My Spider, George

I dunno if I’ve told you how I feel about spiders. If not, I’ll do it now. I hate spiders. I loathe spiders. I respect them, but I respect them in the same way I respect a psychotic madman wielding a hypodermic needle full of Ebola or some such shit. I’m also scared to friggin death of them. It all goes back to my childhood (don’t you hate it when people say that? You might as well crack a beer and pull up a chair when you hear those words. Those words, and the words “to make a long story short . . .”)

I was a kid, just a little kid, and I was sacked out on the floor of my living room, watching TV. It was evening and the TV was black and white if that gives you any idea of how long ago this occurred, and the comforting sounds of some stupid-ass show were filling the room when I caught movement out of the corner of my eye. It was small. But it was there. Any of you live out in the country? Any of you recall those wolfy looking spiders? The ones with the boxy hairy bodies and the legs about four fucking feet long? Yeah. Those. Slowly I turned, bit by bit, inch by inch and there he stood, just outside the edge of the shadow cast by the sofa. Slowly he turned, bit by bit, inch by inch (talk about an I Love Lucy rip-off) and after a slight pause, he SHOT across the room straight at me.

I shit you not, I came up off that floor as though my ass had become an ejection seat and OUT of the room I went, screaming the entire way.

Later in life, as I stood in line at the pet store to purchase food for my snake (yes I said snake), one of the employees was cleaning out an aquarium looking thingy next to me. Thank God it was winter and I was wearing a heavy coat, because the tarantula housed inside that aquarium looking thingy made a break for it. Did you know tarantulas can jump like a million feet and that when they do, they will ALWAYS land on the arm of somebody who will immediately feel all the air rush out of their lungs and be unable to scream for help while they watch the Volvo sized spider slowly climb up their arm? Well they do. And it did. I ain’t been right since.

At this point in my life you would have think I’d have gotten over the worst of it and, to be honest, I’ve come a long way. I can stomp on em now if I’m wearing heavy shoes and long pants. Used to be I wouldn’t even do that fear that they would dodge my foot, jump on my pants and climb up the inside on my leg. I still won’t stomp em if I’m wearing shorts. Sandals are out too. Just can’t do it.

So imagine me last night, on my back deck, cleaning up after a father's day cookout. I looked up and saw what appeared to be a spider leap from a bush to the hanging plant right beside me. I froze and the words "WOULD SOMEBODY FOR GOD’S SAKE COME OVER HERE AND KILL THIS GODDAMNED THING ALREADY" were almost out of my mouth when I saw Mr. Spider then fly back in the opposite direction. I still don’t know why, but I shut my mouth and got a little closer. And I watched. Back and forth, back and forth, and then up and down and across he went, the busiest and most intense little furry monster I’d ever seen. Eventually, he hopped into the center of the shape he'd formed and began to circle around and around in an ever widening pattern. He was building his web and it was fascinating.

I'd never had an encounter with a spider web short of ripping them down with a broom with a very long handle, or running into one with my face as I walked through bushes and trees and erupted into ear piercing screams, so I watched him for as long as it took him to construct his web.

And NO I did NOT wait until he was finished and then bash him and his web all to shit and back. I let him live. I actually let a visible spider live and reside on my property with full knowledge of his evil little presence, and this morning when I went out to water the flowers on that deck, I edged over to see if he and his web were still there. They were and he was sleepin'. So I killed a fly and chucked it in.

I will name him George.
I will not hug him and I will not pet him.
But I will call him George.

And provided he stays the hell out of my house, I’ll keep on chucking flies in there.