Webcrawler

 

Simon Spyder, Ph.D., licensed psychologist, had the misfortune, to those that did not know him well, of also looking like a spider. He was tall and spindly and had a knobby ectomorphic physique. Today, in the typically languid posture with which he usually sat at his desk--and which his long-suffering secretary  Amy had long become used to-- Dr. Spyder sat motionlessly for an hour,  hands nearly touching the floor, and awaited his next client.  Spiderlike indeed he did look. But if any of those did not know Dr. Spyder were to ask Amy about him, she  would say he seemed to like looking like a spider. There seemed an odd, inscrutable identification.

Dr. Spyder’s role in the mental health ecosystem in this provincial Louisiana town was to provide psychological reports.  School system, courts, and private offices of physicians were beneficiaries of his terse--some might say telegraphic, while others might say formulaic--opinions.  He had started out as a relaxation and trauma therapist, but return visits were rare. Was it the cobwebby office?  Was it the little indeterminate,  foodish  crumbs scattered about? No matter.  Testing suited  Dr. Suyper and he could quickly turn out a readable semi-literate report that helped paid the bills.

Dr. Spyder had complete confidence in his own judgment. Over the years, there was little about human behavior that he hadn’t seen, mulled, digested and, transferred into his own, he liked to think, perceptive reports.

He had the conceit that he was a large sensory organ, a sort of radar dish, as if she sat in the hub  of a radar dish, or rather more accurately, a large web– capturing every sensation a client emitted. That there was little feedback or corrective information allowed this conceit to flourish--but that was the nature of the job. The troubling though--the vacuum of feedback-- quickly dwindled, by a mental trick that he was extremely good at, away.

At her desk this morning, Dr. Spyder overheard Amy's voice in the waiting room. She said the same thing every time to new clients—in the same bland tone--if not, it was probably because the new client had some small notoriety in this small city.  An accountant with a pinky ring, or other well-to-do bourgeois might be addressed more enthusiastically.  An exquisitely sensitive instrument, her nose for status was as well developed as a seismograph.  Most people fell amongst the regular hoi polloi, though. After years of repetition, the cadence of her well-practiced tones for most people was as consistent as a Gregorian chant. Dr. Spyder wondered if he himself had become this tiresome.  

Once in a while, there was a laugh from the waiting room, or  an unexpected peal of laughter from behind the door. Oh! one of them had made a joke. In that case it was likely a client who needed a favorable report for court and was on their most flattering behavior. Dr. Spyder would think:  A slight manipulator, eh. Watch for relational aggression in this one. Dr. Spyder’s insights were quick and piercing, intractable, and usually somewhat depressing in their construal of human motives.

The New Client

Today, Dr. Spyder listened and waited and in a few minutes later, there was a knock on the office door. Dr. Spyder donned large dark glasses that covered her red eyes and slipped on black gloves. She shoved arms, four apiece, into each sleeve of a black bolero jacket. She wore only black, explaining to others that it slimmed her bulging middle. The sleeves of this silky jacket always gave her trouble—what with the big claws at the end of her arms.

“Come in,” called Dr. Spyder, and through the door slipped a tall slim woman in a gray pencil suit. Registering the cylindrical body type, Dr. Spyder thought, Aha! Ectomorphic! Anxious! Phobic! A predominance of cerebrotonia!

The new client, Ms. Gregory, had an elegant, triangular face with large liquid eyes. Oversensitive, overwhelmed by responsibilities, eh. Dr. Spyder had a way of transforming any observation almost magically into content. She was, after all, an Interpretation Spider.

Raising her cheeks in polite imitation of a smile without opening her mouth,  Dr. Spyder extended her broomstick like arm across the desk and shook Ms. Gregory’s hand.

“Hello Dr. Spyder,” said Ms. Gregory, “I like your office art.” Aha, thought Dr. Spyder, a histrionic bid to elicit reciprocal approval. Ms. Gregory glanced at several pieces on the wall. “Very eclectic.”

Aha! Not sure what to do with non-conformity.

Ms. Gregory smiled and Dr. Spyder noted pearly perfect teeth. “Aha, good dental hygiene indicating investment in external appearances to ensure approval. A histrionic maneuver. “Especially that reddish painting there.” Aha, drawn to affectively charged visual stimuli. Color shock! Like over-reacting to Card IX!

Ms. Gregory looked around the room and sighed, “I so love art!” Aha! Attempting to bond by drawing attention to our similarities. “I just wish my work allowed more time to enjoy it.”
Humblebrag!

