Sold out in some marketplaces and with many retailers over the holidays! Some sellers are restocked, some are on back order, some have special order available. There are, also, new sellers.
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Amazon is restocking The Spider Lady and Other Short Stories and Poetry. Take advantage of low prices and free shipping.
Good Deals on Walmart and Target
It wasn’t long before my younger brother, Samuel, became friends with Jimmy’s two younger brothers, Donnie and Ronnie. My younger brother, Samuel, is about three years younger than I. Jimmy’s two younger brothers were two years apart. They were close to the same age as Samuel and considerably smaller in stature than Jimmy.
One day I remember going along with Jimmy and his mom and little brothers to shop in the morning during the three month summer vacation time that we had from school. In Tucson in the sixties during the hot days of summer we, boys, wore cut-off jeans to look cool. It was at the beginning of summer vacation and before nine in the morning there was still a little coolness in the air. We were going to a large, discount department store in a new complex recently built in the desert. The modern four lane, divided road had an exit that looked like a freeway exit but this was Tucson so this was not a freeway at all.
We arrived in the old, station wagon that Jimmy’s mother drove. We were there at the doors of the new, modern looking department store in the desert where no greenery of landscaping had started to grow yet. It was before the store was open. The day was growing hotter in the Arizona sun as I noticed all the other housewives, most of them middle aged, who were waiting for the doors to open. It was the day of a sale that had been advertised. I had no previous experience or knowledge of these types of events at all.
I remember a tall, young man in a light grey suit unlocking the glass doors and then I was witnessing a site that I had never heard of. Everyone was pushing up toward the doors as they opened and then there was an insane, mad rush of women running to a certain department. I found myself caught up in the ebullience of the moment and rushing with all of the others to see what the excitement was all about.
Soon I came to a scene in which there was already a crowd of women gathered in a certain area and others were fighting their way to get in. I decided to become one of them to see what was going on. When I was able to push through the women and get close enough to the front I was amazed by what I saw. There were tables piled with women’s clothing that had been neatly folded and women were practically fighting over the clothing! It was a garish spectacle! After watching for awhile I turned and walked away.
One thing that really stands out in my mind is the way Jimmy’s mom placated her two youngest children by giving them candy. At a certain point in this shopping experience Jimmy and his mom left me alone in the old station wagon with Donnie and Ronnie. I sat in the back seat and Ronnie and Donnie turned to face me from the middle seat of the station wagon. I tried to talk to them as I would with my own younger brother and sisters but they seemed more keen on trying to impress me with the fact that they had candy. I found myself in a state of disgust looking at their dirty, little faces with candy coating around their mouths. Already their teeth were small and brown with gaps between them. They smiled at me triumphantly as if the mere state of constantly having candy showed superiority.
I sat in the back seat of the station wagon looking at the dirty, little faces smiling at me. Inside the station wagon was a feeling of dirtiness and smelliness. There was a gritty feeling. I just felt a sense of disgust. Needless to say I never went along with Jimmy and his mother when they went shopping again. When he asked me if I wanted to go along he seemed not to understand why I would say no.
I actually liked Jimmy’s mom. She was younger than my own mother. She had bouncy, blonde hair down to her shoulders. Often she wore shorts. She seemed pretty. She always acted nice. She seemed rather child like herself. She often talked to me as if I were an equal. There was an air of excitement about being in their home. It was something different, something new.
Jimmy’s father was a dark, shadowy figure who made his appearance rarely. It was a long time before I ever saw him. He was a burly, Mexican man with black hair, a dark complexion and a small moustache. He seemed unpleasant and never smiled. He was not like my own Mexican-American father. My father was known for smiling and joking. Jimmy’s father was a glazier and apparently made good money. His glass truck would sometimes be parked in the driveway of their home. Jimmy said that he often worked on Saturdays which was why he was rarely at home.
It seemed as if marriage for him was his wife only and not his children. He seemed to leave the raising of his sons to his wife. This may have had to do with the fact that all three of his boys turned out to have blonde hair like their mother and fair complexions. When he was at home he usually retreated to the bedroom.
I remember on a few occasions during this time in my life I found myself alone in the living room of my family home on a hot, Tucson afternoon. It was cool in the living room from the air of the cooler as I looked peacefully at the drapery. I became impressed with the sense of order and calmness in my mother’s neat and nice living room. There was the couch decorated with the Mexican zarape, the fireplace mantel with the clock ticking and the family photos. There were the paintings and old fashioned carpet with its oval shape, the coffee table, end tables and lamps. I was sitting in my mother’s comfortable upholstered rocking chair. There were the drapes gently swaying because of the one window that was slightly ajar from which the heat of the Sonoran desert and fresh air from outside radiated. From the front porch would be the sound of the wind chimes that were barely moving.
The peace and tranquility impressed me with the orderliness of the living room in its own afternoon twilight. Everything neat and simple. Everything dusted by my little sisters or my mother. When my sisters were babies I had helped my mother with the dusting. I had a feeling of transcendence and peace of mind. This was my pristine world, so different, I thought in contrast to Jimmy’s world.
Although there was an air of excitement in Jimmy’s home with his young, energetic mother I always felt a sense of uncleanness and lack of order and peace. There was never the clean, pristine smell of my family home. Often the living room was in need of picking up with loose articles here and there. Both of Jimmy’s parents smoked cigarettes which contributed to the general feeling of dirtiness. Often Jimmy’s mother would be sitting on the couch, laundry to fold at her side, with a cigarette in her hand, smoke going up to the ceiling. The ceiling was stained yellow and brown from the cigarette smoke.
A few months went by and I didn’t hear anything concerning the spider lady. A little after five in the afternoon one day I got a call at a doctor’s office. I had never been there before. I was impressed when I read on the sign that was next to the door of the office that it was a woman doctor who was a naturopathic doctor.
