Esme. She did this. I have a feeling she doesn’t need the desk moved, or that room packed up. She probably has an empty room somewhere in this house, but she did this to spite her great-grandfather because she’s onto his plotting. Also, she did this to spite me by extension because she figures I must also be plotting. Or just to spite me because I’m here, and she needs someone to take her displeasure out on.
Of course, the room had to be filled with feminine products. Isn’t that the ultimate test of a man’s manliness? Fuck seeing if your guy can lift a semi-truck with his bare hands. Just ask him to go and get a box of feminine products, and you’ll see his mettle. Screw how much a dude can bench press. If they don’t go up a tree to save a kitten, they aren’t really manly—that kind of deal.
I grew up with two sisters, and even they complain when they have to buy the products, especially if there’s a male cashier at the checkout. I’ve heard them complain about it many times, but it’s going to take more than those said products to defeat me.
Personally, I think a guy can be in touch with his feelings, be a good person, and be ultra-masculine. I think men are expected to carry an unhealthy load these days, all while being a stone when it comes to expressing emotion. A real man, in my opinion, is someone who is kind, who isn’t afraid to speak up when wrong shit is going down, and can let himself cry—even if it’s in private—once in a while. He can save kittens, wear pink, handle the dreaded feminine products with ease and confidence, and still enjoy sports, the gym, steaks, cars, and other so-called guy-ish things.
Okay, maybe this is a sensitive area because I make and enjoy toys. I’ve heard it all when it comes to people telling me to grow up—telling me that because I press myself to be creative, I’m not masculine. Or because I make educational toys that actually help people, I’m not helping myself.
“Fu…fudgeadaddledoodle,” I grunt, shoving the desk up another step with all my strength.
It’s wedged pretty well now, and I know this is the point of no return. I have to pick up the damn thing and heave it over the railing. If I drop it, it could be a disaster for the railing, the desk, and me.
I take a breath—forcing air into my burning lungs and the burning muscles in my arms and legs—and lift. The desk goes up an inch. I breathe in harder and lift harder. Higher. Up. Up. Harder. Up. Up. Jesus, I feel like I’m in one of those books that repeats the same word to teach kids how to read. The desk groans; I groan. The desk grunts; I grunt. Finally, it reaches the railing. Up. Up. Up. Look at Wilder lift the desk up. Yes, this is what my life has been reduced to—something akin to a scene from a children’s book.
I lift harder, grunting, sweating, and panting as I heave the desk. I glance at the railing to check my progress. The desk’s top is now about three inches over the railing, so just another million or so inches to go to get the thing heaved over it. It’s going to be a delicate balancing act when it gets to that point. The stairs curve too, in another few steps.
Essentially, I’m so fucked that it’s fucked.
Anyway, I check the railing again.
And there, a few inches from my face, about three inches up the railing from the desk ledge, is the world’s biggest spider.
“Argh!” I let the desk fall with a crash. It barely misses crushing my foot, but it does trap my left hand between the railing and the desk edge. The house is old and farmhouse-y, and everything is wood—raw wood, painted wood, old wood, heavy wood. All those wood and my hand don’t mix, and I let out a howl that could literally raise the dead. Cross my fingers that there aren’t any buried anywhere near this house. “Owwwwwwwwwwwwwww! Fuuuuuuuuuuucccccccckkkkkkkkk!”
A door slams shut upstairs, which isn’t far from where I am. I rip my hand free by shoving the desk with my other hand and stare at the damage. There’s a good strip of skin missing, and blood is already starting to well. But never mind that as I have a bigger problem at hand.
Namely, the giant, epic, huge, nasty, hairy spider staring me down.
My god, it’s huge. They grow them big in California, apparently. Another good reason on my growing list of reasons never to move here for real. It has a murderous gleam in its many eyes. Who needs that many eyes? Does it need to have as many eyes as it has legs?