Only the Spider

At twelve past midnight, Donald 'Don' Atkins pushes his way through the north entrance into the parking lot, which is, as he'd expect, devoid of any activity. An array of dormant vehicles (including his very own 2003 PT Cruiser, still in mint condition), two strategically placed lamps, and a shiny, new A1 dumpster reside. Brought in just last week, the hollow brick of steel is a sight for sore eyes; the previous dumpster leaked profusely and was a known haven for the local rat population. The rats themselves hadn't particularly bothered Don, but as a matter of principle, it was unacceptable. As a stable tenant of Twin Pines Apartments, he and his neighbors (the majority of them, at least) are entitled to sanitary conditions and the management, despite their inherent reluctance, eventually agreed. There are recycling bins on the other side of the building, and Don believes in recycling, so to speak, but there are some mitigating factors at hand.

The recycling bins require individuals to separate materials (glass, plastic, aluminum, etc.) and deposit them into the appropriate slot. Fair enough, Don supposes, but he has too much pride, or perhaps shame, to broadcast his alcoholism to the world so brazenly. What would people think, to see a retired gentleman dumping empty bottles of Jim Beam into the glass repository?

What's he doing? I never knew he was a drunk. I'd expect that from the guys down the hall, but not Don Atkins. It must be tough to play golf that drunk, Mr. A! Mind the children when Don Atkins drives in and out of the parking lot, Mary.

That's what they'd say, and they'd probably be right, which is what frightens him. Don Atkins doesn't recycle glass bottles, he discards them late at night. Not so late as to disturb his decent neighbors, and not so late as to encounter the lesser ones. Just late enough, and that's all it takes. He's not so ignorant as to merely dump an otherwise empty sack of bottles into the dumpster; that would make too much noise, and some enterprising sleuth could easily uncover the forbidden refuse if suspicion warranted any such amateurish investigation. Instead, Don stuffs the bottles in with his regular trash, the odds and ends (such as food waste) which sufficiently pad the glass so that cracking, shattering, or anything of the sort would be an unlikely occurrence.

Sometimes, when he's feeling especially cranky, sixty-four-year-old Don Atkins is reluctant to recycle whatsoever. He's retired, widowed, and having trouble with his eyeglasses since that silly doctor changed the prescription, and by God, if the world doesn't owe him anything, he shouldn't give a damn about the Earth. Today hasn't been one of those days (most aren't); he's been eating and sleeping rather well lately, thus Don's cheerfulness successfully tempers both his apathy and the guilt often brought about by dispensing with the bottles in such a disreputable manner. He's had a bit of the Beam, too, which never hurts.

Sleep comes in the form of prolonged naps, three of as many hours apiece being common; lapses in consciousness broken apart by food, Beam, and Nick at Nite. He rarely has visitors (his wife, Anita, rest her soul, bore no children, and his brother lives down in Tulsa), so there's nothing to disturb his routine. He may be ashamed of his drinking habit, but not his life. Slowing down isn't too bad, nor is spending time any way he sees fit.

The newly-arrived dumpster is a vibrant shade of blue; at night, illumination provided for safety purposes makes the color all the more intense as it contrasts with the concrete below and the night sky above. It's a top-loading model, with two sizable, hinged flaps made from heavy-duty rubber that segregate garbage from the outside world, and it can hold its fair share of trash. The flaps themselves produce little, if any, noise when lifted. This is a superior piece of equipment in every regard, one that lends a helping hand during late-night excursions.

Don Atkins wonders if he'll be able to schedule a round of golf for Saturday. He'll phone Charlie Hughes and Mike Sebetka sometime tomorrow about a friendly match. The weather lady on Channel 2 said it would be sunny for the next three days, and due to that, the temperature would hit sixty-two degrees approaching the weekend. There's no better way for a man to spend a Saturday, and no better reason to refrain from hitting the bottle too hard on a Friday night.