A very pretty, young, brunette woman who was close to my own age at the reception desk smiled. She seemed especially friendly and cheerful. She said she would go get the person who called for the taxi. She returned and smiling she said, “She’ll be just a minute.” There were women and children in the waiting room. Then I saw her in the semi-darkness of the room approaching me. It was the spider lady. She was wearing a long, dark print dress.
I went to open the back door of the taxi for her and she said she wanted to sit in the front so I opened the front passenger door for her. As we were riding along I thought how strange that we were riding in a car together with daylight all around on a warm, sunny afternoon with a touch of coolness in the air. She seemed calm, patient, relaxed and humble. She was gazing off into space. She sat in her long, dark print dress with her arms resting on her lap. Her wrists and hands were placed just above her knees, her palms up. Her fingers were delicately curved as if she was posing in a peaceful, serene and beautiful position.
Then I saw it! On both of her wrists were plastic, stick-on bandages. I kept looking in disbelief while she remained calm and serene. She was gazing into the distance ahead with slightly lowered eyelids as if in a surreal state of melancholy and peacefulness. I looked again at the bandages in exactly the places on someone’s wrists where a person would slash with a razor blade to commit suicide.
I looked at her face so calm, serene and transcendent. Except for glints of light that reflected from her eyes as we drove along she seemed motionless and in a state of relaxation. It seemed as if she had wanted me to see her bandages. She wanted me to know.
When we were on her street and getting close to her house she asked me to stop a few houses away from hers. She said she wanted to walk the rest of the way. I offered to get out and open the door for her but she insisted on letting herself out. She reached for the door handle. She seemed listless as if drugged. I patiently pointed to help her find the door handle.
The afternoon just before sunset was in a golden glow as I watched her walking ahead of me with the skirts of her dark, elegant dress swaying while she walked past the yellow and green lawns of the neighborhood towards her own home. She walked with sadness and serenity as if introspective. I never heard anything of the spider lady again.
I remembered I had told the cab drivers and dispatcher that no such spider that is completely black with a smooth, hard skin of that size exists in this area that I’ve ever heard of. It was larger than tarantulas which I have seen in Arizona and tarantulas are furry and brown. Was it just a spider? Where did those webs come from on the porch that I had just walked through? What was that smell of death? Did she practice evil magic and lure men to their death, murdering them in the belief that she could gain power from death like a female spider that seduces males to have sex with her and then devours them?
When I read in a magazine about how a man turned in Jeffrey Dauhmer, the serial killer, to the police because of smelling an unusual smell that made him think of death and then he looked into Jeffrey Dauhmer’s bedroom to see bed sheets covered with caked, dried blood it reminded me of the smell in the spider lady’s house.
Did I break her magic spell by writing a verse of poetry? Did she use poetry for evil, magic purposes to cast her spells and did I defeat her unwittingly because of being a poet myself? Was her seduction spell over me that important to her that when I used her own medium to break her spell she attempted suicide? Or is the writing and publishing of this story the final breaking of a spell that may have gone beyond the grave? At this point I know there are people who practice magic, both good and bad.
“-Truly, freeing oneself in one’s own mind is only the first step on a path of freedom.-”
― Mark Alberto Yoder Nunez, The Spider Lady and Other Short Stories and Poetry
For sale at these fine bookstores:
Denna samling noveller, dikter, aforismer och humor av Mark Alberto Yoder Nunez är tänkt att vara underhållande och inspirerande för alla som älskar god läsning.
Mark Alberto Yoder Nunez의 단편 소설,시, 경구, 유머의 모음집은 좋은 독서를 좋아하는 사람들에게 즐거움과 고무감을주기위한 것입니다.
Spindeldamen handlar om en ung taxichaufför som möter en mycket konstig äldre kvinna. Det är en mörk memoar. McArthur Street berör en pojke som växte upp i Tucson på sextiotalet och hans kämpar med gott och ont.
For sale world wide:
I didn’t receive this taxi call again. One night when after I got off work and got home about three in the morning I sat down in my canvas, director’s chair and started sipping on a beer. I did this when I came home from work just to unwind and think about all the things that happened that day. I often called taxi driving condensed cream of life. One night of it was that intense.
As I thought about all the amazing things I had experienced that day on the job I thought of “the spider lady” as I had come to think of her. A poem came into my mind. A very short poem but I felt compelled to write it down. Perhaps I was on my second beer but my mind in the subdued lighting of my apartment where I was contemplating seemed to be in the darkness of the universe and I wrote down the poem:
She turns herself into a spider
And spins a web
I don’t know why I felt compelled to write it in my notebook or why so few words seemed so important to write down. I sat and my thoughts wandered to other things.
One night at the end of the taxi swing shift some of the taxi drivers were congregated in the dispatch office to pay their lease money to the company after the bar rush was over. A young woman cab driver who was known to be a lesbian said something because the conversation had come around to talking about the spider lady. Other drivers had done deliveries to her, also. The young woman cab driver’s friend, Janice, was there. Janice was a friend of hers from college. They had been on the women’s volleyball team together. The taxi dispatcher on duty was a lady named Norma, a petite blonde woman who worked the graveyard shift. She was one of the most skillful and crooked of dispatchers. The young lesbian woman started talking about the spider lady.
She said that the woman was a poetess and she was well off because of the sales of her poetry. She said that her poetry was really weird and that it sold well in the San Francisco area. She said that she knew about this because some of her friends knew about the woman and her poetry and recognized her name.
They asked me why I called her the spider lady and I told them the story. They loved the story and when some of the men cab drivers coming off of their shift walked into the office they told them that I had a great story about the woman that I called the spider lady so I repeated the entire story. The men cab drivers who had many cab driver stories of their own were impressed.