The Myth of Wile E

Narcoleptic Tightrope Walker

One morning when I got up to do my business I discovered (almost too late) that a spider had built its web right across the mouth of my toilet seat. The toilet and I gaped at the spider. We were scandalized. A toilet was no place for respectable spiders.

The toilet bowl must have seemed like a vast chasm to the spider, but the spider was unconcerned, just hanging out, heedless of the danger it faced. I don't even know what made me look before I leaked. Somehow I saw a tiny glint of light above the reflection of the toilet water. And there in the dimness, lounging like magic on an angel-hair hammock, was this round little spider, legs-and-all no bigger than a pea. It hovered dead center over the toilet bowl, in the hub of a circular web.

After my shudders subsided, I had to laugh. Maybe it was a little prankster, this spider, stretching its web like Saran Wrap across the toilet seat, hoping to catch me with my pants down. I curbed the urge to flick the spider into the toilet bowl below, where a dormant Charybdis waited to be stirred. Instead, I poked the web. It collapsed like a deflated parachute.

The spider raced desperately across one strand, looking for all the world like Wile E. Coyote. You know: when Wile E. runs off the edge of the cliff, and keeps on running right through thin air? The trick in cartoon logic is never to look down; ignorance of one's predicament is the best defense. I guess the spider knew that. Not looking down, it soon reached the safety of the opposite cliff—or in this case, the rim of the toilet seat.

I took care of business as quickly as possible, but of course you can only rush this process so much for all our stunning achievements as a society. The ability to rush either elimination or soufflés continues to elude us, and I take comfort in these little reminders of human fallibility. Usually.

Anyway, I never sat down; I just kind of hovered over the bowl like a Jetsons' car attempting to park. Then I hurried out of the room, expecting the spider to hopefully go away or at least move somewhere more hospitable, like the doorway. The truth is, I've got a number of bugs in this place that are a lot more menacing-looking than that spider, bugs I wouldn't think of going near with the sole of my shoe for fear that thousands of their cousins would show up later, seeking vengeance. So it could come in handy having a miniature exterminator-in-residence. I needed that spider like Dodge City needed Wyatt Earp.

However, in spite of all the vacant doorways which I would figure to be pretty prime digs in the spider world, the very next morning the toilet-web was back, and so was the little spider, perched serenely over the water like a narcoleptic tightrope walker asleep over Niagara Falls. This goes to show, I would not make a good spider realtor. Apparently the doorway is not a desirable neighborhood and I have no idea why. Maybe too much traffic passes through, namely me.

Maybe the spider just likes a home with a water view.

I tried reasoning with it. "Come on. Give up. Get out of my toilet. You'll never catch anything there," I told the spider. But it was unfazed by my pessimism. It did not blink even its smallest pair of eyes at me.

Then I thought: This must be a lazy spider. Maybe when I wrecked the web, I left too many guy-lines intact, and the spider decided it was salvageable.

Or maybe the problem was the spiderweb insurance adjusters, who figured the web was not a total loss and could be repaired. (If spiders have realtors, after all, it stands to reason they probably have insurance adjusters too.)

So the second time I made sure I was thorough. I poked the web once again, and when the spider fled, I made a clean sweep of the toilet seat, removing all lingering strands. I scrubbed the toilet really clean for the first time in ages, and even managed to produce a feeble shine. It looked about as good as an old toilet could look, especially an old toilet that was avocado green.

As for the water, it was Caribbean turquoise. Once upon a time it had been deep dark blue, like a miniature Pacific Ocean. But the 2000 Flushes were up. They'd expired about 800 flushes ago, give or take, and I couldn't afford to renew. I was flushing on borrowed time.

Flush.

Make that: 801 flushes overdue.