What Hides Within (6 page)

"Sure, Vickie. Whatever you need."

Clive rushed off to the kitchen and was back within half a minute. He made sure to grab one of Kevin's glasses. He wasn't going to be drinking out of any glass that had been used to transport that eight-legged monstrosity.

Victoria pressed her palm gently against the cool tile floor. That alone was enough to repulse Clive.
Now she definitely needs to wash her hands.
He hoped he hadn't missed the toilet recently. The odds of that weren't in Victoria's favor.

After a few moments, the spider crawled off Victoria's hand and onto the floor. With speed and precision, Victoria slammed the glass over the arachnid. She tilted the glass just enough to slide the paper underneath it. The spider reluctantly climbed atop it. Victoria then tipped the glass over and cupped her hands around the paper, pressing it tightly against the circumference of the glass. The spider clung to the paper, hanging upside-down within its glass and paper prison. Victoria stood and took off, clearly on a mission.

Clive's finger returned to its digging. He could feel his brother's critical stare.

"What?"

"Alright, man. I wasn't going to say anything, but you've been at it all night. What's the story with your ear?"

"Oh, it's nothing. It's been clogged the last couple of days."

"Pinch your nostrils shut and try to blow air out your nose."

Clive complied. Only his left ear popped.

"Nothing?"

Clive shook his head. "It's starting to piss me off."

"You should get that checked."

"So I'm told."
Numerous times now, in fact.

After a few minutes, Victoria came bounding up the stairs to Clive's apartment. In her hands were an empty cup and a crumpled piece of paper.

"Where did you put the spider?" Kyle asked.

"In the shed out back."

Clive slapped his hand against his forehead. He quietly let out a sigh of frustration.
I use that shed, you little brat
.

"Well, we should get going. Rachel may be coming home soon, and it's getting close to Victoria's bedtime." Kyle turned to his daughter. "Get your things."

When she returned with her
Zoobooks
, Victoria and her father said their goodbyes and headed home. But before they could leave his apartment, Clive had one question for his entomologist niece.

"Hey, Vickie. How do I know if there are more spiders in my house?"

"Well, sac spiders live in little white sacs. That's why they're called sac spiders. Check all the corners of your rooms. For other spiders, just look for webs. But if you find some, please don't kill them. They're just looking for a warm, cozy home."

In this heat? They must be the spawn of Hell.
"I won't," Clive lied. "Thanks for your help getting rid of that spider. And keep up your reading. You're already smarter than me."

Kyle laughed and put his arm around his daughter, ushering her out. "You and me both, Clive. We'll see you later."

"Later."

With his company gone, Clive readied himself for bed. But first, he had to make sure there were no more unwelcome houseguests. He took a broom to every wall and ceiling in his apartment, save for those in Kevin's room. As far as he was concerned, Kevin was on his own, which was the way Kevin always seemed to prefer it anyway. Kevin could fight off his own monsters.

Clive checked his pillow case and under his sheets thoroughly before hopping into bed. Satisfied he had subdued his bug phobia, he turned his thoughts to his unrelenting condition. If his ear was still blocked in the morning, he promised himself he'd see a doctor about it.

Tuesday morning, 7:27 a.m. This time, Clive awoke without the assistance of his alarm clock. His sleep had been restless. He was sure he didn't get enough of it, his body echoing his dissatisfaction. The muscles in his legs and shoulders ached as if he'd spent the entire night running.

He staggered into the bathroom wearing nothing but a pair of white knee-high socks and his
Rocky and Bullwinkle
boxer shorts. He turned on the sink faucet and splashed cold water onto his face. It failed to wash away the grogginess. After wiping himself dry, he stared into the mirror over his sink. What he saw was a man rapidly approaching his thirtieth birthday, his life going nowhere.

Clive analyzed his aging features, immediately focusing on everything he felt was wrong with his appearance: a receding hairline ironically mismatched by an abundance of chest hair and a few patches on his shoulders and back; gray strands appearing where he wasn't going bald; love handles that were rapidly transforming into a spare tire; slightly sagging pectorals that his mind exaggerated as estrogen-filled man boobs; a big crooked nose with nostril hair in dire need of trimming; and the
piece de resistance
, his lower appendages that his ex-girlfriend had not-so-affectionately referred to as "chicken legs."

