I had just taken off the last of my clothes and folded my underwear onto the lip of the bathtub (stay with me), when I turned around and let out a silent shriek. At least the intention of the shriek was there, I was just too scared to make any noise. A big hairy spider was perched on the wall just near me just watching the show.
Spiders and I have never gotten along. I remember one incident of being in the car with my parents when I was younger and having a large spider crawl onto the outside of my window. I took this as my cue to start screaming like someone was being axe murdered in front of me, cowering as far away as possible until we stopped the car and got rid of it. In fact, it was almost identical to the time my parents decided to try out the drive through car wash machine, in response to which I excavated long-buried fears of drowning into a dazzlingly outward display of utter terror. My displays of fear might now be more inhibited, but rest assured I am still no fan of the friendly neighbourhood spider. I even took my year 6 teacher, Mrs. Karas’ advice to study and learn about my fear to overcome it but alas, the blown-up, colour illustrations of the hairy underbellies of spiders only worsened the situation.
Back in the present, if I was left to my own devices, I probably would have cleared the bathroom of anything which might serve as a hiding ground for Harry (or Harriet), had a few stern words with it along the lines of “I’m going to bed now, and I don’t want to see you here in the morning”, turned off the light, closed the door, stuffed towels in the gaps and foregone a shower for the night. Instead I fetched the assistance of my mother who went and got the bug spray. Instantly I realised I really didn’t mean to put a hit out on this spider. I would have been much happier if ‘H’ had got one whiff of the spray and quickly retreated into the roof through his entry point: the exhaust fan. Once my mum say it she too didn’t want to kill it and decided to start chasing it around the wall with a plastic tupperware bowl.
It was clearly petrified with its fast movements and possibly injured with it’s one droopy leg. I suggested we open the window and get it between the glass and the flyscreen. By “we”, I mean “she”. I even suggested “we” put “our” hand on the bit of metal one inch from the spider in order to pull down the window pane. Eventually ‘H’ got the message and climbed out, but much to my sadness it is quite possibly the only flyscreen on the many many windows of this house that doesn’t have puppy-sized gaps in it.
I went back to my shower but couldn’t stop thinking of poor ‘H’ with his droopy leg and (not so friendly) smile trapped between cold, oddly-lit glass and the taut black webbing teasing him with freedom.
In an ideal world, I would have opened the window, ‘H’ would have made a fast but cautious walk directly for the exhaust vent in the roof and I would have my shower knowing ‘H’ had told his friends, “Nothing to see here.” Instead, our fear of one another stripped me of my humanity and designated him a shortened life of torture and all I got was this tawdry metaphor.
Not only was “H” trapped between the glass and the and the teasing closeness of freedom, but he/she had to endure witnessing your exhibitionist shower through 8 eyes – who was the winner here?