My Theory on Spiders

My philosophy of spiders is very simple: I do not kill them because I'm convinced their family members, and friends, will know I committed the murder and then will try to seek revenge on me when I least expect it.  

Now that I have made my "spider philosophy" clear, I must confide that yesterday was fraught with spider anxiety.

I have a digital picture frame that can also act as a digital clock.  I'm unable to figure out how to put a picture into the machine, so I just keep the frame in "clock" mode.  Yesterday the clock feel off an old wooden piece of furniture in the room I'm renting.  As I reached down to pick it up, guess who was waiting?  Yes, A spider.  Not just any spider, a large, black, fuzzy spider.  He, or maybe she, was clinging to one of the many strands of webbing that he/she had put in place.  I jumped back and started to work the catastrophe out in my head.  I could have killed it, but that would mean revenge by spider relatives/friends when I least expect it (when I sleep).  I could have saved it, but that would mean I'd have to get close enough to rescue it.  The possibilities of ways in which the rescue could have gone terribly wrong began to bounce around in my head.  For example, what if he/she jumps?  I've heard some spiders are "jumpers."  This would make my escape virtually impossible.  I would never return to my room again.  I would tell my landlady to drive a nail through my door and never venture into the spider's den again.  Sell my belongings, they're tainted now anyway.  

At any rate, I decided to try and rescue the spider.  I figured if I approach the situation with peace, he/she will somehow telepathically know I'm not going to harm him/her.  I grabbed an old cupcake container and approached the spider.  I took a deep breath and attempted to trap the spider between the container's body and lid.  I failed.  The spider ran to the underside of the piece of furniture.  He/she moved very quickly.  I, too, moved very quickly-away from the spider.  Where did he/she go?  He/she was not in sight any more.  What if he/she was pissed?  The last thing I need is a pissed spider living a few short "crawls" away from my bed.  I grabbed my flashlight and started to search for the monster.  Yes, monster.  I shined the light under the piece of ancient furniture and was terrified at my discovery.  The spider must have been living there for months.  There was an expansive condo-like formation of webbing everywhere.  Among the levels, patterns, and diagonal lines that composed the spider's condo, I found him/her.  The monster was perched upside down looking at me.  I think this was when I first saw the fangs.  They were large and looked to be already dripping of my blood.  I stepped back and once again ran through the possibilities.  The spider was in a very difficult location, making the extraction a bit more tedious for me.  Could I let him/her live there?  No.  I had to retrieve the spider.  So, once again, armed with my cupcake container, I shined the light in the spider's eyes and attempted to scoop him/her from the underside of the furniture to the container.  I poked him/her once.  Nothing!  I poked again and this time I could feel him/her getting angry.  I thought: the monster knows my face.  I can't give up now.  He/she'll be able to identity me, tell his/her family and friends what I look like, and then plot. plot. plot.  I poked again, and this time he/she fell into the container's body.  Yes!  I placed the top on and brought the container eye-level to get a good look at the saved spider.  He/she had morphed into a ball.  It must have been a defense mechanism.  Spiders adapt by becoming small, less imposing, but the venom is really just moments away from a surprise attack.  Humans grab cupcake containers and hope all turns out well, at least this human does.  

I carried the spider outside.  I was in my pajamas; this is probably a sight my neighbors have grown accustomed to.  I walked two and a half blocks away from my home and let the spider out into a patch of forest.  He/she ran away from the frosting-scented container and disappeared in half of a second.  I returned to my digital clock and was surprised at the fact that the ordeal had taken over an hour.  I let him/her go, I announced to the room.  I slept soundly last night.  

Reflecting Jerry

(The following is a letter I've written to the Dog.  You can find the rest of the story in Edward Albee's The Zoo Story.)

Dear Dog, 

  I promised I would not try to reach you again, but maybe this letter will temper any ill feelings you may have of me from our past.   

  I woke up today.  That's the first surprise.  I wasn't expecting to, as I don't really expect much of anything anymore, but I woke up so I have to live with it.

  I've been thinking about you.  Please don't try and understand my rationale behind poisoning you, just as I don't think about why you tried to bite me all those times, I just thought it may help the process along.  Not death.  No.  That's not really a process I'd pretend to know anything about, I just thought it would help our "relationship" process along.  I don't know much about that either, as I have probably proved to you, but here we are.  

  I'm going for a walk today.  I'm going to walk up Fifth Avenue from Washington Square.  Where better to start, right?  All the NYU people and the top layer of financial garble that lounge around for lunch.  Lunch is only an escape from the walls to the artificial sunlight.  I say artificial because it fades before it can have any lasting effect on the body.  I think I'll begin my walk there and travel up to the park.  I'll probably find an NYU in the park too.  I think I'll share our story.  I don't really know why, we do not try to reach each other any more.  I think it will help, though, get beyond the monotonous routine of typing platitudes on this old Western Union Typewriter.  The last time I walked up Fifth Avenue from Washington Square to the park I almost died.  I was ill-prepared for the jaunt.  This is what I remember:         

  I've been walking up Fifth Avenue all day.  What "they" don't understand is that my shoes are stronger because of the holes and give a little extra support by way of letting the foot move around a bit.  No.  I walk by these people that have the shiny shoes, briefcases, and umbrellas and they could never be as comfortable as I am.  Yeah, my feet are beginning to burn a bit, but that is only a temporary sensation soon to be muscled out by another sensation.  

