Dan Dances the Tarantella

Felix ran a smooth shop which ordinarily displayed the mildest of manners. But Felix uncharacteristically surprised the entire crew the day his tarantella arrived.

Weeks in advance, he quietly requested the spider from a soldier headed for desert maneuvers who agreed to capture one for him. His face shined when the dusty man returned, grinning and holding a white shoebox aloft.

“I got you one!”

In two seconds flat Felix had the lid off the box. Then he stuck his hand down inside. A portly man standing nearby turned to see what the commotion was about, but almost spit out a cigar stub as his head jerked back.

Inches from the portly man’s face hovered an out-stretched palm. In the very middle stood the hairy beast, motionless and staring blankly at him. He blanched when Felix made the offer.

“Want to hold him for a minute, Dan?”

If a gentleman who chews cigars all day suddenly finds himself caught in a room of Marines who all begin to watch his next move, then the man must act boldly.

“Sure” Dan stammered and stuck out a hand.

It turned into a pitiful spectacle. People next had to stand up and watch as a grown man made a serious attempt to escape from his arm and all of its glorious containments. Up the wrist the hideous beast came, and onward, and the man’s head leaned back even more. The spider tap-tapped its way across his huge forearm and the neck of the man struggled in vain to stretch just a bit farther away.

Each Marine would later admit to enjoying the on-going tragedy, especially when they saw the slow-footed spider politely march past the man’s straight and locked elbow, going upwards as it were, headed for the higher parts of the shoulder and all he could conquer, and then there, at that precise moment, saw him also try to appear like he knew total peace, but the sweat beads gave him away.

All heads hurriedly turned away then: it being both difficult and embarrassing to see a man fall from grace.