LETTERS From CAMP Rehoboth |
My Queer Life: The Adventures of Spider Man |
by Michael Thomas Ford |
I locked myself out of the house today. Normally I wouldnt do such a thing. Im fairly compulsive about always having my keys with me when I go out the front door, which locks automatically. But there were extenuating circumstances. Namely, the spider. Id been spending a lovely morning lying on the bed watching the French Open, where Monica Seles was kicking Conchita Martinezs butt in the quarter finals. As Monica prepared to serve for the match, I rolled over and looked up at the ceiling. There, clinging to the edge of the light fixture several feet above my head, was the spider. I dont like spiders. They have too many legs and too many eyes, and I am convinced that at night they come out and sit looking at me, waiting for the perfect moment to inject me with something that will poison my nervous system before wrapping me in a silk coffin. I dont care if they eat pests and make pretty webs. I have hated them since childhood, when a very large one did in fact fall on my head. I even hated Charlotte in Charlottes Web. I wanted someone to step on her. This spider was definitely looking at me and waiting for the right moment to drop on me. I know that if I hadnt spotted it first, it would have almost certainly had all eight of its creepy little spider legs in my hair in an instant. To make things worse, I was wearing boxers. Im sure to the spider that bare skin looked like an all-you-can-eat buffet. As it was, we had a face off. I laid there beneath the light, watching every move the shifty arachnid made. I didnt dare try to sit up, as that would have only brought me closer to it. And I was afraid that any movement at all would create air currents and cause it to tumble off the light and onto my naked self. So there I stayed for about ten minutes, watching for signs of attack and trying not to breathe too heavily. Finally, when I thought the spider was occupied with something else, I flung myself sideways off the bed and onto the floor with a crash. As I scrambled for safety, I could hear the spider hissing with irritation, but it stayed where it was. I made sure I kept one eye on it as I slipped into the hallway and grabbed the broom from the closet. I didnt want it to get away, which would have then required an entire day of ripping the room apart looking for it to make sure it wasnt lurking in the sheets. Despite the broom, I was at a disadvantage. Because the spider was near the ceiling, there was the chance that it would fall on me when whacked or, worse, fall on the bed and pretend to be dead until I tried to pick it up, then suddenly spring to life and lunge at my throat. Thinking quickly, I flicked the light on and off a few times, hoping the strobe effect might momentarily blind the nasty critter, or that maybe some stray electricity would zap it for me. Then, attempting to channel Xena, I went for it. Pushing the broom at the spider, I tried to put a swift end to things. But he wasnt giving in easily. Instead of curling up in a little lifeless spider ball, he crawled onto the broom and made right for me, every facet of every compound eye glinting madly. I figured I had about ten seconds to get down the hall and out the front door before the spider managed to skitter up the length of the handle and onto my arm. So you can see how I might have forgotten the little matter of the keys. It was hard enough to run and scream at the same time. But I did it, and soon I was on the porch, vigorously beating the broom over the porch railing and watching for the spider to tumble off. Which it did. Right into the garden. Thats fine. I dont mind spiders in the garden. As long as they stay there. I just dont like it when they put all their spidery horribleness in my face. Yes, I know. Im about thirty-nine billion times bigger than a spider. Thats small comfort. The little buggers are sneaky. Give them half a chance and theyll dart up your pants and disappear. All the dancing around and smacking at yourself you can manage wont get them. Ive tried that. My friends think my spider paranoia is amusing, especially as I dont mind any other bug, snake, or generally nasty thing that most folks fear. Then again, they dont know what its like to be cornered in a wood shed with a spider hanging in the only exit while all its friends advance menacingly behind you. And I sincerely doubt that any one of them has ever been stuck in a small tent at night and seen the outline of a descending spider silhouetted against the canopy. No, I dont think they would think spiders were so much fun after that. On the other hand, Im sure they would all think it was very funny to see mea grown manon the porch in my boxer shorts, beating at the door and yelling for the dog to let me in. Im sure they would all get a big chuckle out of seeing me run madly through the back yard before the spider could get itself back up on the porch for round two. And Im sure they would all find it amusing beyond words to know that eventually I had to break into my own bedroom window to get safely inside. Fine. Go ahead, call me a big sissy. I dont care. But when you wake up one day and find yourself mummified in spider silk, dont come crying to me. Ill be hiding under the bed. Michael Thomas Fords new book, Thats Mr. Faggot to You, is in stores now. His last book, Alec Baldwin Doesnt Love Me, recently won a Lambda Literary Award for best humor book. If you feel like it, write him at Shopiltee@aol.com. |
LETTERS From CAMP Rehoboth, Vol. 9, No. 6, June 4, 1999 |