Spiderkid by Claude Lalumiere

SPIDERKID
    All the spiders in my apartment are araneomorphs, the most common type of spider. The second most common suborder consists of mygalomorphs — hairy, often large species, such as tarantulas. Mesothelae, the oldest suborder of spiders still extant, are quite rare; of the estimated hundred thousand or so species of spiders, fewer than one hundred belong to this primitive family, and they’re found almost exclusively in Asia. I’ve only ever seen pictures. The natural history museum has some specimens on display, but I disapprove of taxidermy. I can’t stomach the thought of walking through room after room of victims sacrificed in the “holy” name of science.
    The body of the female of the common house spider,
Achaearanea tepidariorum
, measures less than a centimetre, and males are even smaller. Female spiders are generally larger than their male counterparts. The common house spider enjoys humid and dark environments, such as my basement apartment.
    There are two small windows in the apartment, one in the bedroom and one in the kitchen. The only other room is the tiny, mouldy bathroom with cracked tiles and no ventilation. The two windows are just low enough that I can, if I stand on tiptoe, slide them open and closed. I like to keep them open, except when the landlord’s four-year-old twins are outside playing. They like to lie down on the ground and peer at me, giggling. They’re not mean, but I intrigue them. So they laugh.
    The whole house is surrounded by flowerbeds, bushes, vines, and trees. The landlord and his wife love to garden. The compost and vegetation attract myriad insects, many of whom find their way inside. Their persistent invasions irritate me, but the spiders feed on them. Webs hang from the furniture, from the corners where walls meet ceilings. I do my best to keep these intact, to make my home comfortable for the spiders.
    My father held my hand as we walked through the train station. At the age of six, I had never seen such a high ceiling. I couldn’t keep my eyes off it and its intricate web of exposed, carved rafters. Gently, Dad kept reminding me to look where I was walking.
    He stopped at the newsstand to get a paper. He led me to the comics rack and asked me to choose something to read on the train. It would be hours to the coast, where we were going to join Mom. As I took my eyes off the ceiling, a bright red cover caught my eye. It was a giant comic book, the size of a tabloid newspaper, but with a spine and the cover the kind of thick stock used on paperbacks. There was a yellow band at the top with the words SHRUGGING ATLAS TREASURY SPECIAL in black letters. Below that, a blue logo in stylized, creepy letters announced the title: SPIDERKID ADVENTURES. In the middle of the cover a character who could only have been Spiderkid himself was crouched, ready to leap into action. A dark blue skintight costume covered his whole body. The suit was veined with a yellow web design. He wore big goggles to cover his eyes. A black belt with pouches and an empty holster hung around his waist. A string of webbing shot from the gun he held in his hand.
    â€œI want that one!” I said, and my dad bought it for me.
    I take a break from my term paper. My head hurts, my back aches, and my eyes are sore from staring at the screen all day.
    Until grade nine, I’d always believed that I’d become a biologist, to eventually specialize in arachnology. Images of spiders chaotically wallpapered my room. Books on spiders filled my bookshelf.
Spiderkid Adventures
dominated my comics collection.
    But then one day I was expected to dissect a frog in class, and I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t even watch my lab partner do it. I ran out of class screaming in terror, and I never lived it down. The incident ensured that high school would be a particularly relentless hell for me — bullies forcing raw meat down my throat during lunch break, that kind of thing.