The Authentic Eclectic

The Spider

A Thought Experiment

There are three kinds of people: those trying to make sense of an unfathomable universe, those trying to control it, and those trying to ignore the universe altogether. Greg Minispsterston Krystinski Oswald Crane was an excellent example of this third kind of person.

He could be found on various couches drinking beverages supplied by a relative, or a friend, or a girlfriend, ex-girlfriend, coworker, ex-coworker or his brother Mac when his brother Mac was in town.

Greg Minispsterston Krystinski Oswald Crane awoke one day and looked around. He did not remember where he was or how he had gotten there. This was not unusual; Greg often awoke on strange couches. Today he was slumped on a green couch in a dimly lit room. Beneath his feet was a bare concrete floor and in his hand was an empty can of PBR. Greg lifted the beer to his lips and tipped his head back to be sure he’d got every drop. There was a drop, and he swallowed it. He looked around the room again. He determined for the second time he didn’t know where he was.

Greg tried hard to remember what he had done the night before. Had he been with Julia, his ex-girlfriend who was short and angry, or Marva, his current girlfriend, who was shorter and angrier? But Julia’s couch was orange and Marva did not have a couch, just a purple love seat. He let his head fall back while he contemplated both these truths. He thought for a long time.

The couch he was sitting on was green. He was quite sure of that.

“This couch is green,” he said to no one. He felt easier in his mind about it. Once a thing had been stated out loud it was easier to come to terms with. He belched. Loudly.

He leaned his head back, feeling tired. He really wanted a beer.

“Green couch. . . ”

He sat there for a while; Greg was not a fan of moving. He had a vague feeling, at some point someone would enter the room and he would recognize this person. Then surely he would know who’s couch he was on and where he was.

No one came in.

He zoned out, thinking about beers he would like to be drinking. PBR was good when he was broke. But if he had a choice, he would choose a good Belgian ale. He had gone to a bar once where they had served Belgian beer and upon drinking a pint or two, he had agreed with the rest of the world; Belgian beer was the best. It had been a great day for him. The day of the Belgian beer. He had enjoyed the burger he’d eaten there as well. It had had bacon and Gruyere on it.

He belched again.

Greg was staring at the ceiling as he mused. Suddenly he noticed something moving on the ceiling — moving quickly. Too quickly for comfort. This thing was small and flat and horrid. It stopped suddenly, directly above Greg Minispsterston Krystinski Oswald Crane’s head, and was still for a moment.

Then — it dropped from the ceiling straight at Greg’s bloated face and horrified upturned eyes. The thing was a spider.

Greg did not move as the spider fell toward him; he couldn’t have moved if he’d wanted to. He was too frightened of the spider.

The spider fell deliberately, its legs curled under it, growing larger and larger as it descended toward him on its gossamer thread.

The spider stopped as suddenly as it had started — three inches from Greg’s nose. And then, as if the proximity wasn’t bad enough, the spider looked at him.

“Move,” said the spider.

Greg, not being in his best mind, opened his mouth and said the only thing he could think to say at this extraordinary moment. “Green couch,” Greg said.

“Yes,” said the spider in a conversational tone. “How observant.”

“Bluh,” said Greg.

“You are not a fan of moving, are you?” the spider said, and it dropped an inch closer to his face. “You are a sadsack. Or, as is the more common term, a ‘useless sadsack.’”

“Jesus. . .” mumbled Greg.

“Is that all you can say?’ the spider said calmly, and curled its legs under a little more. It descended another inch on its thread. Greg jumped.

“You’re afraid of me? Really?” said the spider. “You could swat me like a spider. Oh wait, I am a spider.” It chuckled.

“What do you want?” Greg whimpered. “Please go away.”

“I want,” said the spider, “to tell you this. There are three kinds of people in the world — those trying to understand the universe, those trying to control it, and those ignoring it. But only one kind of spider. Metaphorically speaking, anyway. We are all different species with various habits. But we all have one function and one choice — to eat, then reproduce, then die. Eat, fuck and die. And all this in the space of a few dozen snoozes for you. So, when we see a creature, blessed with choice and consciousness, with the unearned ability to affect and be affected — when this person chooses to remain a sorry lump of shit, a sadsack who lives and breathes and consumes and dies, like an insect or an arachnid, who by their very nature cannot contemplate the wonder of this unfathomable universe — it is an insult to all creatures. You, sir, are an insult to me.”