Dr. Spyder motioned Ms. Gregory to sit. “Please read the informed consent.” Ms. Gregory received the pages with long fingers and squinted at the type–”Oh, I am blind as a bat.” She chuckled while unclasping her purse. “I can hardly read anymore without my glasses.”

Aha! Secondary gain, dodging responsibilities by claiming physical symptoms. Purposely adopting invalidism. Ms. Gregory’s report was almost writing itself, though Dr. Spyder with satisfaction.

Ms. Gregory withdrew something from her purse. She seemed to be struggling to get the large object out. What is that? thought Dr. Spyder. Myopic herself. Those don’t look like glasses! Dr. Spyder squinted—none of her eight eyes were sharp. What have you got there–a book? What?”

A Book

Dr. Spyder shuddered with an instinctual fear of big, flat objects used to crush insects and arachnids.

“Yes, a big thick book. “Ms. Gregory raised the book to shoulder height, almost with difficulty given her thin, almost spaghetti like arms. Then she, then dropped the book. A thunderous clap rattled Dr. Spider’s ears… “Yes, a book, a famous book by psychologist Paul Meehl entitled `Clinical vs. Statistical Prediction: A Theoretical Analysis and a Review of the Evidence.’ It describes the muddleheaded ways psychologists make inferences.”

Paul Meehl. How did this client know about Paul Meehl? Dr. Spyder looked at Ms. Gregory intensely. Who was this woman? And how could she, Dr. Spyder, escape? Apprehensively, Dr. Spyder eyed the corner of the ceiling.

“You don’t remember me, do you,” Ms. Gregory continued. “or your unscientific psychological report that described me as an unfit parent?”

Ms. Gregory picked up the book with both hands and marched toward Dr. Spyder. At so terrifyingly a sight, Dr. Spyder scuttled up the wall.

“Did you never read this book in grad school?" Now, high into a corner, Dr. Spyder rolled into a ball and closed her eyelids, waiting.

All was dark. Dr. Spyder floated in mist. Half awake, she spun ever so slightly like an eight- legged satellite. A distant light grew stronger. Vague faces appeared in the mist around her. They were sad faces, faces that she recognized even in her dreamy state to be former clients.

They mocked the test reports she had written about them.

“This parent has a range of behaviors that interfere with appropriate parenting.”

“This is a patient who likely is malingering.”

“This patient is unable to carry out the duties outlined in their job description.”

The voices droned on in an accusatory tone. The light intensified, the condemning chant continued. Dr. Spyder yelled in a voice that to her seemed unnaturally tiny, “No, I can’t die like this. I want to live.”

“You are living,” said Ms. Gregory, looking down at her. Dr. Spyder was flat on her back. Her head hurt. “You fell off the wall.”

Ms. Gregory’s face seemed was so high above her to seem nearly microcephalic. And Ms. Gregory had eight long Daddy long legs… “I guess you now see I am a spider too. A Data Spider. I eat the purveyors of shameless pseudoscientific articles, research and occasionally, as an appetizer, a private practice clinician churning out ridiculous reports.

Daddy Long Legs particularly enjoy eating other spiders.

And it became evident that Ms. Gregory was an old client as well, one who had lost a custody battle because of a report.

“I am so sorry,” said Dr. Spyder. “Somewhere I became lost.”

Ms. Gregory looked at her dispassionately. But. her face betrayed a slight sympathy.

“I may not eat you. There may be hope for you.. As a professional you have acted shamelessly. But because I am fair minded, I will allow you choices. You may quit professional psychology or you may complete a two year post-doc on advanced parametric statistics or you can face a complaint with the Florida Board of Psychology. Or, then again, I guess I can simply eat you.”

Horrendous choices, thought Dr. Spyder. She pondered.

Epilogue

Dr. Spyder worked hard on herself for three years. She took courses, studied, took out loans and built a new office in a different county in Florida. She acknowledged that she was not by nature a very clear thinker. She dressed au natural—making no pretenses. A spider she was and she wouldn’t hide it.

She made no effort to conceal her shiny exoskeleton and the bright red hourglass on her belly. Her clients liked her new scary look. During all this time, Ms. Gregory remained her close friend.

Today, she waited for her new client. Nowadays, she did not use a desk but just hung upside down in a corner web. It was more honest. Her reputation was growing as a result of the changes. A knock on the door and a new client entered.

Dr. Spyder extended a hairy arm “Hello, I am Annie Spyder, Attorney, Specializing in Family Law.”