I hate the jungle. It’s not clean; it’s filled with bugs; and in general, it’s a great place to get killed by, say, slipping off a cliff or being crushed under a falling tree. The only good part of that long day driving through the jungle, thankfully avoiding most of the falling trees and treacherous cliffs, was that in the end, we arrived at the hotel. While my family lollygagged about, looking at toucans and spider monkeys, I snatched the key from my mom’s hand and made a beeline for our room, feet pounding against the boardwalk like a volley of gunshots.
When I finally arrived, I looked back and forth in confusion, sure there must have been some mistake. This room was not air-conditioned and sealed off from the wild. To the contrary, it had screened windows in varying states of disrepair. One looked as if a hotel guest had leaped through it, leaving a swath of mesh tattered, buffeted back and forth by gusts of wind. Hesitantly, checking and rechecking the number on our key, I pushed open the door, which, of course, had no functional locking mechanism, and gingerly stepped inside.
A skilled politician could have argued that the outside was simply “cozy” or “rustic”; no one could have made the interior sound good. The moldy walls were beginning to rot, and a single sniff revealed that some exotic, Costa Rican animal had burrowed its way into the wood only to die, miserable and alone. The furniture was about one thousand years old, possibly crafted with dinosaur skin and mammoth bones. I gently sat on the gaping four poster bed only to be greeted by a mushroom cloud of dust which, thanks to the stifling humidity, clung to my skin, crawling into my lungs with its clawing, tickling fingers.
When I finally stopped coughing up my internal organs, I took another look around the room, hoping it might have improved since my initial glance. Unfortunately, it was still not a five star Hilton, as demonstrated by the small door, partially off its hinges, that opened to a cavernous dungeon which I took to be the bathroom. Across from the bed was a drooping armchair, cushion permanently molded into a frown. If it could have communicated, it probably would’ve just moaned quietly, anticipating its inevitable demise. Before I could continue my survey of the room, something fell into my lap. Slowly, fearing the worst, my eyes travelled down to my legs. There, perched cool as anything on my thigh, was a creature that wouldn’t have been out of place in a horror film: a huge, hairy, black spider.
Don’t scream. Don’t scream.
Inhale.
Don’t scream don’t scream don’t scream.
Exhale
Okay, I ordered myself, just lift up your hand and gently brush that thing off your leg. And remember, it’s more scared of you than you are of it.
My hand wouldn’t move. I was frozen in the crosshairs of this spider’s terrible wrath. It lifted one lackadaisical leg and stepped towards me, sending shivers cascading down my spine. Its thick mandibles rubbed together with some sort of horrible glee, taunting me in my helpless state. The scream bubbled up in my throat, forcing its way through my paralyzed vocal chords, until, just before it erupted, the spider sauntered off my legs and onto the floor, making an audible thump upon landing. I unfroze, leaping about five feet in the air and backwards across the bed, arms wheeling like a penguin trying desperately to fly. My eyes immediately raked across the ceiling, looking for more unwelcome creepy crawlies. Thankfully, there were none.
I finally remembered to breathe as the door opened and my family entered. My mother turned in a full circle, surveying the area with an appreciative gaze. Placing a suitcase on the practically dirt floor, she clapped her hands together. “Well,” she exclaimed happily. “This is cozy.”