The insect room

There are spiders in the corners of my bedroom with long, angular legs. They spin webs and lay eggs. Their babies spin webs in other corners of my room. They are small and translucent; I don’t notice them at first. I leave the spiders alone, even though they frighten me. They sit in webs catching the fruit flies that buzz around the kitchen. They never come down from the corners.
The spiders grow and multiply in my house. They become thick and fat from eating. Their abdomens round and legs segmented, spread out across the webs, hanging there bigger now, waiting. Some get so big I have to crush them with the heel of my shoe, or a book, or a paper rolled up. They get so big; I wonder how fruit flies feed them all. I wonder if the warmth in my house is why they crouch in corners laying eggs.
Once in a while the spiders leave their webs, moving on to a new corner. The webs just hang there collecting dust. They become visible, swaying gently. I take my broom and sweep away the old webs. It makes my house look brighter, and less like a dream. If I forget to sweep, new spiders take over the old webs, cutting out the dust that has collected, weaving in new strands of silk, waiting.
I always find a spider in the corner of my room. They seem so ominous, lingering on the ceiling, growing fatter. I live with the spiders, because they were here before me. And they’ll be here after.

Ordinary, familiar, there is a window by my bed. It is eye level with the street. There are two bees collecting dust on the sill. I watch people walk by. Today, the old man who runs the print shop across the street is outside smoking his cigarettes, usually two in the morning, one in the afternoon, and four as the night wears thin. He stays in the print shop for days with the lights on, filling letters into the press with his black stained fingernails, drinking bottles of wine and cursing his daughter, who stays up helping him, worrying. He prints advertisements, local newspapers, flyers, anything that people request he stays up printing for them, drinking wine, smoking cigarettes, and cursing. Late into the night I hear him yelling through his curled, wine spotted beard. His daughter remains calm under the rumble of his crackling voice. She knows he’s full of steam. She’s admired for her dignity, but is trapped by guilt that he will die alone and suffering.
Outside on the porch, my mind stiffens often into headaches from the cigarettes, but they help to condense my thoughts. The daughter of the old man is at the corner. She doesn’t notice me at first, but quickly turns. She comes over and stands by my porch.
“Can I have a cigarette?” she asks. She looks down the street at the print shop. “Yeah, I have a few minutes.” She comes up on the porch and we sit in silence for a moment, breathing.
I ask, “How long have you worked at the print shop?”
“My entire life,” she says
“Why didn’t you ask the old man for a cigarette?”
“My father doesn’t like it when I smoke.”
She’s older than me. She stomps her cigarette on the ground.
“Okay,” I say. “Nice talking to you. What’s your name?”
She says, “You know, everyone can see you sleeping.”
I laugh and she walks across the street.
“My name is Emily,” she says. She opens the door to the print shop without looking back. I can hear the old man cursing as she steps in.

The movie theater I work at is considered a landmark. It was built in the twenties as a performance theater. There are photographs in the break room of old employees selling cigarettes out of metal trays, wearing suits and dresses, hair in the right place. A lot of famous actors have passed through, either performing or patronizing. Although, since the corporation I work for took over, it doesn’t feel inviting. It’s a place of dying memory, kept alive by constant redecorating and overpriced concessions. The city won’t permit the destruction of the old theater so the corporation built around it, covering the mural on the ceiling. The organ pipes, lined along the wall, muted by red drapes. What is left of the old theater is chipped away or collecting dust or unnoticed.
I work in the box office. A square, glass fish tank in front of the theater, watched by the corporation from cameras in the corner. Two months ago, my boss caught me wandering around in the rafters after closing. I found a metal ladder leading up toward the light of the old theater. Along the air vents and planks of wood stretched out over fiberglass insulation, I saw for the first time what remains of the old theater. The portrait of the Nordic sun goddess Sol covered up by black particleboard, a crystal chandelier in the center of the room. After that, they put me in the box so they could keep an eye on me. I’m required to clock out, check in with the manager, and someone escorts me out of the building. Four nights a week this happens. They would fire me, but nobody wants to work in the theater. Some say it’s haunted.
Projection room four is where Ricky takes his lunch break. Ricky has been working at the theater since the fifties. He remembers the theater before the corporation. He’s older now, and he walks the halls in a fog, staring at the stained red carpet with an inscrutable look. It’s as if he’s stuck in his vision of the old theater, a ghost. He rarely approaches the people that frequent the theater, but they acknowledge him, saying, ‘Hello Ricky,’ with a smile. Something happened to Ricky while he was working here, something about his family, his mind. The manager was unclear, but the theater is comforting to Ricky.
When I walk by projection room four, I can hear the muffled sound of Ricky’s voice over the turning of the film reel. I place my ear to the door. He’s yelling, not loud enough so the people in the theater can hear him, but talking in a stern voice. I open the door and walk in. It’s dark, except for the light from the projector.
“Ricky?” I say. There is only the methodical chunk, chunk, chunk of the projector. “Hello?” I say.
“Yes, yes, I’m here,” Ricky says, emerging from the dark.
“Oh shit, you scared me! Who were you talking to?”
“Hmm,” Ricky says.
“I thought I heard your voice.”
“Yes, well, I was talking,” he starts shifting, moving back and forth from the dark to the light of the projector. His eyes look sunken, “I wasn’t talking to anybody. Only to the voices I’m hearing while I sit and eat.”
I’m silent for a moment, staring around the dark room, listening. “Are you sure that’s not just the voices from the movie?” I point toward the theater below.
“No, no,” he says, “Look, look here,” he goes toward a small window near the projector, “This little window is sound proof here,” he opens the window, sounds from the movie flood in. He closes the window, “Do you hear that silence?”
“I guess you’re right,” I say, glancing around the room. “Okay, well, I’m clocking out, I’ll talk to you later Rick.”
He retreats back into the dark without saying anything. I punch my time card and the security guard walks me to the front door.

