“ Lots easier to kill it.” She scooted across the bed, opened the drawer, took out a tablet of hotel stationery, tore off a sheet and handed it to him.
“ I never kill spiders. They eat the bad bugs.”
“ What bad bugs?”
“ Mosquitoes, fleas, flies-the bad bugs.” He slid the paper under the glass and, with the spider safely enclosed, picked it up, one hand on the glass, the other holding the paper securely underneath. “Would you get the door?”
She hopped off the bed, opened the door and watched as he pulled the paper away, flinging the spider out into the night.
“ Good riddance.” She took her place in the armchair once again.
He smiled and closed the door.
“ You didn’t answer my question,” she said.
“ What question?”
“ What’s the most afraid you ever were?”
He was quiet for a few seconds, then said. “When I was little, I used to play cowboys and Indians with the neighborhood kids. I was always the sheriff and David was always the Indian chief. The goal was to capture and tie up the enemy. Usually to the clothesline.”
“ Clothesline?” she interrupted.
“ Yeah, the clothesline. You don’t see them like you used to now that everybody has a dryer, but in the neighborhood where we grew up we all had them, two poles cemented into the ground with a tee on top and four lines running between.”
“ I know what a clothesline is, I just can’t imaging tying someone to the line.”
“ Not the line, the poles. There were generally five or six kids per side, but there could be as many as ten. We would travel the block in twos or threes, searching out the enemy. If we could find and overpower them, we would take them to David’s or my backyard and tie them up. Once bound you were out of action for the rest of the game, or until you were freed by your side.”
“ Wouldn’t your team just untie you right away?” She asked.
“ If they could, but once you had captives you left a guard.”
“ Oh.”
“ The last day of summer, before we entered the sixth grade, we were playing the game. We were down by five, with one to go. Two boys were tied to the poles, three more were tied hands and feet, wriggling on the grass like giant worms. I was one of the three. It was a hot September day, probably in the high nineties, so a lot of us were playing without shirts. As you can imagine, it gets pretty hot laying on the grass, baking in the sun.”
“ Didn’t you get sunburned?” She asked.
“ A little,” he said, as his mind took him back.
Jerry Delawarean and his younger brother, Little Bobby, were tied to the clothesline poles. Little Bobby was crying, he was only seven and not used to the game. Ricky Stewart, John Morgan and himself, were tied with their hands behind their backs. Their feet were tied too.
“ Shut up Bobby.” His brother was the only one that didn’t call him Little Bobby.
“ I don’t wanna play anymore. I wanna go home.”
“ You been bugging us to play and we finally let you and now ya wanna quit,” his brother said.
“ I didn’t wanna get tied up,” he wailed.
“ What did the little shit think was gonna happen?” John Morgan said. He was the only kid on the block that swore. “He’s too little to capture anybody by himself and too slow to get away, ’course he was gonna get caught first thing. Happened to me too when I was a kid, but I didn’t whine about it when I got caught.” John Morgan, at twelve, was the oldest kid in the game and it took three kids to capture and hold him. Even with the no hitting rule, there were no two he couldn’t get away from.
“ Where did Beanie go?” Ricky asked. Beanie was Donny Greenwood, called Beanie because he was Jewish and had to wear a yarmulke to temple on Saturdays. “He’s supposed to be guarding us.”
“ Out looking for Rex probably,” John said. Rex Russell was the last cowboy in play.
“ I bet Rex has got ’em all captured,” Ricky said. Only on a rare occasion did a game come down to the guard. Guards weren’t supposed to leave their posts, but they always did.
“ Naw, if he did, he’d come let us go.”
“ Not Rex,” Little Bobby said, sniffling, “he’d go home and leave us here till dark.”
“ He’s right,” John said, “that son of a bitch would leave us here till dark. We’ll burn red as beets.”
“ My mom’s gonna be pissed off,” Ricky said. That was the first time Jim heard Ricky swear.
“ We gotta get outta here,” Little Bobby said, looking at his brother.
“ Okay, okay,” Jerry said, “can anybody get loose?”
“ I think I can,” Jim said.
They all turned their eyes on Jim. If anybody could slip out of the ropes, he could. He was the skinniest and most agile. They watched as he twisted and turned, grunted and groaned, but after fifteen minutes of sweating and struggling he was no closer to loosening his bonds than when he had started.
“ I can’t get loose.” He was breathing hard.
“ You’re turning red, Jimmy,” Little Bobby said. Jim had fair skin and sunburned easily. He should have kept his shirt on. Rolling around in the grass made him itch like crazy and now he was starting to feel the burn. He tried again to squeeze his hands through the rope, but still he couldn’t.
“ I’m gonna get into the shade.” He rolled across the yard to the shade offered by the garage. Once out of the sun he relaxed and caught his breath. He still itched, but at least he wouldn’t burn anymore.
“ Jimmy, maybe if you sit up by the corner of the garage, you can cut through your ropes,” Jerry said.
Jim scooted over to the corner of the stucco garage and sat up with his back next to where two walls met and he started rubbing his hands up and down in an attempt to fray the ropes.
“ Black widow,” Little Bobby screamed.
Jim stopped his rubbing, his companions were silent. “Where?” he asked, quietly.
“ By your leg.”
Jim looked down and saw it. Big, black, marble shaped and it was crawling up onto his leg.
“ Don’t move,” Jerry said, a tremor in his voice.
“ Yeah, stay real still and maybe it’ll go away,” Ricky said.
“ I’d roll over and squash it,” John said.
“ No, don’t do that, you might piss it off and it’ll bite,” Ricky said, getting used to swearing.
“ Not if it’s fucking squashed,” John swore.
Jim froze, hoping his Levi’s were too thick for it to bite through, but not sure. He felt the sweat rolling of his sunburned back as it climbed up and sat on his knee. His comrades were mute, holding their breath, eyes glued to the spider.
It sat there for several minutes, holding the boys spellbound. They were quiet, keen and aware. The only sounds, their shallow breathing and the breeze rustling through the tall tree in the corner of the yard. Jim was paralyzed.
The spider began to move back the way it had come.
“ When it gets on the grass, roll away from it,” Jerry said.
“ Yeah, get away from it,” Ricky echoed. “That’s what I’d do.”
“ Roll over and squash it. Smash it dead,” John offered.
As if hearing John, the spider stopped and climbed back up on the knee, sat for a second, like it was surveying the situation, then started a trek up Jim’s pant leg.
“ Do something!” Little Bobby squealed, his tears forgotten.
The spider stopped and sat atop Jim’s groin.
“ It’s on his dick,” John Morgan said. “Better do something quick.”
Jim’s bladder gave way.
“ He pissed himself,” John Morgan said and Jim knew, scared as he was, he would never live it down.
The hot urine welling up around the spider startled it and it scooted away from the source of the wet in a sideways movement coming to rest above Jim’s bare belly button.
“ That’s bad,” Little Bobby said.
“ Shoulda rolled over and squashed it,” John said.
Jim remained paralyzed, with his back against the garage and once again the boys turned silent, waiting with bated breath and wide eyes. The spider remained rock still, rising and falling with Jim’s quivering breath.