spiders

I picked up the old crusty shoe from my carport. It had been sitting there ever since I moved in back in 2010. Slowly rotting away, but always there. It was some sort of symbol, I rationalized as I left it there.

Eventually, it became coated in spider webs. So many that every time I watered my flowers, I hosed down that shoe to try and make the webs go away. The shoe would fill up with water, bloat and slowly leak the water out from the lace holes and from a giant hole in the sole of the shoe – the reason I stopped wearing them years before.

But the flood of the shoe never got the spiders to go away. Sometimes they’d scamper out and walk around on the cement near the shoe, trying their best to stay out of the water. Other times they’d just stay on the shoe, walking around on the top of it. There were big spiders and little spiders. I’m assuming they were all related in whatever way spider families are. Maybe they argued. Maybe they shared a fly for dinner. Maybe they wanted to kill each other. Whatever it was, it happens.

Today, I did the same routine. I had just finished digging up a bunch of weeds and gigantic pieces of grass that were engulfing the three daisy plants that my girlfriend planted for me on my birthday in April. They’ve already bloomed twice, and it’s always a nice feeling to see the big white petals and yellow centers of those flowers. But, because of where they were planted, I haven’t been able to mow that part of the lawn, and it was becoming a jungle. And soon, the jungle would overtake the still small daisy plants. About two hours I spent pulling up weeds, grass and any other green plant that was invading the patch reserved for the daisies. I saw many bugs, mostly earwigs and baby crickets. Baby crickets, by the way, are extremely cool to watch. And there were a lot of them to watch.

A few spiders – black ones with huge claws – scurried about too. None of them like the ones that have taken up residence in my old size 12.5 Samba Classics. I would sho them away with the mini shovel, wait aren’t they called garden shovels? No need to kill them, they provide a service, killing the ants and other bugs that attempt to come into my house. Only when they come in the house do I kill spiders. I really just have a huge hang up about spiders crawling in my mouth or on my body while I sleep. Ask any girlfriend and she’ll have at least one experience of me waking up in a fright, sometimes throwing pillows at things or jumping out of bed flicking what I believe to be bugs off of my body. I guess it could be an early sign of some kind of mental issue, or, I just don’t like fucking spiders.

That, of course, would go back to my childhood. I used to not be scared of them. I’d let daddy longlegs walk on my arms and watch them. I’d stare at big spiders that would build webs across our front stoop late at night because my dad never turned the freaking porch light off. Still doesn’t. Of course, he leaves the television on 24 hours a day now too. Me, I rarely turn my own any more. It’s only good for VHS tapes and DVS anyway. Old hand-me-down televisons just aren’t useful anymore since the forced switch of the “public” airwaves to digital.

Anyway, one day I was climbing the giant Magnolia tree on the side of our house. I used to climb it all the time. The branches were nicely spaced out – and plentiful – all the way to the top. And as a kid, it was a perfect diversion/hiding place.

On this particular day, either in the summer or on the weekend – I was home and not at school, so I’m guessing this is correct – we were having our house painted. I remember the guy, he was wearing blue striped overalls and a blue painter’s cap. He had a mustache, I believe, and a red handkerchief.

I was in the tree, probably thinking about being in some imaginary war or some kind of secret spying mission against the Russians, when a spider waked across my hand. It was huge and scared the crap out of me. I took my other hand and flicked it – fast and hard – to get rid of the monstrosity. Only problem, of course, was the fact that I now was no longer holding on to a branch. The fall was sudden, and full of clunks against branches all the way down. Luckily, I was in a Magnolia tree and it had all those branches. I was well over two stories in the air, nearly at the very top of our house’s chimney when I fell.

I don’t remember much after letting go and falling.

I was told the painter heard me scream and turned in time to see me hit the ground. He rushed over and checked on me. Other than a few bruises, I was actually fine. But scared out of my mind. He tried to calm me down, and by now  my mom had come rushing outside.

She grabbed me, and probably thought horrible thoughts about the painter for a moment.

“What is it Randy?” she asked repeatedly.

I was crying by now. It’s a natural reaction of a kid. Something bad happens, and mom shows up. Time for the waterworks. Eventually, I said I fell from the tree. And something about a spider.