"Fuck my ex-girlfriend," Clive said aloud.
Man, I need to do something with my life.
With all Clive's embellished physical faults, which he tended to dwell on in spite of the positive, Clive was fairly handsome. With a little more confidence, he would have had no trouble finding dates. He did, however, have a hard time taking compliments.

But a new fault had captivated Clive's thoughts as of late. He had awoken cognizant of his persisting auditory problem.
I'll get to you soon enough
, he thought, staring down his ear in the mirror as though it were his enemy.

He swung the mirror-door of his medicine cabinet open. From it, he grabbed a disposable razor and hopped into the shower where he did everything from shaving to pissing to brushing his teeth. He'd have taken a shit in there, too, if he could have figured out how to push his crap down the drain.
Saves time, easy clean-up
, he justified.

When he finished his momentary lapse into the realm of personal hygiene, Clive stepped out of the bathtub and dried himself off. He then reached back into the medicine cabinet and retrieved the package of Q-Tips he picked up the prior night. He read the instructions on the side of the package and laughed.

"Do not insert into ear."
Yeah, like Mr. Q-Tip doesn't know damn well the first place his product is going. If that ain't foreseeable misuse, I don't know what is. What the hell else are you supposed to do with them?

Clive thought a minute. His memories sent an uncomfortable feeling into his groin, causing his penis to shrivel up like a frightened turtle. He had partied a little too hard during his short-lived college days, which resulted in paranoia and a corresponding swivel-stick check for gonorrhea up his urethra.
That there is just regular old misuse of a Q-Tip. Sure is a great reason to practice safe sex, though.

He tore open the package and removed a cotton swab.
Let's start with the easy one first
, Clive thought, indelicately jabbing the end of the Q-Tip into his left ear canal. He swirled it around, making sure to scrape off the wax from the deepest parts of his inner ear that were safely reachable.

Then came the right ear. He plunged the cotton swab deep into it. The swab's tip paused dangerously close to his ear drum. He began to swirl it around as he'd done in his left ear, but this time, he felt something move.

"I got it!" Clive smiled, convinced the source of all his auditory problems had been displaced. But when he removed the cotton swab, no water dripped out of his ear.

The Q-Tip, too, appeared dry. Had it become wet, he thought it would have shrunk, its fluffy coating compressing. However, the cotton had expanded to nearly double its original size. It resembled a miniature version of the cotton candy sticks he used to get at Rocky Point Amusement Park before it closed two decades ago.

That's funny.
The swab's growth in size, though noticed, failed to alarm Clive.
Maybe this one is like a sea monkey and grows when it gets wet
.

Clive turned on his faucet and let the water run. He then blocked his left ear. The sound of the flowing water came in muffled through his right. As he concentrated, Clive began to hear another sound. It was a faint pitter-patter at first, like the first raindrops of a storm gently plopping down onto a car windshield. But like those raindrops, the sound grew louder and more frequent. It built in intensity, mimicking the drum roll of a timpanist. And Clive knew just the drum being played.

Oh great. Now this is happening.

What "this" was, Clive couldn't be certain. With the addition of a crackling tingle, Clive began to panic.

Oh no! Mr. Q-Tip was right! I never should have stuck it that far into my ear. Oh God! I hope I didn't puncture my ear drum.

All at once, the rumbling stopped. In its place, a constant tone, like that of the Emergency Broadcast System, resounded through his head, instantly resulting in a migraine. Clive prayed he didn't cause deafness in his right ear. He blocked his left ear again with his index finger. The sound of the running water was muffled but still present, just as loud as it had been the first time he checked.

Clive breathed a sigh of relief. The annoying tone began to fade. He threw the Q-Tip into the waste basket and turned off the water.
I guess I do need to get my ear checked
, he thought.
I'd better make an appointment today.

