The Scorpion and the Professor

 by Daniel Cano

                                                                              

A well-armed adversary

      Exhausted, showered, and finally under the sheets, I was just about to turn off the light when I saw it, a scorpion, looming large and casually strolling across the cabana’s wood floor. Oh no, that’s not what I needed, not now, after trudging all day from one archeological site to another and listening to professors discuss their work, the heat doing its thing, pounding overhead and pressing in from all sides, first rain then sun, and the warm, tropical air too hot to even put on our plastic ponchos. 

     I was deep in the Belizean jungle, a preserve where scientists from different American universities came and brought students to conduct research. Really, I was just along for the ride, accompanying twenty-five students on a study abroad program, to expose them to something different, like what archeologists do We’d already eaten dinner in a cafeteria on the compound, emptied a few bottles of wine, and discussed the day’s events, both good and bad. I overheard two girls say they wished they’d gone on the study abroad trip to Paris, instead.

     After, as we had walked back from the cafeteria to our individual cabanas, across long grassy knolls, we spotted movement, like the earth was slowly undulating. Man, was I that tired that my mind was playing tricks on me. A professor who had invited me on the trip, an anthropologist, stooped down and set his hand on the grass. When he stood, he held out his hand, palm up, a large tarantula on his fingers. “They’re everywhere,” he said.

     He had us look closely at the grass. Under the moon’s dim light, the shadowy creatures, scores of them, moved about the lawn. “They rarely bite, and they’re not poisonous,” the teacher said, as he tried convincing us to pick one up. I passed, but a couple of students knelt, placed their hands on the lawn, and stood up, a hairy spider sitting in their palms. Let me out of here. I want to sleep.

     So, now a scorpion in my room, and as tired as I am.

     Spiders and critters are plentiful out here. This is their home, the jungle. Each night, since I arrived, I heard movement in the thatch roof above me. Also, before I'd doze off to sleep, I'd hear the sounds of a struggle, crunching and crackling coming from the bathroom. In the morning, bits of wings, scales, and blood formed blotches around the shower drain.

     “Yeah,” a staff member had old me when I had asked. “Insects crawl through the plumbing and make their way up to the drain, where they fight it out. The bigger insects eat the smaller ones. It’s like that every night.” So, before I headed out in the mornings, I turned the shower on to wash it all away.

     The scorpion wasn’t moving. It stayed right in the middle of the floor, like he owned the place, which, in a way, he did, indigenous to the land. I was the interloper, coming in to disrupt, and, in some ways, conquer his way of life. Foundations pour millions of dollars into this preserve, so it will never again be the same, even after we all leave, and wide swaths of archeological digs scar the land where ancient Maya once roamed.

     I was so tired, I couldn’t deal with It. Maybe once I turned out the light, I told myself, creature would just go away. I closed my mosquito net around my bed and tried to sleep, still convincing myself the venomous scorpion would find his, or her, way out like she found her way in. I turned a couple of times. I knew it was still there. I could sense it. I tried putting it out of my mind. Then I thought, dang, my mosquito net touches the floor. What if the scorpion, armed by nature with various spears and arrows, finds the netting and climbs up into my bed?

     I turned on the light again. It hadn’t moved. I sat up, swung my legs off the bed, and slipped my feel into my shoes. I looked around the room for a weapon of some sort. The scorpion jammed. He headed for a dark corner. I was getting desperate. No weapon. The broom. I saw a broom somewhere, in the bathroom, in a small closet. Too much commotion for the scorpion.

     I knew I had to move slowly, or it would find a sanctuary where I couldn’t get to it. The broom’s bristles would sweep the creature out, but they would be useless in combat. If I was going to dispatch my prey, I’d have to crush it with the tip of the broom handle, the wood, rounded part. The scorpion got wind of my plan and scampered under a cabinet, a few inches above the floor. It was dark under there. I could see it, more like a shadow.

     I placed my weapon under the cabinet, slowly, trying to avoid detection. There was just enough space under the cabinet, but it was an awkward angle, and I couldn’t get enough force behind the broom. The scorpion moved to a place harder for me to see it. My weapon was useless, the scorpion taking advantage of the field of battle.

     I thought about going back to bed and forgetting about it, but I already tried that. It didn’t work. How could I sleep knowing that valiant adversary, armed to the hilt, was still there, waiting for its chance to strike?

    Okay, I was told, for most people, a scorpion’s sting doesn’t kill. It’s painful and can make a person really sick. Not only that, but they don’t strike unless provoked. Should I just get back into bed and forget it all, and was the trade-off worth it? What? Now I was negotiating with different sides of my brain. No, I had to kill it. This is my cabana. Okay, fine, but it's on the scorpion's land. Again, I searched for a weapon. Nothing. The room was bare except for a desk and a few books. I looked over at my heavy hiking boots, and the solid heel, but no way could I get it under the cabinet. Maybe, if I moved the cabinet…but then, the scorpion would split. It was pretty damn fast. Hell!

     On the desk, next to my own paperbacks, and a journal, another book, one of those large, heavy picture books, the kind they have in hotels. You know the kind, thick, and filled with locations not to miss while on your visit. Slowly, I sauntered to the desk and picked up the book. It was definitely heavy, and the spine hard, wide, and flat. I hated the idea of using a book for this purpose, killing an insect on its home turf, mind over matter, in a sense.

     I went back to the cabinet, down on my knees, and took a peek. The scorpion hadn’t moved. I laid down the heavy book, flat on the smooth wood floor. I took aim. I couldn’t angle the book. It had to be a straight shot. I only had this one chance, but I wasn’t happy about this, any of it. That scorpion had a right to live. Crap, but so did I. So, I heaved the weapon, the spine hitting flat against the baseboard, the scorpion between the two. I thought I heard a crunch, but maybe it was my imagination.

     When I removed the book, I saw what looked like blood on the spine. I thought of wiping it clean, but the book had become a weapon of combat. I decided to leave the blood. I placed the book back onto the desk, next to my writing material. 

     What I can’t remember is if I went right to sleep, relieved I had vanquished the enemy, or if the entire episode had bothered me. I think I slept well, no longer fearing prey in my bed. It was the way it all happened that has stayed with me, a book as a weapon against our most primitive nature.