My mom thanked the painter and he went back to work. I went inside and don’t remember anything else about that day.

I do know that I never liked spiders again. And still don’t. I used to kill them all. No questions asked. Then slowly, I developed a little bit of a truce with them.

Until one day a girlfriend – who no longer thinks of me, or that day probably – was bitten by a brown recluse. She got the ugly wound, the rot, the puss. And I was angered by spiders again. Killing them wantonly.

Eventually, the wound healed. But she would dump me.

In my stuff that I moved back, months later, I noticed webs. I poked open the box of pretty valuable video game stuff and saw webs, everywhere. And a bunch of dead insects. This box hadn’t been touched by me other than to  move it from North Carolina to Florida, and then move it back to North Carolina from Florida in the last four years. It had been sitting in a corner, in my bedroom of all places, ever since I got back from Gainesville that last time.

I freaked and threw the box against a wall.  The spider came out. He was huge. He was a brown recluse. He’d been living in my room for almost a year now, feeding on whatever bugs came in. Luckily, it seemed from the carcasses in his/her web, they were plentiful. Crickets and grasshoppers and roaches and the worst – camel crickets, the bastards that jump everywhere – were everywhere. Dead and sucked dry.

I watched the spider walk around my stuff. I grabbed a glass from the kitchen and put it on top of the spider. And I looked at him. I wondered if he was related to the one who bit my ex. I hoped so. After he finally settled down, I picked up the glass, sliding a newspaper under it to keep him inside and walked outside.

I walked a few blocks down to the river and put the glass on the ground, letting him scurry out.

“Good travels, my friend!” I said to the spider as he walked towards downtown. It was my gesture of thanks, for killing all those bugs, and maybe inflicting some pain on someone who inflicted more on me than I think I’ll ever feel again.

I thought about that brown recluse today, when I grabbed the old shoe after flooding it again. A mother spider was holding her egg sack and carrying it around. I carefully took the shoe and put it in a new location – away from me and my bare feet, which is commonplace on the cement of the carport – and happily sent her and her family on their way to a new home.

I’m glad spiders and I get along better now. But I still wake up sometimes in the morning, look around and see a pillow tossed to the other side of the room. And I know it means that maybe, one of them was playing tricks on me last night.

Dean Martin naked in my living room

The older I get, the dumber.

At least that’s what I’ve been told. More than once, but less than a dozen times.

When you sit about watching re-runs of “Father Knows Best” and “Hazel” on your day off, you start to wonder if maybe, they are all correct?

The want of drink is strong today. Fighting the urge becomes a day-long affair. So, instead, the keyboard beckons. A project long forgotten about is thought about for a second. No longer than that, however. It’s too draining to sit and re-read something written that had its moment, since passed.

That was the longest 98 words I’ve tried to pull out of myself. Extraction of my teeth should go so poorly.

It comes and goes, that feeling of woe. It sits and waits, I believe, for the time it is least expected or wanted around. Some days you fart in the morning, some days you pee. Hopefully, not both at the same time.

I’d like to think that she has thought about me once over the past six years. I have my doubts.

Crazy looks from crazy people.

A mixed-race child sitting with his mother, stares at me. I stare at him. He laughs. I smile. Then the grandfather gives me a bad look. I stop thinking about good, and feel the bad. Sometimes feeling the bad is what you need to stop looking inside for it. You know it’s there, always, but you don’t have to let it out.

Eating tacos in a strip mall downtown. They’re not bad. Not great either. I sit and watch the co-eds go by and wonder why I wasted so much time being down. On life. On myself. On what happened. I could have been watching co-eds. Standing on the corner, watching on the girls go by. I used to live that life. Now, I’m old and it’s a bit creepy to do. At least when I do it. When Dean Martin did it, not so creepy. Well, yes it was, but damn it, who can be creeped out by Dean Martin? Unless he’s naked in your living room, I suppose.

That’s a sight, Dean Martin naked in my living room. Like my dirty old living room needs more charm.

Halfway there and still I feel like I haven’t accomplished anything. Forced is forced. Even with bits and pieces of inspiration.

LeBron James took over that game. But he’s still overrated. How the fuck do I know this? I haven’t covered an NBA game in my lifetime. And somehow I bet you haven’t either. And if you did, you sat on press row gawking at the players on the court. Maybe even hiding a chubby under the table.