***

After he finished dressing, Clive headed to work. Already accustomed to his lesser hearing, he quickly forgot the morning's events as soon as he walked through the engraved glass doors of the Harcourt Insurance Company. He prepared himself for yet another long and boring day. Sliding his arms across the desk in front of him, Clive rested his forehead upon them.
Live for the weekends
, he thought.

His mind began to wander. It was quickly called back by an unwelcome voice, violating Clive's chances for momentary peace.

"What up, C-Note?"

"Felix, how many times do I have to tell you that you're not black? Not to mention, your ghetto slang is outdated. Your vain, cracker attempts to represent thug life come off as lame, not cool."

Felix seemed unfazed. "Whatever, G."

Felix Winters closely resembled a skinny version of George Costanza of
Seinfeld
fame. Bald on top with black, horseshoe-shaped hair growth around the sides and back, Felix was no playboy. He was whiter than an Irish wedding. His thick-rimmed glasses and Owen Wilson nose made him look more dubious than sophisticated, his visage no doubt reflective of his prurient nature. But his imperfections didn't make him feel any less a playboy.

An accountant at Harcourt, Felix only did slightly more work than Clive. The rest of the day he spent downloading Internet porn. It was amazing that he managed to keep his job, despite the fact that he was far more deserving of termination than Clive had been on his worst day. His vulgar remarks earned him multiple written warnings, yet his job seemed as resolute as his commitment to his politically incorrect ways.

"Guess what I just found online?"

Clive looked up from his desk. He stared wide-eyed at his visitor, amazed that Felix the pervert somehow managed to misconceive Clive's tolerance for friendship.

I already don't like where this is heading. It's got "computer virus" written all over it. Still, I guess it couldn't hurt to humor him.

"I don't know, Felix," Clive responded without a hint of interest. "What did you find online?"

"A copy of
Debbie Does Dallas
on Betamax."

"Felix, do you actually own a Betamax player? Wasn't that before your time? Regardless, wasn't Betamax completely wiped out by VHS even if it wasn't before your time? And furthermore, didn't DVD destroy them both?"

"Don't forget Blu-Ray. That shit's like herpes. It's here to stay. But Clive, I fail to see your point. No, of course I don't have a Betamax. No one does."

"Then why would you want a copy of a porno on Betamax?" Clive asked the obvious question, fully expecting an irrational answer.

"Ah, you lack imagination, my friend. Let me enlighten you. As you know,
Debbie Does Dallas
is a vintage pornographic film from back when pornography was still an art form. It's the equivalent of a Picasso, man. Finding a rare copy of it on a discontinued medium is like finding a diamond within a huge pile of horseshit."

"Coal. Diamonds are found with coal. Although, a horse that shits diamonds would probably be a valuable thing to have. They would tear up its asshole something good each time it makes a hot steaming pile, though."

"You know what I mean. It's a collector's item. It's got to be worth something."

"Where did you find this 'vintage porn'?"

"Craigslist. Where else?"

"And how much is it selling for?"

"Six dollars. That's the beauty of it. Well, plus shipping and handling."

"And that price doesn't tip you off that it's probably not a highly sought after item?"

"Some people just don't know what they've got until it's gone." Felix's mouth curled into a clownish grin. He seemed genuinely pleased with himself.

"On another subject, I also got you those parts you wanted. You should have them in a day or two."

"What parts?"

"You know--"

Felix continued talking, but Clive droned him out. His head was ringing, and Felix's words, likely to end in some forced, sex-related joke, no longer seemed important. He completely spaced him out, although he could feel his lips mimic the response of a captivated audience. When his mind returned to the here and now, Felix was still blabbing away in front of him.

"Well, I'm off to bid on
Debbie
. Oh, how I want her."

"Go get her, man. I wish you the best of luck."

Clive's sarcasm went over Felix's head. "Thanks, Clive. I'll let you know how it goes."

"You do that. Keep me posted."
Jackass.

Felix took off full-throttle. Clive reverted to his usual routine of pretending to do work. He glanced at his watch.
Is it lunch time yet?

He stared at his black computer screen, not yet powered up. He could think of nothing to do besides the obvious--work--and he wasn't about to start that nasty habit. He perused the shelf above him for inspiration, his eyes landing on the
Yellow Pages
.