Stef and I have the oddest conversations sometimes. For example, this afternoon she had her Nikon out with the giant, bazooka-shaped lens and was photographing a black spider on the post by the gate. He had funky-looking, sorta turquoise-neon eyeballs and fangs to match. Every so often, he’d rise up and bare his fangs at the lens, like that would frighten it away.
“Whoa,” she said, “I think I’m just really making him mad.”
“Is he the kind of spider who flings himself at you and bites?” I asked. I know very little about spiders except to give them their space.
“I’m not sure,” she said, “but, if he flings himself at me, I’m going to scream like a girl.”
I thought for a second. “You realize I won’t be saving you from this, if he attacks,” I said.
“Yes,” she said.
“If he attacks, you’re completely on your own,” I reminded her.
She let out a little sigh of exasperation. “I know,” she said.
I continued, “Because you might scream like a girl, but if that spider attacks, I will crash through the fence and race down the street, squealing like Tarzan’s girlfriend, just know that.”I saw her eyes start to glaze over, but that didn’t slow me down. “Now, if your spider bite gets infected, I will put ointment on it for you, and if your body goes septic because of a nasty spider bite, I’ll drive you to the hospital but, just remember, fighting off the spider is totally up to you and, if I were you, I’d quit doing whatever it is I was doing to piss him off. But, that’s just me.”
She lowered the camera for a moment and stared at me. “Jody,” she said.
“Hmmm?” I replied.
She pointed toward the door. “Go inside,” she said.
And, so, I did. JS