Return to the Basement
After leaving that horrid room behind I sat before my computer for an hour, my fingers shook with enough energy that I was able to bend them towards the keyboard, using terrible fury to wring out a few rare words from these useless hands. I finished writing my sorted tale, read it over and saw that it was all true not a line or expression misplaced.
There was a beast below and it had hungered for me. The laundry languished, damp and expectant of a heat I could not safely promise. In my cowardice, I interrupted the natural order of things. Clothing is worn, washed and then dried. Thinking down to my ringer tee-shirts and new Halloween socks clenched and soaking, twisted around the spinner awaiting freedom and then functionality, I began to garner a certain unmistakable flint in my eyes. Yes, it smoldered dimly, but something did burn.
Today, during this very moment, I would do what was right and no longer act as an elephant facing the softest of mice. My lifelong fear would be faced alone and unaided, just willpower over instinct, the ultimate show of strength.
It was then that I received a phone call from Andrew that luckily saved me from having to be brave or heroic in any way. It seemed that some lady in his apartment complex had finally gotten her way and was getting rid of her husband's antique engine telegraph lamp. A turn of the century behemoth spanning 43 inches comprised of the densest brass. Its handle, a dagger to plunge its commands deep into the heart of the ship; it had seen real use, this was not a replica. No this instrument once rained down edicts upon the high seas.
And now it was falling into my possession, for Andrew was calling to offer such a lamp to me. Overjoyed I forgot the terror in my belly but not my purpose, as I asked when I could get such a beauty. He stated that he had a free moment or two and could drop it off at my house. In the most casual voice I asked if he wished to hunt a spider, and thankfully for me and my poor clothing he agreed.
He arrived fifteen minutes later, him with the giant lamp, which must weigh upwards of sixty pounds, me with a bicycle helmet and a spatula. He had come with a lamp, I had come ready for war. After we carried the lamp inside and situated it all nice, and it did look quite stately in my apartment; I relayed in full my tale of adventure.
He seemed a fine mixture of excited and wary. Much like noble Rostov off to battle the French, heedless of the true peril that awaited before him.
I gave him the spatula and kept for myself a slotted spoon and we were off.
Tensions were already high, when Andrew noticed that the set of locked doors before the basement made for a "perfect murder room". With heavy hearts and twitchy fingers we continued onwards.
The washer was no longer spinning, the room was quiet. The corners were checked for an ambush, though it seemed as if we were alone. Proceeding to the dryer in question, neither of us wished to open it. I gave Andrew my spoon and picked up a broom from the corner of the room. Following his suggestion I swirled off the bristled top to make a spear.
Using the long shaft as a lever, I hooked it into the lip of the door and began to push from four feet away. Archimedes once said something to the effect of being able to move the world given a fulcrum and a lever long enough. Perhaps that is true, but these are not rational shapes and weights. The door is not made solely of metal but rather is stiffed and strengthened by context and assuredly by its content. Finally heaving with all my will, the door pops open furiously.
We both jump back, our bodies twitching in equal parts terror and bloody minded violence. Peering in, Andrew is incredulous. He sees a form, but is it a spider? Yes, but is it alive? As if on cue, it moves one of its giant arms in salutation. This is real, this is true action, and the terrible game is afoot.
The plan is to roost him from his new perch, way back inside the machine. I will wield the spear and hopefully if my aim is true, will kill it in one quick blow. If not, the hope is that it will move outward where Andrew will hack at its movements with the spatula and spoon.
Placing the tip of the spear inches from his horrid body, I ready myself and I miss! He dodged the killing blow, we both jump back and the spider ducks into some hidden corner. I now plunge the spear in wildly flailing it this way and that, hoping to either kill him in the heat of the battle or force his movement to a better battleground. Finally giving up, unable to find him, the door is closed and we for the moment are crestfallen.
I take this time to place my damp clothing into the smaller less powerful machines, under Andrews guard of course. As I check the lint trap, the realization comes, that someone else will open that machine somewhere down the line. Someone not aware of the dangers inside, perhaps even a child or pregnant mother, come to do a bit on laundry. No, we could not leave such a beast alive and untended to. That would be tantamount to murder. Steeling our reserve, we began the battle once more.
Using a previously discarded idea, we pooled together a dollars worth of quarters and set the large machine on high heat. The Dryer roared to life and we prayed that we had done the right thing. The next two minutes felt as the dawn before battle must always feel. We stood waiting and restless knowing the calm we felt now would soon be replaced by the sounds of war.
Andrew took command of the spear this time, first he screwed the bristle back on, then he opened the door. Like a shot, out came the angriest beast imaginable, his eight legs beat a fierce rhythm upon the shallow metal door. Wasting no time, Andrew swung his weapon downward, flinging the spider to the concrete below. The foul creature began a steady approach towards our feet, but was cut low by several strong whacks from Andrew’s spear.
I yelled, Kill him! Make sure he is dead!" and was not satisfied until limbs came free from limbs.
His body now broken beyond repair, he laid Crumpled brown and green. I found his new form much more pleasing to the eye, for it was bashed and no longer resembling himself. With the laundry in the dryer, and the dragon vanquished, I walked my St. George back out of this place and into the light of the staircase. We talked for a moment about his dinner plans for that evening, real light stuff against the darkness below. He left and an hour later, the spider’s body hasn’t moved, and my laundry was dry.
