The Bargain
Dara Techathuvanan
photo by Michael Cukr
Word Count 1305
The way I grew up, the sequence was almost a reflex, and about as unquestioned: see bug, squish bug. Or, for us kids: see bug, summon parent. As children we understood the rank responsibilities of adulthood to include bug removal – by shoe, vacuum, or tissue-gloved hand. Or, regressive but true, by attachment to a man who seemed bound by unspoken agreement to relieve you of this distasteful chore.
A bug could be anything from the most thread-legged spider, discreetly absorbing moisture from a bathroom corner, to a full-figured cockroach whose agility and speed and abundance of guts precludes direct confrontation. My father could sometimes get the job done using a finger gun and some rubber bands, but when faced with too hardy an exoskeleton he did not hesitate to use blunt force. For such formidable monsters, my mother preferred to dispense poisons from a safe remove, where we hid behind her, hands covering our noses.
Keeping neurotoxins as a household staple never sat right. The odor alone led me to suspect the long-term costs of this method might one day prove greater than I wanted to bear, and the product labels only bolstered these fears. And so when I moved away and stocked my own apartments I did not usually have any bug spray on hand. When I found myself alone with a bug, I would resort to a milder aerosol, such as shaving cream, hairspray, or Lysol. None of these are fast-acting, however, and do not appear to poison but slowly drown the target. Even in my desperation to end the menace, I felt a flicker of pity at the sight of a bug swamped in swirls of shampoo, all of the legs searching for purchase on the side of a tub. But I would just keep pouring, lavishing strawberry-scented torture from above.
My nascent empathy for bugs began as a small seed of guilt at the center of these, well, murders. As with other regrettable choices I find hard to unmake – eating factory farmed meat, driving a fossil fueled car, or shopping on Amazon – a life in true alignment with my ethical standards feels so wildly out of scale with the lure of modern ease, and the impact of a one-woman boycott so infinitesimal, that I’m sorry to say I do not much consider it anymore. It seems I’m far more able to live under a constant cloud of remorse than choose to do more work or spend more money in support of my ideals. In theory, I am a very good person. In practice, a very lazy one.
Late one October morning, alone in my home, I saw a sizable spider patrolling the area behind my desk. I know her kind well, as the fall cool tends to encourage their visits indoors. She’s a deep chestnut brown, smooth but not shiny, a few lighter brown stripes running lengthwise down her back. Her slim legs taper to graceful pinpoints. This one’s a sprinter, not a jumper, holding her belly low to the ground, skimming surfaces in a tactical zigzag pattern, dodging the many threats on her life. I imagine she’s happiest in the shag of our lawn, and it would have been a kindness to carry her there.
Try as I might, I’ve never been that kind of girl. Any strategy involving intimate approach fails when a flurry of panicked revulsion, locked lizard brain deep, floods my body (or the bug’s), serving neither one of us. I’m not proud to say my typical response is still to call on the man of the house – my integrity rooting for a humane trap-and-release, my fear rather indifferent – and watch admiringly as his decisive movements restore order to our world, one way or another.
Alone now, I stomped, not on her body, of course, but near enough to send a warning shot of vibrations through the floor. I saw her startle briefly, then continue on her erratic business across the carpet, coming dangerously close to where I had hoped to sit and work. Knowing I would not be able to focus were she permitted to rove around, I aggressively vacuumed near her, hoping that the prolonged rumbling would communicate my power better than a size 7 foot had. I watched her disappear under the folding doors of my closet, and I expected that there she’d stay, frightened badly enough to reconsider her choices.
I stowed the vacuum, pleased with myself. No loss of life recorded on my conscience, no smeared remains to upset my harmony, and – bonus! – no dependence on a man to do my dirty work. I nestled easily into my seat. But no sooner had I made a cozy knot of my body than she made another, bolder entrance, as if flaunting her equal entitlement to be there. And why wouldn’t she?
Do I belong here, in this house? Have I defended its borders in a way she could recognize? Have I shown her my papers? How absurd to think she ought to respect a name on a dotted line – what kind of conceit is a human name, anyway? For all I know – for all I had never bothered to consider – she was born right here, this house her native land. Maybe she visits fondly the dark corners of her youth, the basement that once fed her with ants, dust mites, and smaller spiders. Maybe she was driven to ascend the stairs by the end of the languid summer feast, no longer fat on the gnats that seem to spontaneously generate from the humid air itself. Maybe it took all the courage she had to turn her collar against the cold, and leave her homeland, defying gravity, muscling her way out of familiar territory – and here I stand, unseeing and officious, lording my discomfort over her struggle.
“Okay, fine!” I huffed, waving my arms overhead, childish in my frustration, sending her scuttling back under the closet door. “If you could please stay out of sight for, I don’t know, the rest of the afternoon,” and here, I hesitated. What could I possibly offer her? “I… will leave you be. I will not interfere with your life.” An improbable calm draped over me as my promise hung in the air. She could not understand my words, but could she understand my intentions? What began as a petulant whim, heedlessly uttered, began to feel heavy with obligation. Like a spell I could no longer rescind. I could almost feel a diffuse awareness in the room – hers? – absorb my wish, poised to inscribe my debt in the ledger. Afraid I’d gone too far, I hastened to add, “Except for when you’re on something I need to use! Then, I will shake you off, but as nicely as possible.”
Though I had no right to expect so, she kept her side of the bargain, remaining on the dark side of the closet doors for the rest of the day. Or, if she didn’t, she was lurking where I could not see her, which was all that I had asked. The next morning, I woke early, eager to return to my desk, and there of course she was, like a toddler testing the rules. What else could I do but settle into our shared space? I eyed her warily as she crawled about, cheerfully scaling the objects I think of as mine, as secure in her safety as a tiny creature could hope to be in this world. I’ve endured unwelcome guests and prickly roommates many times before, and to tell the truth, she’s much easier company. I began to feel embarrassed by my rude reaction to her elegant little body and its darting movements, and tried to shift the lens until tolerance resolved into a distant affection – by which I mean, an affection made possible by distance.
Dara writes from the wilds of suburban Maryland. She spends her days tending a brilliant ten year old and sparring with a handsome pony-tailed logician, and working to convert a lifelong feud with decision making into a memoir. This is her first publication.