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The negotiations were exhausting, but I have finally renewed the lease.
The daddy-long-legs can stay in my downstairs bathroom another year.
Yes, all 30 of them.
I can live with it because I only see one or two of them at a time, sometimes three or four — okay, maybe five or six. Ten, tops.
“Look, we’re the good guys,” the top spider sneered. “Each one of us takes out thousands of insects a year.”
I was outraged. “I don’t have thousands of insects in my house!”
“And guess why not!” the spider barked. “Midges, mosquitos, flies, moths, gnats, woodlice, roaches — we’re pest control, working the night shift for free. What an ingrate!”
I appreciate the bug-catching, of course, but I don’t prefer those wispy cobwebs in the corners.
“You need to get the big picture, buddy,” the spider replied. “The daddy-long-legs web is practically invisible. In fact, there’s a lot more there than you can even see. We build ’em loose on purpose. Tangles, man. Snags ’em every time. Those elaborate geometric works of art the outdoor spiders weave? — ridiculous. A fly spies that monstrosity a mile away and dodges it — unless he’s impaired. Which happens, you know — flies are such degenerates. They get crazy. Especially after a dog-poop feast.”
But the simple bottom line is, I don’t really want you here, because you’re spiders and this is my home.
“Define ‘my,’” the spider chuckled. “My family has been here since it was an outhouse. You people come along, put in a toilet, hire a realtor and think you’re gods. This house is 209 years old. That’s 70 generations of daddy-long-legs. We’re not Nomads. We stayed put. Warm and humid is best. We don’t retain much body heat and our spindly legs dry out easily. Your little bathroom here is perfect for us. Leave us alone.”
It’s creepy, though, walking in and finding you here.
“Creepy is a matter of taste,” the spider sniffed. “Look at my wife there. She’s beautiful. As beautiful as the day I first found her at the end of her pheromone trail. Since then, every summer like clockwork, she’s carrying a new egg sac in her jaws.”
That’s gross.
“You’re so provincial,” the spider answered. “You’re the species that sent ‘Spiders and Snakes’ to #3 on the pop charts in 1974, aren’t you. My wife is not creepy. She’s a wonder of nature. Three weeks, she doesn’t eat, doesn’t spin, she just glows, waiting for our next 30 or so little spiderlings to hatch.”
Thirty!
“In 2022 she gave me 43 of the little dears — that was our best year.”
I shuddered.
“After they hatch, she spends another week tending to them, till they head out on their own. One week! Your species can’t get the 30-year-old out of the basement.”
All right, but I could get in trouble with the Town of Ipswich for renting a room without a permit.
“What a nervous Nellie,” the spider replied. “The law only covers people, not arachnids.”
I’m still not crazy about spiders in my bathroom. It’s embarrassing if someone comes over and uses the bathroom and there are spiders hanging out in webs all over the place.
“You should be grateful,” the spider said, “that we Pholcus phalangioides, the most elegant and non-intrusive species of spider, are also the most common indoor spider in the world. Which means your human visitors probably have a daddy-long-legs family tucked away somewhere in their bathroom too. Or at least their closet. In fact, if we’re only in their closet, you’re ahead, because they have a 77% greater chance of getting a mosquito bite while sitting on the toilet.”
Cold comfort. But whatever. I renewed the lease.
It’s a gentleman’s agreement. I didn’t make him sign a contract because I couldn’t find an ink pen the size of an eyelash.
And no, we absolutely did not seal it with a handshake. I could just imagine accidentally squashing his tiny hand. In 20 minutes I’d have Massachusetts tenant-rights lawyers crawling all over me.
Follow Doug to his downstairs privy at Outsidah.com
