I was alone in this world; the little six-legged bundle of love I called Speedy the hermit crab had left for that sandy beach in the sky. I was seven years old when he came into my life, having just arrived in Kansas where my only friends were books and pastures, my worst enemies boredom and the relentless wind that pounded against the old homestead during autumn storms. He arrived in a temple of plastic and I paid homage to him with water and crab pellets. I came to see him whenever I was lonely, scared or in need of a friend.
His title was a misnomer at best. He was no speedier than an elephant is graceful or a K Street lobbyist is honest, and scarcely showed his homely face before dark. When we played together his tiny legs crawled up and down my hand, tickling my arm, but recoiled at any loud noise or sudden movement. We spent many happy hours in each other’s company. I let him stroll happily around the confines of my desk and watched him perform his oblivious crustacean waltz. But it was not to last. As I began school and found my place in the plains and farmlands of the Midwest, we grew apart. I developed the healthy habit of playing with other children. Speedy could only sit and watch as I pretended to be a cowboy, or a policeman protecting Fuzzy the bear from the harsh realities of modern urbania. Spring became summer and summer fall, and as time passed, there were more distractions and less Speedy. The epiphany of our relationship came in first grade during the annual pet fair. All students were invited to bring their pets for judgment based on various endearing qualities such as beauty, friendliness or simply their presence at the fair. Other kids had cats, dogs, lizards—one girl brought her horse. I had Speedy. As the judges strolled through the playground, I vainly tried to coax Speedy from his exoskeleton home with little success. Later, I was ecstatic to learn that Speedy had received the Best Behaved First Grade Hermit Crab award. Good job, little buddy, I thought to myself as we drove home, you pulled through. You did it. We did it.
Uprooted, I awoke from the happy dream of childhood once more in a new place and without any of the Kansas faces that were now so familiar and welcoming to me. The difference was that I now had the use of books, the power of writing, even the sacred rites of the remote control at my fingertips. Speedy once again passed into that state between perception and memory, the darkest and dustiest corner of my room and mind. I still faithfully fed and watered my friend, a little annoyed by the repetitive nature of it, yet guilty that I couldn’t seem to make more time in my busy 11-year-old’s schedule to fit in a heart-to-heart with my buddy.
It was a quiet, sunny Florida afternoon when I came up to my room to find Speedy in the throes of death. My heart felt wrenched from my body as I saw him twitch a little, and then, as the life force drained from his tiny body, cease to move. The tears welled up in my eyes faster than you can say, “boys don’t cry.” I cradled Speedy in my hands, my first and most faithful friend. He had been with me for 4 years and almost as many states; he stayed the course while I was distracted by newer, “better” things. I gently lowered him into a small, cardboard box, which seemed a paltry coffin for the good and pure Speedy. Wiping tears from my cheeks, I buried him under an orange tree that grew behind my house. I smelled the sweet scent that comes before a storm, the slight dampness of Florida afternoon rain, and thought of Speedy and the selfless love of a true friend.