He lifts the right flap slowly with his left hand, taking great care to grip the handle firmly, for although the flap generates the faintest noise while in motion, to release it prematurely would result in one of two possible outcomes: the first being its release prior to the point of no return, in which case the lid would slam shut, the second being its release after passing the point of no return, in which case the lid would collapse backward, slamming into the dumpster's metallic backside. Either option would be unacceptable at this late hour, so Don needs to pay attention. In this predicament, a bit of the Beam never helps, but he's fairly alert and he's been doing this sort of thing for years.

Both he and the lid obstruct the bulk of light shining down upon the dumpster's inner sanctum, but from what Don can see, the crate is just over half full, which isn't surprising (tomorrow is garbage day, after all). Most of the trash looks similar to his own; large, black Hefty bags fattened by a veritable smorgasbord of unwanted objects, piled upon one another without a moment's hesitation on anyone's part, excepting Don Atkins. This isn't "Take the garbage out after dinner, honey" it's "Don't let people know you're a drunk," and his sack contains, amongst a myriad of things, five drained bottles from this past week alone, but he's not a binge drinker by any means. Slow and steady wins the race, or so it's been said, and that's Don's approach to consumption. Thus far, it hasn't killed him.

The bag itself isn't remarkably heavy, nor does it require the use of two hands, so he continues to hold the lid open as he carefully lifts the sack up over the metallic rim and down into the dumpster. He doesn't toss the bag, let alone drop it; it's a covert operation, stealth being the key factor. Though partially obscured, the light seeping through causes the sable plastic to shine with a life of sorts, or, barring that, to act as a blitzkrieg of flickering light that flows incessantly both within and across the ebony sea of garbage sacks. It's almost hypnotic, the way in which light dances when twisted by shadows and the illusion of movement, and he, leaning inward, marvels at how something so simple can be so captivating. Perhaps he's had a tad much to drink, but Don Atkins likes what he sees.

But his hand, the one lowering the garbage bag, collides with something, something solid, thin, and hooked. It feels like plastic against his exposed wrist, though not in the way a Hefty bag feels like plastic, and the object has lodged itself against the bone at the base of his palm. This annoyance snaps Don out of his daze, and he gives a quick tug to wrench his hand free, yet something's wrong. He pulled pretty hard, but if anything, the situation has worsened; now there's something firmly encircling his wrist. Don is perturbed by this sudden turn of events. "What the devil?" he mumbles, leaning inward a bit more to gain additional leverage for a second pull. Further inside, he still can't see what's restraining him, as everything beyond his forearm is draped in blackened polyethylene. Frustrated, Don Atkins releases the rubber flap in a huff to better manage the perplexing calamity. The lid slaps against his shoulder blades, and he's cut off from virtually all light, save a few pale shards slicing through the pervasive darkness to provide him with scant visibility.

Amidst the numerous trash bags, there's something which isn't entirely black. Dark, but not black, and it takes a second for Don to realign his mind. Fuzzy. Not black. Eyes. Black. Four. Six. Eight. Black. Eyes. Not bla-

Instinctively, Don recoils upward, but the distance between the two is narrowing, and he flails his free arm madly, desperately swatting at that which creeps toward him. Unmanly whimpers of revulsion and despair fall free from his lips, filling the dumpster with a reverberating anguish that saps the very strength from his frail body. An appendage of some kind bursts forth and into Don's mouth; for a moment he tastes imitation cheese on his tongue, and it's salty, but it also tastes like blood. He's biting down now, yet his teeth have weakened with age, and the object is stringy. His jaw feels like it's going to collapse from the exterior as well; that which crawls within also lies beyond, applying the utmost force. Don's lower front teeth buckle beneath the extreme pressure, shredding the remainder of his fractured gingiva as cheese-flavored blood fills the emergent crevices.

The hysteria recedes, supplanted by unbearable pain, yet the tears which flood Don's eyes fail to enshroud it whatsoever. It is pulling him into the dumpster. There's a sudden, deafening pop as his jaw snaps, followed by flowing, cathartic warmth. He wants another drink, and to peck Anita on the nose just the way she always liked it. Light keeps shifting its gaze, though, and his glasses have fallen off, so Don can't see all that well. No Anita. No soothing light. No golf. Only the spider.