There was a beast below and it had hungered for me. The laundry languished, damp and expectant of a heat I could not safely promise. In my cowardice, I interrupted the natural order of things. Clothing is worn, washed and then dried. Thinking down to my ringer tee-shirts and new Halloween socks clenched and soaking, twisted around the spinner awaiting freedom and then functionality, I began to garner a certain unmistakable flint in my eyes. Yes, it smoldered dimly, but something did burn.
Today, during this very moment, I would do what was right and no longer act as an elephant facing the softest of mice. My lifelong fear would be faced alone and unaided, just willpower over instinct, the ultimate show of strength.
It was then that I received a phone call from Andrew that luckily saved me from having to be brave or heroic in any way. It seemed that some lady in his apartment complex had finally gotten her way and was getting rid of her husband's antique engine telegraph lamp. A turn of the century behemoth spanning 43 inches comprised of the densest brass. Its handle, a dagger to plunge its commands deep into the heart of the ship; it had seen real use, this was not a replica. No this instrument once rained down edicts upon the high seas.
And now it was falling into my possession, for Andrew was calling to offer such a lamp to me. Overjoyed I forgot the terror in my belly but not my purpose, as I asked when I could get such a beauty. He stated that he had a free moment or two and could drop it off at my house. In the most casual voice I asked if he wished to hunt a spider, and thankfully for me and my poor clothing he agreed.
He arrived fifteen minutes later, him with the giant lamp, which must weigh upwards of sixty pounds, me with a bicycle helmet and a spatula. He had come with a lamp, I had come ready for war. After we carried the lamp inside and situated it all nice, and it did look quite stately in my apartment; I relayed in full my tale of adventure.
He seemed a fine mixture of excited and wary. Much like noble Rostov off to battle the French, heedless of the true peril that awaited before him.
I gave him the spatula and kept for myself a slotted spoon and we were off.
Tensions were already high, when Andrew noticed that the set of locked doors before the basement made for a "perfect murder room". With heavy hearts and twitchy fingers we continued onwards.
The washer was no longer spinning, the room was quiet. The corners were checked for an ambush, though it seemed as if we were alone. Proceeding to the dryer in question, neither of us wished to open it. I gave Andrew my spoon and picked up a broom from the corner of the room. Following his suggestion I swirled off the bristled top to make a spear.
Using the long shaft as a lever, I hooked it into the lip of the door and began to push from four feet away. Archimedes once said something to the effect of being able to move the world given a fulcrum and a lever long enough. Perhaps that is true, but these are not rational shapes and weights. The door is not made solely of metal but rather is stiffed and strengthened by context and assuredly by its content. Finally heaving with all my will, the door pops open furiously.
We both jump back, our bodies twitching in equal parts terror and bloody minded violence. Peering in, Andrew is incredulous. He sees a form, but is it a spider? Yes, but is it alive? As if on cue, it moves one of its giant arms in salutation. This is real, this is true action, and the terrible game is afoot.
The plan is to roost him from his new perch, way back inside the machine. I will wield the spear and hopefully if my aim is true, will kill it in one quick blow. If not, the hope is that it will move outward where Andrew will hack at its movements with the spatula and spoon.
Placing the tip of the spear inches from his horrid body, I ready myself and I miss! He dodged the killing blow, we both jump back and the spider ducks into some hidden corner. I now plunge the spear in wildly flailing it this way and that, hoping to either kill him in the heat of the battle or force his movement to a better battleground. Finally giving up, unable to find him, the door is closed and we for the moment are crestfallen.
I take this time to place my damp clothing into the smaller less powerful machines, under Andrews guard of course. As I check the lint trap, the realization comes, that someone else will open that machine somewhere down the line. Someone not aware of the dangers inside, perhaps even a child or pregnant mother, come to do a bit on laundry. No, we could not leave such a beast alive and untended to. That would be tantamount to murder. Steeling our reserve, we began the battle once more.
Using a previously discarded idea, we pooled together a dollars worth of quarters and set the large machine on high heat. The Dryer roared to life and we prayed that we had done the right thing. The next two minutes felt as the dawn before battle must always feel. We stood waiting and restless knowing the calm we felt now would soon be replaced by the sounds of war.
Andrew took command of the spear this time, first he screwed the bristle back on, then he opened the door. Like a shot, out came the angriest beast imaginable, his eight legs beat a fierce rhythm upon the shallow metal door. Wasting no time, Andrew swung his weapon downward, flinging the spider to the concrete below. The foul creature began a steady approach towards our feet, but was cut low by several strong whacks from Andrew’s spear.
I yelled, Kill him! Make sure he is dead!" and was not satisfied until limbs came free from limbs.
His body now broken beyond repair, he laid Crumpled brown and green. I found his new form much more pleasing to the eye, for it was bashed and no longer resembling himself. With the laundry in the dryer, and the dragon vanquished, I walked my St. George back out of this place and into the light of the staircase. We talked for a moment about his dinner plans for that evening, real light stuff against the darkness below. He left and an hour later, the spider’s body hasn’t moved, and my laundry was dry.