Experiment Four
by Samantha Mitchell
December 1st and Pataskala is already decked out. Smithson Trust
Bank started after Thanksgiving, busting out the cheap felt stockings with
our names glue-gunned at the tops and sprinkled with glitter. Mistletoe strung from the tiled ceiling; bells clinking off the ends of our teller
windows underneath small, festive wreaths—the kind with plastic leaves
and hard kernels of Styrofoam made to look like holly berries; red- and
green-wrappered Tootsie Rolls in our Tootsie Roll bowls. The height
strip alongside the door caps off at six feet, but today it ends another
six inches higher with the addition of an elf hat, complete with pointed
ears. I imagine a headline for it: SANTA COMES EARLY, ELVES ROB
BANK.
The streets, too, muddle with slush and rocky bits of ice at the
curb. It gives the town a dirty look despite the large wire snowflakes that
dangle from the telephone poles in a long succession of tired Christmas
cheer. They light up at night, but the circuitry must be off; they blink in
odd places. During the day, they don’t do anything but sag. I count them
as I drive past, my eyes following the swoop and dip of the telephone
wires punctuated by these gray frazzled webs.
GIANT SPIDERS INVADE OHIO, DEATH-TRAPS
MISTAKEN FOR HOLIDAY SPIRIT.
This is why I’m a bank teller and not a journalist. That’s what
Roger would say. That, and also, “No, Nancy, those snowflakes aren’t like
spider webs at all. Here let me tell you about science…” Roger was an
expert on things like spider webs. He once had his fifth graders conduct
an elaborate science experiment with spiders. “It’ll be great for the
kids—show them spiders are good for the environment. You know, not
scary.” He spent a whole weekend collecting spiders from hidden corners
around the house, scooped into a bent Florida Orange box with Saran
Wrap covering. He brought them to class, had the kids make spider dens
during art hour. They spent the next two weeks observing. One spider, a
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