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Wednesday, October 28, 1998 By Samantha Bennett
The other morning, a wayward beam of sunlight, piercing my living room from its new autumnal angle, showcased an elaborate and unsuspected framework of spiderwebs.
We're not talking one brilliant gossamer filament here. We're talking the skeleton of a major skyscraper or sports arena, big dusty beams and joists, and sturdy buttresses, splaying gloriously in the morning rays, beneath my videocassette rack.
Where in the heck did this come from?
OK, Ben Stein, I know where spiderwebs come from. I read "Charlotte's Web." But here's the weird part: I never catch them at it. I don't think I've ever seen a single spider in my living room. They seem to prefer my bedroom and bathroom, where they can creep up on me in some vulnerable and partially clothed situation - when I'm without my glasses, so they appear roughly eight times their actual size.
I feel bad about killing them. If I could release them back into the wild conveniently (that is, without having to get anywhere near them), I would. I know they are good creatures, probably Unitarians, killing the really nasty bugs, spinning beautiful, peaceful webs and lurking unaccountably in my bathtub. I always kill them as humanely as possible, and I always apologize afterward to the spot on the bottom of the shoe. But my apartment isn't big enough for them and me. I've been bitten, and ultimately, they are not contributing to the rent.
I have to admire their industry, though. It seems as if every time I turn around there's another web, going up overnight like detour signs. Usually, they're just little abortive shreds, already looking abandoned, wisping up near the ceiling where I can't reach them. I know there were spiders involved, but where do they come from? When do they get the time?
And the dust! I wouldn't even see the webs if they didn't attract every mote of dust in a three-block radius. I have never been much of a housekeeper, and it's just insulting to have little invisible architects sneaking around putting up structures that immediately turn gray and hang there like filthy, accusing socks. To taunt me. Or to avenge their dead.
Sometimes it feels like the underlying theme of my life is dust. Not so much ashes, no, thanks for asking. My fireplace is purely decorative. Just the dust. You never really win against the dust, because wherever they make it they're working full shifts. I read that something like 80 percent of household dust is human skin. But I simply can't be the source of all this dust in my apartment. There's probably enough dust just on top of my fridge to reconstitute three or four of me if you added water.
I know this without looking. I have never seen the top of my fridge. Ergo, I have never dusted there. Don't get me wrong: I'm not really a slob. I do laundry, I wash dishes, I tidy, I sweep, I take out the garbage, I vacuum. Fairly often. But it's not, you know, a fetish. I dust things that look dusty. However, keep in mind that I'm 5-foot-2. There's a lot of things I can't see the top of. Out of sight, out of mind, not to mention out of reach. For the record, I'm not much on moving things to get under them either. I probably have whole dust-warrens under my couch.
Every day, or once a week anyway, I battle the dust, and I battle the hair. I mean, just look at my picture. (Truth be told, it doesn't look much like me. I'm actually a balding, middle-aged man.) There's hair in my carpets, hair in my sweaters, hair gradually choking my drains. I don't have a cat because then there would be two of us shedding. On the other hand, a cat might be of some help with the spiders, to the extent that cats can be called a help with anything.
I'm always a little bit relieved to see summer end, because summer is the high buggy season. I spend all summer trying desperately to keep moths away from my lamps and ants out of my kitchen. Fortunately, my kitchen contains very little actual food, so even the ants aren't drawn there. Autumn may mean death and darkness to some people (and hey, who invited them?), but to me it means no bees in the car, no huge winged cicada carcasses on the sidewalk, no flies trapped between the screen and the windowpane.
Autumn is also apparently home-remodeling season for Charlotte and her friends. My home. But I've always got a shoe handy. Looks like another few spiders will bite the dust.
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