My front porch is about ten yards long. The stairs only take up the middle three or so yards, and on the left side of the stairs, nestled in the upper corner, is a large spider web. In the web lives a spider.

I am terrified of spiders. I have no legitimate explanation for the fear. I only have the societal norm – that most people are afraid of spiders on some level – to hide behind.

The spider routinely catches bugs and eats them. I routinely watch. Spiders, they frighten me.

I frighten society.

To help me cope with the idea of something that frightens me living on my porch, I named him. Fred. What kind of spider? Large, I guess. About the size of a half dollar. Color? Dark. I don’t get close enough to really get a good look at him. But his name is Fred. Fred the spider.

I thought about taking his web down, but it’s his home. Every time I get the broom from the closet, I think about someone getting a broom from their closet and knocking my house down just because I’m scary, just because society is frightened of me. I always put the broom back.

When I leave for work, I always put my hat on, and I always duck under the web.

Good morning, Fred, on the way to work.

Good evening, Fred, on the way home.

And Fred usually just sits there, and stares.

Work is drudgery, and I really mean that in every possible sense of the word. I highly dislike my job. It’s a Craig’s List job, but one that I’ve been working for over ten years. One that has allowed me to purchase my car, my own clothes, my own entertainment center, my own house – complete with Fred the spider.

Good morning, Fred.

Arrive at the mall.

Good evening, Fred.

Good morning, Fred.

Arrive at the post office.

Good evening, Fred.

Every night, I’d check my e-mail and see where I would be working the next day. Out of the window, I could see the web, but not the spider.

Good morning, Fred.

Arrive at the grocery store.

Good evening, Fred.

The e-mail I get arrives through proxies that have gone through filters that have gone through random name generators that have, I assume, flowed through some kinds of hands that belong to some kind of person that works in some kind of building, but I’ll never know.

Good morning, Fred.

Arrive at the circus.

Good evening, Fred.

The e-mails usually just have one or two lines to them. No signature. No CC heading. Just my name at the top, and where I’ll be. Maybe I’ll see myself on the news and not even recognize my own face.

Fred only survived one winter. I walked out one morning and found him in his web, legs curled up to his chest or thorax or whatever the hell it is that spider’s have. He had been alive and eating the night before when I had come home, but now, now he was nothing. A tiny half dollar sized husk, and for some strange reason, I was still afraid of him.

I suspected foul play, and my suspicions were confirmed when a new spider moved in to the same web a day later.

I named him Johnny, but things weren’t the same. I was always suspicious of Johnny. After all, he probably murdered Fred. There he was, just sitting in the same nest. Cunning spider. He’d attack me with my back turned, I know it.

So in the mornings, I would say -

Good morning, Johnny.

- and leave for work.

Good evening, Johnny.

Just so he wouldn’t try to attack me. The urge to get the broom became stronger. At the same time, I thought about someone taking my place. Someone doing my job, in my house. Would I want that destroyed? Everything I had worked for?

Johnny and I, we weren’t so different.

Only, I bought the house off a dead guy, from his estate. And I didn’t directly murder him.

I was living in an apartment at the time. With Lilly living up in the corner of the door.

Good morning, Lilly.

That had been the day. Gone to the auto-lot. Saw the old man before he saw me. I could feel the sun in my face. Breeze. Smell of sea-salt in the air.

The old man turned and stared for a few seconds. There was a hint of recognition in his eyes, as if he had seen me before. And of course, he had. They all had.

I was the man that stabbed his father. He gasped, and pointed at me, and gasped some more. People rushed to his side. I just stood there. He kept gasping, staring. His face turned a funny color.

Of course, the man that stabbed his father had been dead for almost twenty years.

Good evening, Lilly.

And I watched on the news, about the old man who had a heart attack, about the old man who was in over his head with debts, about how his last words were -

Seamus Flynn

- and how the reporter did due diligence, did the research, and found no connection with Seamus Flynn or the old man, that Seamus Flynn was only a small time crook in the 1930’s or so. Then they talked a little bit about his family. And more about his debts. And about his house foreclosure.

I moved in shortly after.

As did Fred.

I never checked back up on Lilly, although I don’t think anyone would kill her for her location.

The e-mails, they tell me where I go. Sometimes they’ll tell me who I’ll be. Alive, dead, imaginary. It doesn’t matter.

Good morning, Johnny.

Arrive at the Super Flea.

Good evening, Johnny.

I still don’t trust Johnny, even now. I never thought he trusted me.

In any case, there’s never a picture, so I’ll never know what I’ll look like on any given day. I took the mirrors out of the house a long time ago – it’s just too jarring to see yourself as someone else every day, day in, day out. And on the days where I’m no one, those are the worst. Those are the days that I’m myself.

The days that I’m reminded that I talk to spiders.

Those days don’t happen anymore, now that I’ve gotten rid of the mirrors. Freecycled them.

Good morning, Johnny.

Arrive at the book store.

Good evening, Johnny.

They pay me through a routing fund, through a trust account, through dividends and stock portfolios that belong to some kind of person who works in some kind of building, but I’ll never know.

They pay me for my body, to use my face, to turn in to someone unreal.

Whoever you blame, I am.

Whoever wronged you, I am.

Whoever raped your mother, stabbed your father, kidnapped your child, drowned your cat when you were just a kid, I am.

Even if you don’t know what they look like, when you see me, there will be recognition. As the doctor that performed the fatal surgery, the reckless driver, the airline pilot.

Even if they may be dead, you’ll still see me.

I only wait around long enough to be seen. Then I get paid.

Good evening, Johnny.

Every day it’s someone different. I’ve never had to play the same part twice.

The only time I’ve ever spoken to that some kind of person in that some kind of building, they told me that I wouldn’t need makeup or a costume. That they would handle everything. And they do. They even covered the long distance charges on my phone bill, to the cent, from the call.

Last week, I walked outside. Johnny was AWOL. His web looked dirty, covered in still moving bugs that had just flown in. Dust. Pollen.

I said nothing in the morning.

Arrive at Cold Stone Creamery.

I said nothing in the evening.

As a sign of respect, I left the web until time found it prudent to send a strong gust through.

I do expect that one day, I’ll see a crowd of faces. The people that have seen everything evil and hated about my person. All the other blank slates, like me.

A some kind of person, some kind of building picnic for all the outstanding employees. I know I’m not the only one. There are others that have gone to auto-lots and moved in to houses. A room full of reminders. Maybe we’ll all die from shock when we see each other, and everything evil we hoped to forget.

Just like that old man.

My routine is very much the same now, but my mind will often wander to Lilly, or Fred, or Johnny. The spiders I have lived with. The creatures that knew all my faces. That frighten society.

Kindred spirits.

There are still people out there, waiting for me. Counting on me.

Memories that are trying to fade.

I won’t let them.

So now, on the way in to work, I’ll just say –

Good morning.

- to you.

Why it was rejected for publication