What's Under There?

Rebellious rays of sunshine had weaseled their way in through the gap in my curtains about three hours ago. What had begun as a splattering of light and dark pattern on my cream carpet had turned into a thick stream of sun that had gradually illuminated my bedroom. Even without the bright light I could tell it was late: my plastic black alarm clock periodically clicked over to a new number, but right now it was on 8:56. 1

And I was still in bed. 2

That in itself is somewhat unusual for me, because I'm not the sort who lazes around in bed for half the day, but what was more unusual was that I wasn't still lightly snoring after a late nights work or a particularly wild night out (my two usual excuses). You can also cross off drunk, stoned, drugged and dead, as I wasn't any of those either. In light of this information you might justifiably think I have absolutely no explanation at all. You're wrong. I was still in bed because there was something in the dark murky depths underneath my mattress, hidden by the doona that was hanging down to the floor, that was making me reconsider the typical routine of kicking off the blankets, rolling my legs to the ground while still semi-conscious and stumbling to the coffee pot before getting on with my day. 3

Spiders. 4

Not tiny black dots that could hardly be considered multi-cellular organisms, but dinner-plate sized arachnids with twice the normal number of eyes and at least that many legs. I caught sight of a Grandaddy one when it darted out from under the bed to attempt eating Cujo – my German shepherd who'd stupidly stuck his nose in the door – and he was enough to make even the most avid lover of Charleotte's Webb convert to arachnophobia. The size of a large Chihuahua, his entire body was covered in a thick black fuzz I assumed was hair. Of course, it could just be the left over whiskers from it's poor unassuming feline and canine victims; I couldn't be sure. 5

But Grandaddy, as I'd come to think of him, wasn't the only monster hiding in the dark cave of broken bed springs and blankets: there was a whole family down there waiting for me to make the major mistake of letting my flesh touch the carpet so they could scuttle up my pyjama leg and pepper my body with swelling red bites. Grandparents, parents, aunt, cousin and 2.5 kids: all were present and accounted for. I was waiting to catch sight of the white picket fence I assumed would have to be  woven somewhere down there. 6

Glancing back up at the green LED numbers of my alarm clock I realised with a sigh another half an hour had passed. This had to stop. I was a grown man, for goodness sakes! I couldn't lay in bad for half the day, with my head hidden under the doona, because of a couple of spiders! Even though said spiders were huge, black, hairy and fatal...7

I sat up, bed springs creaking as I shifted my weight. At the movement I could almost sense the spiders scuttling around underneath me. After a moment, I let a slight grin creep onto my face: I had a plan. 8

Swiftly peeling off one of my socks I placed it onto the bed next to me and twisted around to grab the other supplies off the chest of draws conveniently within arms reach. In mere moments I'd gathered everything I needed and was eyeing off the polished timber floor a few meters from the bed like a captain at sea studies his enemy. 9

I took the sock and with a gentle throw sent it flying through the air. Gravity brought it down in the center of the room. Almost as soon as it touched the ground it became a moving black mass of eyes and legs (appendages of which these spiders seemed to have many to spare). I moved onto the next step of my plan almost as quickly. 10

Three years ago my nephew, a short, snotty-nosed kid who was then six, gave me the most useless Christmas present in the history of presents. Those socks your grandparents gave you for your birthday? The plastic dummy a particularly challenged uncle presented you for your 21st? Brilliant, useful presents when compared to this thing. It was one of those long sticks with a trigger at one end and pinchers at the other – you know, the sort that fills carnival and theme park gift shops all over the Western world. Well, these spiders had introduced me to a genuinely new experience: being grateful to brainless Bobby for one of his previously useless presents. Using the pinchers I reached over the edge of my bed, bridging the dangerous timber spider-infected floor, and opened my closet (a built-in with about enough space to hide a small Chihuahua). 11

By this time the smartest of the spiders were beginning to eye me dirtily, probably angry I'd tricked them into chasing a sock, rather than the foot that was supposed to be in it. I gulped. Angry dinner plate-sized exterminator-eaters were not the sort of things I could deal with before breakfast. 12

I flicked my eyes back to the closet: focus! The other item lying on the sheets quickly found its way into my hand: a yellow torch. Flicking the switch, I focused the light on the moving mass of arachnids. After a moment I moved it a meter towards the open closet. Attracted by the movement, the man-eaters followed its path. 13

A cheeky grin lit up my face as I slowly flicked the light backwards and forth, mainly because the spiders were running backwards and forwards at a mile a minute, trying to catch it. What was actually funny was that they couldn't. After a little more fun, I turned the light onto the space just beyond the closet door and flexed my muscles. Ten years of PlayStation and Xbox co-ordination was about to be put to the test. 14

The twelve hairy spiders flew across the floor, on a collision course with the back of the closet (and with a vague thought I hoped they hit pretty darn hard). One by one they crossed the threshold, into the darker space, with Grandaddy coming up last. A little prematurely I pulled on the grippy-stick, sliding closed the closet that now had eleven spiders and eleven twelfths of the last one secured safely away from me. Yes, the last three centimeters of Grandaddy's back leg was sticking out of the join (between the door and wall) sporadically spasming. 15

A sardonic smile lit up my face. And those spiders thought they could get the better of me! I was almost tempted to tickle the part of Grandaddy's leg on my side of the wall, but resisting the urge I slipped out of the bed and began planning the rest of my day. The first port of call in diary-organising was deciding what pathetic excuse I could use on my boss. A death in the family was out: I'd used that one so many times he thought I was an orphan with no siblings, grandparents, uncles, aunts, cousins or 5th cousins twice removed.16

Skipping past that particular conundrum, I moved onto the afternoon. One thing was for sure: a call to the exterminator was in order. Those spiders needed a good dose of some strong, dangerous, carcinogenic chemical as soon as possible. Backing my car out of the driveway I flicked the radio (the first mass produced model) on and let my thoughts wander back to what I decided was a particularly strange and trying morning. The spiders had been huge! They must have been being injected with hormones a hundred times a day, or something. As the answer came to me, three blocks out from work and a mere four hours late, I shook my head. What were they putting in the water these days?