs were painted along the front, alternating with soldiers
and Indians
and rattle snakes gazing blankly at the passing cars from various
unnatural angles.
Inside the shop, dank cool air spewed from a rumbling old swamp-cooler.
Row after row of shelves teemed with polished rocks, small potted cactus
and straw cowboy hats surrounded by tables loaded with piles of turquoise
jewelry.
As the proud new owner of a plastic cavalry sword, I made my
way out
past the tinkling front door bell to the dusty parking lot.
Back out into the searing white sun.
While practicing my parry and thrust, a black object launched
itself
from somewhere left. I focused on it about mid flight
and clearly watched a tarantula, bigger than my wide-spread
fingers,
land in the middle of the hood of a recently parked,
still ticking-hot black sedan.
Arizona, summer, and the hood of a car fresh off the road
pulled the fire alarm for those eight furry feet.
The spider only managed to collect its wits for a second or
two
before it jumped again, but this time straight back up;
which just bought him a second taste of hot American
steel.
A final leap produced a puffy landing in to the dust.
Like a crawling powdered wig of a proper British
parliamentarian
It scurried away in search of aloe vera or maybe just some
shade.
