This story begins in the winter — last February in fact — when I was lying in bed, minding my own business and reading a scary book. It was there, in the darkness, that I encountered a spider.
Actually, the spider encountered me.
As I said, I was in bed, reading a book by Chris Holm, in the dark. The only illumination in the room was from the little book light on my Kindle. I was huddled under the covers, warm and cozy, and utterly entranced in the tale’s fearsome twists and turns.
Just as the story became particularly chilling, a spider glided down on a gossamer strand of webbing and landed right on my book. Needless to say, I was not pleased with this event. In fact, I showed my displeasure by springing out of bed, which caused my Kindle to fly through the air. Luckily, it landed in a pile of overturned blankets. I know this because when I turned on the bedroom light, I found it while checking every inch of the sheets and covers for any evidence of my arachnid foe.
Now, let me just say that I am not afraid of spiders. I don’t like them. I don’t dislike them. I believe that like sharks, spiders and I can get along just fine so long as they live in their space and I live in mine. The trouble occurs when those two spaces overlap.
The part of New Hampshire where I reside is fairly rural so I’ve had to resign myself to living with spiders. Since the most common spider is the harmless daddy-longlegs type, I don’t worry too much about them. Spiders in the home, I’m told, are good luck. Plus, they eat other bugs, a contribution I wholeheartedly appreciate.
Which is why I made a deal with them. The spiders may live in my home, rent-free, as long as they stay in their respective spaces. Do that and all will be well. But, if they cross the line and enter my space, well, let’s just say they’ll pay with their lives.
In the downstairs bathroom, near the ceiling, lives a very large spider. She doesn’t bother me and I don’t bother her, yet we’re always aware of each other’s presence. Every time I enter the bathroom, I look up and greet her. As long as I know where she is, I can go about my business and leave her to hers. Over time, I’ve even named her: Char, after “Charlotte’s Web.”
One day last Summer, I entered the bathroom, fully expecting to find Char in her corner roost. This time, however, she was missing. I checked the other corners of the room. I looked near the tub and by the sink. I even searched behind the toilet (after all, who wants to be surprised in such a compromising position?), but no luck. This did not please me. I figured if I couldn’t see her, Char was in a place where she wasn’t supposed to be. My space.
As you’ve probably surmised, I did not feel comfortable using that bathroom for a good three days.
On the fourth day, I entered the room, looked up and there she was. Char was back! I didn’t know where she had been, and honestly, I didn’t care. She had returned to her appropriate spot and I could once again use the facilities without worry.
Then the Autumn arrived, and I had my final encounter with spiderkind. One Sunday night, M and I drove to Rick’s for ice cream. When we returned to the car, I noticed that there was a fairly large spider on the driver’s seat. I warned M of its presence, but by the time he unlocked the door and opened it, the spider had vanished.
Look for it, I demanded. Being a dutiful husband, he did so, but to no avail. The ride home was not spent in comfortable silence. I felt itchy and annoyed the entire time, which gave my brain the perfect opportunity to conjure up nightmare scenarios. I imagined that the spider I’d seen had been a sentry for the Spider Army, and now it was getting ready to attack. I pictured a cocoon of baby spiders bursting out of a web hidden in the map pocket behind my seat, and spreading out inside the car in search of food. I even imagined that the spider had escaped from the local nuclear power plant, and one bite would turn us into hulking green monsters.
Yeah, my brain went into overdrive. So when we arrived home, I bounded out of the car and silently vowed to put the entire experience out of my mind. Which is why the next day, I gave no thought to the spider as I got back in the car and drove to Keene. I ran errands. I picked up library books. I stopped at the Starbucks for a grande hot chocolate. I had no reason to doubt that the ride home would be anything but peaceful and relaxing.
Unfortunately, the spider had other ideas. And as I was driving home, admiring the colorful foliage and singing along to the music on my iPod, it slowly descended from the car ceiling. Once at my eye level, it swung on the webbing like an 8-legged Tarzan, and threw itself onto my chest.
Holy fucking crap.
It took every ounce of willpower to not scream, and not turn the steering wheel into oncoming traffic. Instead, I kept my cool and held my breath and searched desperately for a shoulder or side street. Alas, that meant I couldn’t see what the spider was doing on my chest, or where, light forbid, it was going, but as soon as that turn off appeared, I exited. Once out of traffic, I punched the parking button, threw open the door, leaped away from the car, ripped off my shirt and began running my fingers through my hair in hopes of displacing the spider should it have taken shelter there.
The rush of blood in my ears roared with the adrenaline-filled combination of near-death experience and heebie-jeebies. There was no spider in my hair. Nor could I find evidence of it on my clothing, on my person or anywhere in the car (and trust me, I looked). It was just gone. Again.
Defeated, I got back into the vehicle and returned to the highway. If it wasn’t for Stuart McLean’s calming voice and distracting stories, I never would have made it home.
Looking back on these encounters, I find myself a bit baffled. What was the point? Were the spiders trying to make me phobic? Well, then they were doing an excellent job.
Perhaps I resemble someone who’s an enemy to Spiderkind? If so, could someone let them know that I only kill the trespassers, I swear.
Or, were they simply trying to tell me something important? Whatever the message was, I didn’t understand it.
No need to send another emissary, oh spidery ones. A postcard will do just fine.