  When I left the room this morning, one of the children from the Puerto Rican family downstairs had an interesting exchange with me.  I looked at him, he looked at me, and then he threw a marble down the hall.  I'm guessing he wanted me to run down and pick it up, but I don't understand how to do that, so I smiled and carried on as if I could not see, hear, or comprehend.  

  The landlady was listening at her door as I left.  I knew this because she has yet to understand that her awful body makes a large shadow just underneath the door's expansive opening.  To tease her I said in a low, almost secretive tone: "Yesterday and the day before."  We'll play that game when I get home.  When.  What a word.  I'm not going to say "when" anymore.

  I got to the park.  That Zoo.  There is the Zoo.  I'm not talking about the place where people take children and pay to view animals.  No.  I'm speaking about the park: It's a Zoo in pure, untainted perfection.  My favorite places are those shadows under rock crevices, in trees, bushes, or just below the surface of the cloudy water.  What is going on under there?  I know, but I can't tell you.  You'll have to find out for yourself.  Dive in.  Dive into the cloudy water and feel around a bit.  Nothing bites. 

  My feet hurt.  I'm almost to the Zoo.  One more trip.  I think that's all it will take, just one more trip to see if my calculations about the ways in which people exist with the animals, the way that animals exist with each other, and with the people too really is the way I perceive it to be.  I hate the word calculations, I will never use "calculations" again.

  Maybe you want to go for a walk, dog.  I'm afraid your infections will spread though.  What if I don't pick up on the signs?  You can't say, "I need water."  

  Nah, I'll go for a walk.  One more walk to find out what really happens at the Zoo.  I'll find the balance between the artificial sunlight and the alternative.  Me.  Soon I'll know all about the Zoo and so will you.  

  Jerry

My 93 Year-old Roommate

    Rachel is a little over five feet tall.  She moves about with the flair of a former socialite, and her favorite item of accessory is the "Help!  I've fallen and I can't get up" button she wears around her neck.  Rachel celebrated her ninety-third birthday two weeks ago and reminds me every day that her memory is "not what it used to be."  

    I have been renting a room in Rachel's home for a few months, and I'm beginning to piece together the details of her intricate life.  

  "I built this house with my husband," she said.  "He owned a factory in Brooklyn, NY.  We built the house in the thirties."  I walk through the house and make sure not to touch much of anything.  The drapes, wallpaper, furniture, lighting fixtures, artwork on the walls, carpet, vases, and other rare delicacies have not been replaced since the house's initial construction.  

    A garden in the back yard has been fenced off for years.  Last weekend I ventured into the secret garden and was unable to look beyond the majesty of what once was.  Weeds, vines, and withered leafs cover stone walls, walkways, and a dried-up fountain.  An expansive screened-in porch is now guarded by a tree's extending root structure, protecting it from an invasion of modernization.  Rachel is in the house, in her chair, listening to the television while repeatedly reviewing bills that do not make sense. 

"I used to entertain a lot," she said.  "My garden used to be beautiful.  Oh, the time I spent there.  Now, I don't know what to make of it.  My memory is not what is used to be."

I asked Rachel about her life.  She told me that she married her boss.  "How else could I afford all this?" she once said.  Rachel grew up in Brownsville, NY., and her family was poor.  Her family lived in a four bedroom apartment, and while this may seem luxurious, the reality is much different.  Every member of her family lived in one room of the apartment, as the other rooms were rented out to make a little money.  

"When my husband and I started dating," she said, "He would call the drug store across the street.  A little boy would come and tell me I had a telephone call, and I would run to the store to take the call.  You see, we didn't have a phone in our home back then."  Rachel raised her hands to her head.  "I still remember the name of my street."  Rachel smiled, looked at me, and then lowered her gaze to the pile of papers in her lap.  "I don't understand these bills."

Yesterday evening I walked down the stairs and found Rachel in her chair.  "I've been going through my address book."  She was holding a small black book.  The pages were yellowed and the writing was a cursive reflection of what once was.  "I don't know who half these people are.  I'm sure most are dead."

"My husband built this house with the bricks of a factory he tore down in Unionville."  Rachel stopped to admire her home.  "I'll let the next owner worry about fixing it up."

Last night Rachel was in the kitchen.  She had opened a drawer and was picking through the spatulas, can openers, and apple peelers.  "I don't know where all of this came from.  This isn't my stuff.  Can you believe the amount of spatulas we have here?"  I looked at the cooking utensils in question; they looked as worn as the house.  "Why on Earth would I have four spatulas?"  Rachel counted the can openers and apple peelers in the same way she inventoried the spatulas.  "I don't know where it all comes from."  There was a small drop of moisture clinging to the end of her nose.  Perhaps a tear.  " I don't know where it all came from."