Tim was a thin man. He was also a laid-back individual. Possibly due to this laid-back style, his keen intellect could catch people off guard. Sometimes people just assume that quiet people think slowly too. Tim was pretty good at analyzing situations. However, when given the opportunity, he was an advocate of making people do stupid things until they realized what was happening. Wherever he went, he was followed by an air of self-awareness and a little shyness, absurdity.
Tim worked with me at the ranch for a while. One of our projects when we were on the ranch was to build a house. The site of our proto-home was located in the mountains to the south of the ranch’s main house. The idea was that this small cabin, once completed, could house the main ranch laborer, as well as one or two guests when necessary. I particularly liked this project because it allowed me to proudly (and unusually truthful) declare one of those “life goals” things, that I had “built a house.”
One hot day, Tim and I volunteered to put insulation on the bottom of the house. This task involved crawling in the two-foot-tall space under the house. Once under the house, you dragged a bunch of insulation and lay on your back and stapled it to the boards above.
For the most part, the space under the house was sealed from the outside by the outer wall. This meant that getting under the house involved going down a particular large hole in the side of the house. This entry pit looked like a kind of large dry square pit.
Going down into that hole I remained enveloped in the New Mexico sun. However, while standing in that hole, I was the only thing I could see that it was well lit. The crunching and grinding of gravel under my shoes, hands, and knees as I crawled under the house was surprisingly satisfying. The noise of my feet on the ground and the rough textures around me retard the experience of a feeling of present reality.
When Tim handed me the insulation to place under the house behind me, it was also nice to think about how for the next few hours, at least, I could get to work in a cool place rather than the hot sun directly on us.
Once we were under the house, I lay down on one side of a particular side of the building and Tim lay down a length of isolation from me. With the sudden clicks of the staple gun, I secured one end of the insulation to the boards above me and then passed the other end to Tim, who then secured the other end.
Although it was nice and cool under the house, deep and humid places are not without dangers. After working for a while, I came across a black widow. I was in an ideal position to identify a black widow’s red hourglass on the abdomen of this particular arachnid because it was about two inches above my face. I stopped sliding to the next section of the floor that needed insulation. At first, all I did was squirm a bit as I looked at the little spider hanging over me. After a moment or two I started screaming. During my screams, the spider began to descend towards my face. Apparently she didn’t realize she was so close to him. I thought I must have been afraid of my relatively large teeth. In hindsight, this would have been the best time to “dodge” and get out of the way.
The rear widow has a very small amount of very powerful neurotoxic venom. Due to the small volume of the venom, a black widow’s bite is rarely fatal. Before the days of antivenom, 5% of reported bites resulted in death. Despite the rarity of death, a black widow’s bite can cause “latrodectism.” This can mean severe pain in the muscle groups near the sting, muscle cramps, headaches, dizziness, tremors, joint pain, rapid heartbeat, hyperventilation, and other less fun experiences.
Alerted by my screams, Tim rolled onto his side to look at me. Then he slowly reached out with the staple gun in it. He grabbed his wrist with his left hand to steady and support his gun hand. Tim closed one eye carefully. With a small laugh, she delicately aligned her single open eye with the tip of the pistol and with the black widow.
When the spider was about three inches directly over my upper lip, Tim started shooting. * Click on. * Click on. Staple after staple arched past my face, none of them hitting the spider, one or two delicately bouncing off the side of my face.
* Click on
“Tim, what are you doing?”
“Don’t worry, I’m going to kill him. Everything … is … O … K.”
* Click click
“I hate spiders. What happens if you hit the strand of web that it hangs from?”
“Then I can shoot him once he lands, or smash him.”
Tim kept firing the stapler. * Click, * Click, * Click. Then with a slow and careful grip … * Click. The staples sailed alongside the spider and its web.
“Are you kidding me?”