“I didn’t ask to be born a human,” Greg protested. He was beginning to think the spider had a bad attitude.

“That’s your excuse?” said the spider. “You didn’t ask for the responsibility, so why should you honor it? I didn’t ask to be born a spider, but here I am, spinning and eating, and soon I’ll reproduce and be eaten by my offspring. I will fulfill my function. Like every arachnid before me, and like every eight-legged freak who will follow. We honor our function, we honor life. We always will. This is why we are still here. That is why you fear us — we’ll keep moving and living long after you are gone. And our one hundred thousand lives will be more noble than your useless existence. You who just sit on your ass not moving, not doing, not creating, not destroying, not affecting, not honoring the great gift you’ve been given. You’re not even moving backwards, you’re not moving at all. You have the power to question existence itself. We must simply exist. Stop being lame. Move. Fuckwit.”

“You’re the fuckwit,” Greg said. “Stupid spider . . . anyway, I’m not afraid of you. I’m bigger than you and I’m more important. You’re just a spider. You don’t even have wifi.”

The spider sighed. “I knew I shouldn’t bother,” it said. “It’s like talking to a human. Oh wait, you are a human.”

The spider curled its legs under suddenly, so quickly that Greg yelped again. It ascended on its thread, up, up, up, swift and smooth and quick, until it reached the ceiling. Greg jumped but did not change positions on the green couch. He could not take his eyes off the spider.

It waited above him for a moment, and then, with spiderific force, it dropped towards him again. This time moving at the speed of arachnid, which was, to Greg, the most horrific speed of any speed that had ever sped. He screamed and put his hands over his face and curled up his legs to protect himself from it. It filled him with horror.

As it descended, he cried out the most truthful words he had ever spoken: “I’m sorry!” he screamed. And he meant it.

There was a commotion then and someone thundered into the room. Greg Minispsterston Krystinski Oswald Crane peeked between his fingers and saw a large man near the couch taking off his shoe. It was his brother Mac. Mac pulled off his big brown shoe and lobbed it with great force at the spider, who had by now almost reached Greg’s face. Greg yelped again and fell sideways on the couch to avoid both the spider and the flying shoe. The makeshift missile hit the wall behind the couch and fell onto Greg’s hip and then the floor. As for the spider, it instantly, and with the grace and speed only an arachnid possesses, zipped up its thread and out of harm’s way.

“You missed me fuckwit!” was the last thing Greg Minispsterston Krystinski Oswald Crane heard before the spider disappeared into a hole in the corner of the plaster.

Greg sat up on the green couch and looked around. He knew then where he was. He was in his parent’s basement, where his brother Mac stayed when his brother Mac was in town. The green couch where he and Mac sat while watching their first TV shows, while playing their first videos games, while drinking the first of many beers. And they had sat on and sat on and sat on this couch, not moving, through more cycles of the sun and moon than a single spider could count. But perhaps many generations of spiders had noticed. Greg thought about the generations of spiders watching him sit as they moved so quickly through their short lives, heading towards the inevitable conclusion, consuming, being consumed. So quickly being born and living and dying, while watching him sit. He shivered.

“Damn,” said his brother Mac. “I missed the little fucker. Useless pest.”

Greg said nothing.

“You look spooked, dude,” Mac said. “Don’t tell me you think it’s bad luck to kill a spider.”

“You didn’t kill it,” Greg answered. He was glad. He would have felt a new kind of horror if the spider had become a smear on the wall.

“Want a beer?” said his brother Mac.

“. . . No,” Greg said, and he got up. He didn’t know exactly where he was going, but he had to get off the couch and move.

“Yeah, right,” Mac said. Mac went to the corner, where there was a small refrigerator well-stocked with PBR. He pulled two cans and turned around to offer one to Greg. But Greg was gone.

Mac shrugged and opened his can of beer; he sat down on the couch and turned on the computer monitor. There were zombies to kill.