Midnight, the walk home is quiet. The streets are empty by ten. Everyone retreats inside as if there is a citywide curfew. The ground is damp from storeowners hosing down the sidewalk in front of their shops. The rubber souls of my shoes swish through puddles, which echo slightly off the buildings. The reflections from the stars and the moon and the dull street lamps follow me home.
My apartment is on the corner, apartment 1. Before I go in, I have a cigarette on the porch, which faces the intersection. Tall eucalyptus trees line the block. Across the street, I see the fluorescent lights of the print shop flickering against the sidewalk outside. The door swings open and the old man steps out lighting his cigarette. He looks straight ahead at the street. His back is hunched, long gray hair falling in front of his round glasses, he takes long, smooth drags from his cigarette and lets the smoke surround him as he exhales into the atmosphere. Emily steps out behind him.
“Dad, this is printed wrong,” she says, holding up a test print of a newspaper page. “The headline should read, ‘Man sees ghost in his attic,’ instead, you have, ‘Man sees gost in attic.’”
“Mmm, yes, I see,” the old man grumbles. “Fuck, I’ll fix it.”
“This is the third print you screwed up tonight. Why don’t you go upstairs and get some rest, it’s late.”
“No, no, shit, I’m fine, Emily, really.”
“I’m worried, that’s all.”
“I’ll be fine,” he grumbles through smoke.
Emily glances across the street and sees me. She scowls and follows the old man back into the shop.

Small, soundless flies follow me around the house. They land on walls fixing their gaze, watching everything through a million eyes. They are attracted to the light of the television, little darting specks across the screen. In the bathroom, they hover around the toilet that hasn’t been cleaned, and float up to my warm face when I get out of the shower. While I cook, they levitate toward the smells, toward the unwashed sink. I wave my hand to swat them away, but the current of air only pulls them down into chopped vegetables. They seem to appear from nowhere, as if the smell of decay surrounding the house allows them to materialize from nothing. While I’m lying in bed, one will land to rest. I pick up a book or use my thumb to flatten it against the wall. Some get stuck there, smooth on the wall, crushed. Some fall to the ground to be swept up with the dust. There are assorted dark smudges, imprints of the unlucky flies.

Morning comes and I have the opening shift. The street is drenched in sun, and the puddles have dried. Four young homeless wait outside the door of the theater. They come to use the bathroom in the morning, and because I open with Ricky, I usually let them in. The security guard comes to greet us at the door, wary of the young homeless, thinking they use the bathroom for drugs. He gives me a look of suspicion, but I ignore him and go toward the stairs to clock in. On the wall of time cards, I notice Ricky hasn’t clocked in this morning. I get on the radio.
“Uhh, have you seen Rick this morning?” I say into the speaker.
“Haven’t seen ‘em yet,” the security guard replies.
It’s early enough so I decide to give Ricky some more time. Usually he’s here early to set up the projection rooms. This is the first time I’ve come to work before Ricky.
Two hours go by and there’s no sign of him. Worried, I pick up the phone in the box office and dial the manager.
“Hello?” he answers.
“Yeah, hey, have you heard from Rick today?” I ask him.
“Oh, I’m sorry, I didn’t tell you.”
“Tell me what?”
“The hospital called and said Ricky is fatally sick. He’s not coming in anymore. I’m sorry; I should have said something earlier. I’ve got someone to cover his shift.”
“Okay, well, I’ll see you later,” I say, and hang up the phone.
Ricky was a historical figure, everyone knew who he was. He knew something about this theater. He knew it was helpless when the corporation took over; maybe he lost a piece of himself, covered up along with the old theater, lost to memory.

Rapid clouds move across the sky. Sleep takes me over. I dream of geometric shapes shooting across my vision, almost unrecognizable as they blur past. A tear in the atmosphere reveals a portal into galaxies. Slowed down, a man in a metal diving suit jumps through the rift, disappearing into space.
A soft knock at the door. Another, louder.
I rub the sleep from my eyes, trying to grasp at my dream. Another nervous rap, rap, rap. I get up and look out the window. Emily is standing very still. I open the door, but it’s hindered by the chain lock.
Through the crack I say, “Hey.”
“Do you have a minute?”
“Yeah, yeah, sure, let me put a shirt on.” I return a moment later with two cigarettes.
“Oh, none for me thanks,” Emily says. Her eyes are swollen, pink and bloodshot. Her cheeks are rosy.
“Is everything all right?” I ask.
“No, no, my father, he…” she looks toward the ground, “he’s sick, very sick.”
“I’m so sorry.” I don’t know what else to say. “I just found out my coworker is dying, it’s a terrible feeling. I’m so sorry, Emily,” I say.
“You know, I was prepared for this. With his drinking and smoking, he wasn’t a happy man. But I don’t want him to suffer.” She’s crying now. I take a step closer and put my arms around this woman I barely know. I’m wondering why she has chosen me to console her, but the time seems right. “I’ll have that cigarette now,” she says through her stuffed nose.
I hand her a cigarette and she lights it. She takes long, smooth drags just like her father.