The hackery and awfulness stuns me to silence.

Even when I write it.

Ha.

Laughing at oneself, it feels good.

“Customers are not allowed behind the counter,” she said to me. I looked into her eyes and fell in love. She looked at my feet and saw a sale. It was a grouping made in heaven.

“Can you find me a pair of these, new?” I asked her, pointing down at my Samba II Jades. I got them on e-bay years ago, out of sheer luck one day, and haven’t seen another pair in my size since. One pair of 10.5s and another pair of 9s showed up. Nothing else.

“No,” she said.

“How did you end up a shoe sales lady?” I asked.

She frowned at me. I felt better about my place in the world for half a second. Then I felt horrible for saying such a thing.

“I like shoes,” she said. “They’re actually my passion. I met my last boyfriend selling him a pair of shoes. He was so damn picky about what he put on his feet. But not nearly as picky about where he put his dick.”

I laughed. So did she.

“How about just a normal pair of Sambas?” I enquired.

“Of course,” she said.

Five minutes later, I had a new pair of shoes and a phone number. It became the second girl’s phone number that I acquired. The first girl, however, gave me her digits after we had sex. That, my friend, always ends poorly. I don’t care what the Nick Sparks novels say. And no, I have no idea if there is pre-marital sex in Nick Sparks books. Is there?

She smiled at me as I left. I wondered instantly if the number was real. Why? Because I’m a product of rejection and failure. That’s why.

So, I called the number and watched. She reached into her pocket, pulled out the phone and looked at the face. She then looked at me, standing there with my phone in my hand. My flip phone. Same one I’d had since 2007.

She smiled again. Answered the phone.

“Hello?” she said.

“Hey,” I replied.

“Who is this?” she asked.

“The guy with the Sambas,” I replied. “Just wanted to say hi.”

“Dork,” she said, waving at me from 15 feet away.

“Yep. That’s me.”

“Call me later, OK?” she said.

“Will do.”

Algiers. Chapter 1

The gaggle of cameramen approached with little regard to whatever was around them. They stomped on daisies that were just planted last week. They overturned the pink flamingos that the little girl next door always petted while waiting for the bus every morning. They drug their shoes in the freshly planted sod of Mr. Anderson next door – the 78 year old Korean War veteran who hated all things television. I’m sure he’s getting a kick out of all of this.

Hell, he hates me too. And we drink beers together and grill discount steaks every Thursday in his backyard patio.

Me, I’m just listening to The Kinks “Are the Village Green Preservation Society” at top volume while this all goes on outside my apartment. I guess I could turn on the television and see exactly what the assorted throng of asshats and career chasers are saying about me, but I honestly don’t care. I guess it’s fitting that “Picture Book” comes on just as one of them finds a window with a curtain not drawn down to the bottom of the window. I look at him. He’s got his hat on backwards, just like me. He has a goatee. Just like me. He’s got on a t-shirt and a cheap pair of plaid shorts. Just like me. I get up and walk to the door. I hear the reporter with him say “oh my God, he’s going to do something!” I open the window, poke my head outside and look down.

“What kind of shoes you got on buddy?” I scream to the cameraman.

The reporter looks at me. She is contemplating if I’m talking to her. I did say buddy, afterall.

“I’m not talking to you bitch,” I say. She frowns.

The cameraman lets his camera go down to his belly. Relaxing for a moment.

“Samba Hi-Tops, man. Just got them last week,” he says.

“Damn. Are they comfortable? I’ve seen ‘em, but just think they look strange.”

“They actually are pretty tight,” he says. “I’ve got to start filming you again Mr. Jones. It’s my job. You understand. Right?”

“Yeah, kid. No worries. But I’m going to close the blinds. So, this interview is over.”

I go back inside my window. I draw the blinds. Then the curtains. That guy’s probably going to have some ‘splaining to do to his bitch of a reporter. Blonde hair. Perfectly cut and perfectly combed. Even in this fucking humidity.

That humidity. Same as it was the other day. On the ferry. Fuck. I don’t want to think about the ferry. I love going to Algiers Point. Now, I’ll probably never go back again. Not that I was expecting to go back again. But I chickened out.

She didn’t.