“Get out of the bed. Now.” wifey demanded,
calmly, urgently. “Why?” I asked, still
veiled in comfort and complacency.
“Just trust me,” she insisted. And that
was all I needed as I lunged from prone
to action in one sweeping motion,
triangulating wifey’s concentrated
glare towards the nickel-sized eight-legged
visitor on the ceiling, just above
my tumbler of bourbon and cola.
Can you imagine the anxiety
of that situation? For a few brief
moments, we stalemated as I waited
for the ceiling-crawler to lower himself
over my precious beverage on a web
like Tom Cruise on a wire. Sizing us up,
the spider slowly crawled his way directly
over our bed, within range of an
accurately-thrown shoe. Ah, but that
would be the work of an amateur. To panicked
shoe-tossing, neither of us gave way
anymore. Teamwork makes the dream work,
Mimicking the intruder’s movement, I
slowly made my way around wifey,
successfully retrieving my precious
elixir before quickly returning
to secondary spider-killer formation
As wifey and I coordinated
our assault plan, it dawned on me that
this is why people choose to get married.
Sure, the love, cherish, respect, support, and
all the Dr. Phil new-wave, New York City
mumble-jumble bullshit is in there somewhere, but
deep within the recesses of our
subconscious, all we’re really asking ourselves
is, “Can I kill a spider with this person?”
The dirtiest secret of spider-slaying
is that it requires at minimal
two-person integrity. In fact,
the only real reason to sire offspring
is not to carry our genes into
the future; it is to continue
overwhelming spiders with sheer numbers
of well-coordinated SWAT-teams.
The spider knows it outnumbers you
in a one-on-one confrontation. It has
eight highly-coordinated limbs
to your clumsy four, eight superior
eyes to your inferior two, and while
on the surface, our lightning-quick
multitasking brains seem to be an asset,
it is quickly rendered a liability
as our thoughts bog down into numerous
possible outcomes while the spider’s
single purpose of escaping, returning
to bite us to death, consume our
inferior eyeballs and lay eggs in our
multitasking brains makes them elite opponents
or something like that.
Pretty sure I read that
in Time magazine.
Look it up.
At the risk of sounding conceited,
wifey and I form one of the greatest
spider-killing duos of all-time. We
instinctively slip into our roles; her,
the point-man, tactical-action officer,
a sensual assassin, and me,
the logistical resource-gathering,
coach. We tried it the other way a few
times, and while my wingspan was superior,
spiders secrete this unknown chemical
that renders me temporarily incompetent,
my strikes, shaky and erratic. Wifey’s
death-stroke, on the other hand, is swift,
brutally effective, a joy to behold
if you’re into life-affirming, life-snuffing
death goddesses. And I just keep my
death-goddess supplied with effective weapons
and cleaning supplies because eww, gross.
For this night, the weapon of choice was a
fly-swatter with a long, elegant handle.
Except for the wide-end, it resembles a
samurai’s katana. Ceremoniously,
I pass the weapon onto wifey’s
stoic person, and she climbs the bed
with me shadowing her delicious,
purposeful curves, purposefully
toting various shoes as contingencies.
No such contingencies were needed as
my sexy samurai death-goddess
spider-assassin struck with a powerful,
blurring, crushing stroke that I am certain
caused a typhoon in Indonesia by
principle of the butterfly effect.
For good measure, she dragged her katana
across the ceiling, leaving the spider’s
carcass smeared across the ceiling, creating
her own constellation that would
only take a wetted tissue to remove.
In the moments it took for us to reflect
on triumphing over our irrational
fears yet again, I again allowed myself
contentment, relieved by the reaffirming
fact that we had once again closed ranks and
renewed our vows.
NaPoWriMo Day 21 – “New York School” poem. This recipe for writing a New York School poem really hit me where I live. I really enjoyed exploring this style.