Sweeping Up Spiders

Arachnophobia is defined as “fear of spiders” or perhaps for those of you who remember, like I do, the title of two rather terrible films.

I’ll admit that I fall into the category of thousands who dislike, despise, hate creepy crawlies of the eight-legged variety. I scream, writhe, and all around squirm away from even the smallest of spiders.

Granted, I know they have a purpose, but I have never been one of those environmentalist types who delicately shoos spiders into a cup or onto the edge of a sheet of scrap paper before gently returning them to the great outdoors. NO.

I’m the person who stomps ferociously or goes running for the hair spray, or Windex, or oven cleaner, or some other equally toxic spray in the hopes that other spiders will witness my brutality and learn to stay the hell away.

But this morning the husband and I decided to do a little sprucing up around the yard, and I found myself, broom in hand, sweeping out our garage.

I quickly fell into the rhythm of sweeping and let my mind wander to more pleasant things. Like the unopened bottle of tequila in my kitchen. Or the hundred dollar birthday check I have yet to cash. But mostly the tequila.

Then I reached the most rear corner of my garage and realized that what I was sweeping was not rather large clumps of dust. What I foolishly assumed were dust clumps were rather large. dead. spiders.

Approximately .7 seconds later I was sans broom and cowering on the opposite side of the garage. And as I stood there, petrified from the sight of deceased spiders, I flashed back to a day that I had almost forgotten; a day that I most certainly pushed to the far recesses of memory in the hopes that it could be erased forever.

I’m ten years old and to make a little extra money, my Grandmother has been taking house cleaning jobs. Every now and again, she would offer me a child’s fortune of ten dollars to help her on these jobs. I’m sure my mother thought I was building my character, but I really just wanted that money. Listen, Skip Its and Polly Pocket dolls were not cheap, and I was a girl on a mission.

So when my Grandmother offered me FIFTY dollars for my help, I was chomping at the bit.

“I don’t know, Kristi,” she said, “It’s a really big job.”

“I can do it. I promise. Can I get the money now?”

That following weekend, we packed up into her bright orange 1974 VW Beetle (I’ll never forgive her for selling that car before my 16th birthday) and headed off.

As we drove towards our destination she began to explain the details of the job. She sounded nervous, and my stomach started knotting.

“Sweetie, there’s a reason this job is paying so much money, and I’m going to need you to stay calm, okay?”

My imagination started conjuring up images of crime scenes with blood and body parts strewn about. A shadowy figure with glowing eyes handed me a rag and told me to start scrubbing or I would be next.

“This guy’s house had an infestation, and it was just fumigated. He hired me to clean up.”

“An infestation of what?”

My grandmother glanced at me, “Camel crickets.”

My skin immediately began crawling, “Nuh-uh. No way. I’m not doing it. Take me back.”

“Do you want fifty bucks, or don’t you?”

Shoot. The woman knew how to appeal to the money lover in me.

Camel crickets are also known as camel spiders, spider crickets, spickets, or stone crickets. They are a demonic combination of spider and cricket with large bodies, even larger legs, and the capacity to jump. Actually, they will jump TOWARDS any person, animal, or thing they perceive to be a threat. They do not bite, but when a large, spider-like creature is jumping towards you, who cares?

They live outdoors in cool, damp, and dark areas, but have been known to inhabit basements that are conducive to their living conditions. Apparently, this man’s basement and home were exactly the kind of habitat they sought. If you have an older home with a dark, damp basement or laundry area, you have seen one and probably run from it in fear. I won’t subject you to a picture. If you’re curious, look it up, but I would suggest being in a location in which you can quickly get away from your computer.

The house looked completely normal from the outside. It was a two story, white split-level with immaculately kept flower beds. Seeing such a lovely façade, the panic growing in my gut began to subside. Surely, it couldn’t be that bad on the inside. My own basement sometimes had stone crickets, and my brother always bravely chased them away for me. I was TEN for goodness sakes! I had to grow up sometime, and it might as well be now. “I can do this!” I thought.

I was wrong. When my grandmother and I walked into the home, it looked like a camel cricket war zone, and they had been slaughtered. I don’t care what the encyclopedia says about camel crickets infrequently finding their way into basements. They were EVERYWHERE.

Heaped in enormous piles throughout the home were, what seemed in my mind anyway, millions of dead spiders with their long legs arched into painful configurations of rigor mortis.

I couldn’t help it. I screamed.

My grandmother’s face was grim as she plugged the 10 gallon shop vac into the wall. “May as well get started.”

You know those sound makers—I’m thinking of those gallon jugs filled with small rocks or beans or beads—that obnoxious mothers bring to football games? That’s exactly the sound that hundreds of dead spiders make as they are being sucked into a tube.

We spent the next three or four hours poking the vacuum attachment into the stacks of dead crickets and waiting as they rushed into the container, which had to be emptied into a large outdoor garbage can at least five times.

And I don’t know what kind of exterminator the homeowner hired, but I hope he sued. Because some of those camel crickets were still alive, jumping, and VERY PISSED OFF. More than once I screeched like a banshee as I raced away from what I swore was a zombie spider that was bound and determined to eat my brains.

But the job continued and as container after container of spiders filled, I started dreaming about what to do with my money. Should I save it for the Gameboy I so desperately wanted, or should I spend it immediately on other smaller items? I was lost in this reverie, when a rogue camel cricket stirred from the depths of his departed brethren and leaped IN MY HAIR. Have I mentioned that when I was ten my hair reached past my backside? I was Rapunzel with a spider in her hair.

As I spun across the room in a panicked frenzy, I ripped at my hair in the vain hope that the spider would somehow shake loose. It eventually did and hopped away into the depths of the house, but I was left shaking with a fistful of my own hair and a sore spot on the back of my head. I hadn’t exactly snatched myself bald, but it was pretty close.

After a few more close encounters, all of the spiders had been removed from the home, and my grandmother and I called it a day. In the shower that night, I scrubbed at my skin until it was bright pink (I’m fairly certain I took off the first layer), and that next weekend, my grandmother proudly presented me with my fifty dollars.

I can’t remember how I spent that money. But in looking back, I like to think that even though I pushed the memory away, I learned a valuable lesson. There are some things in life that aren’t worth doing no matter how much money is involved. Particularly if what’s involved are spiders be they camel, stone, or spicket.