Man vs. Spider

The other day my wife and I were returning from a walk with our dog when we saw a large spider lounging rather luxuriously, its web fully developed, next to our entryway, just before the front porch. It was the type of spider my wife called yucky and icky and gross, and the type of spider I called, well, yucky and icky and gross. It was also familiar looking. Too familiar looking. Danny Trejo?

Of course it wasn’t Danny Trejo; he just plays a killer. But the spider was familiar for a reason. It was the same spider that had occupied the corner of our garage a few days before. There was no mistaking that. In addition to being large and ugly, its legs had the same distinct half brown, half black color pattern, the spider version of a black and tan beer. There was also the scar on its abdomen, presumably the result of a gun fight gone awry, and how many spiders can say they’ve been shot by a 9 mm?

On that occasion, I had been tasked by my wife to take care of it. I’m not sure she said those exact words, but that was the implication. “By whatever means necessary,” she probably added, before handing me a hatchet and a blow torch. But when push came to shove, I couldn’t bring myself to kill it.

I had my chances. There was a moment when, after knocking it off its web, it was crawling slowly and indecisively on our driveway. I stared at it, my foot hovering inches above its body, but ultimately I couldn’t pull the trigger. The sheer size of it put me off. I wasn’t willing to shed that much blood. So I swept it forcefully away with a broom, hoping it’d take up residence somewhere else.

Apparently, though, the spider had a certain fondness for our house. It left me both irritated and flattered at the same time. After all, I had been working hard on the yard lately, and we had just washed the mold off the exterior, something the previous owners had seemingly never gotten around to, so yeah, I appreciated someone noticing. Still, it was a large spider, impeding guests from comfortably entering our home. As the man of the house, I simply couldn’t let it stand. But perhaps more than that, my wife had once again tasked me with taking care of it. “Just in case,” she probably said, before handing me a machete.

This time I set out with a plan. After the debacle of last week, I knew I wasn’t going to kill it — it was clear I didn’t have the stomach for that. Instead, I would relocate it to the eye sore that is the water drainage area next to our house. There’s a lot of long grass and general foliage, maybe the spider would like it there. Maybe it could make friends. Maybe it could even meet somebody, settle down, and have a family. With that thought in mind, I grabbed a cup and a plate from the cupboard and walked outside, looking for all the world like a man walking knowingly to his death.

The spider was positioned idly in the middle of its web. Looking at it then, I was struck by the complexity of the web and the size of the spider. It probably wasn’t as big as a tarantula — its body was maybe a little bigger than the diameter of a quarter — but somehow that was more unsettling than it would have been if it happened to be the size of my fist.

Standing there, lacking aplomb, I sized it up, looking for the best way to go about its capture. I tried the plate on one side of the web and the cup on the other, but wasn’t convinced. I backed away, repositioned myself, and tried again, the cup and plate having switched sides. The angle felt better. I slowly moved in, the cup and the plate creeping ever closer to the spider.

The spider moved. Not a lot, but enough to suggest it was at least a little aware of what was happening around it. Perhaps its many eyes tipped it off. This unsettled me, and I pulled the cup and the plate away and looked over my shoulder, through our front window, to see my wife and dog watching intently. I made a face that suggested I was feeling a certain level of ickiness.

Knowing there was now an audience, I composed myself and tried to look confident. Burly. Sexy, even. This was a chance to impress my wife and generally bring honor to my family’s name. I didn’t want to squander the opportunity. Again.

I returned the cup and plate to their original, athletic positions and moved them in on the spider like a glacier moving purposely towards a rubber duck. Then, just as I was preparing to make the decisive move, I heard somebody from across the street say, “Whatcha doing, bud?”

It was our neighbor, David. David is probably in his early fifties. Along with his wife, he occupies the house diagonally opposite from us. If pressed to describe David, I would call him a man’s man. He owns a truck, has a garage full of tools, all of which he seemingly knows how to use, and likes to build things in said garage. I also suspect that he killed a wild boar with his bare hands last October, but have not been able to confirm that just yet.

With him on one side of the street and I on the other, I told him about the spider. About its great size and my intention not to kill it, but to relocate it somewhere, probably the water drainage area next to our house. I laughed off any apparent hesitation as me just being thorough and silly. The web was big, and I, being the thorough and silly person that I was, just wanted to make sure I got the approach right. All the while I did my best to assure him that I had everything under control, because I too was what people, if pressed, would describe as a man’s man.

Before I could finish talking, however, he began walking over. Oh, god, this is happening, I thought.

We met in the middle of our yard and began walking toward the spider, David not breaking stride. Along the way, I told him the rest of the story. About how the same spider had taken up residence in the corner of our garage no more than a week ago, but how I had heroically dealt with it then, as I would this time.

I’m not sure what I thought would happen next. Perhaps he would offer some sage advice, or maybe a few tips and tricks that he had found helpful in the past. But instead, without so much as a word on the matter, he grabbed the cup and plate out of my hands and trapped the spider himself, not a hint of hesitation or indecision. He then walked the spider over to the water drainage area, me by his side, not unlike a lost child, and tossed it into the long grass and wild foliage before plainly handing the cup and plate back to me.

Now, I’m not a guy who’s particularly prideful about his manliness. I know I’m not a guy who just knows how to fix a leaky sink or has a subscription to Truck and Boots Digest. I know I’m a guy that, if given a choice between socializing with a group of women or men at a party, will often gravitate towards the former. That’s just who I am. That said, the whole taking the cup and plate out of my hands felt as though, on some level, David thought I was a pussy. And I’d be lying if I said that didn’t sting a bit.

As he handed me the cup and plate, I laughed a little at the absurdity of it — how easy he made it look and how silly I had been for making such a fuss about it — thanking him for his generosity, trying to hide how flushed I felt on the inside. We then exchanged a few final words and went our separate ways, he across the street and I up the subtle hill of our front yard and back into the house.

Once inside, I turned to my left, knowing my wife would be there on the couch. For a moment we didn’t say anything. Just looked at each other, eyes and mouths agape, embarrassment and amusement heavy in the air. And then, after a moment, we laughed.

Not long later, she told me how she got the whole thing on video, and we laughed some more.