I read the novel Leave the World Behind in three breathless, dread-filled sessions last week. Like the film Parasite, it draws heavily on the fear of something or someone turning up uninvited or hiding in our homes.
Leave the World Behind was so anxiety-inducing I could only manage a couple of pages at a time before coming up for air.
It was on one of these tense little breathers, that I walked to the bathroom. “Chill, it’s just a book,” I told myself before seeing it.
“Arrghhh!!” I screamed. A thing, a large thing was behind the door. What was it?!! How did it get inside?
It looked like a lizard – small feet, large belly, a tail.
It moved, curling itself into a grey lump on the floor, as if trying to trick me it was more concentrated.
Still largely in the world of the novel, it was as if the central conceit of the fiction had seeped into my real life. There it was ... sitting on the cool tiles, as incongruous as if someone had left a lemon meringue pie on the floor or an … axe ... or a wheel of brie. It just didn’t fit in my house.
This lizard was the uninvited guest, the parasite in the basement, the stranger in the kitchen.
I FaceTimed my friend Brad and turned the camera around on the lizard.
“Arghh help – what is that?”
He started laughing. “It’s fine, probably just a blue tongue lizard. Pick it up by the neck and put it outside. They do bite – so you need to be careful.”
No way. Cannot touch it!!
I rang a neighbour. He suggested – also somewhat horrifically – putting a blanket over it and then putting it in a box, as if it were a kidnapping.
While I was on the phone, the lizard, perhaps overhearing this, escaped into the laundry where it ran into a tiny gap between the washing machine and the wall, even though it was twice the size of the gap! How did it do that?
On Twitter, people advised enticing the lizard out with strawberries, bananas and meat then either boxing it or grabbing it or herding it outside.
I left a trail of porterhouse steak on the ground and all the doors open then went for a run – giving the lizard the opportunity to eat its way out of the house – and my life.
But halfway around the oval, it occurred to me my plan could backfire – and instead of coaxing animals out, the trail of steak would coax more in (or as my friend Mick pointed out – “sounds like a pretty good way to lure about 300 more animals into your house”).
I went back and removed the steak – which by this stage had hardened and now looked like chips of pink quartz, and was attracting ants and flies. But I left all the doors open, so the lizard could find its way out easily – then I went to the pub.
At the pub I was telling people about the lizard, when one man piped up and said “oh are you @brigidwd?” He gave his Twitter handle. “I advised you to chase the lizard into a cardboard box,” he said. “Or if you pick it up, use an oven mitt in case it bites.”
Argh!! Scary!! It was someone from Twitter in real life! Not only was the plot of the terrifying novel seeping into my home, but followers were leaping off my timeline and materialising into real people at the pub.
(Which just goes to show you should be civil on Twitter because you may – and in this case, do – meet that person out in the world an hour later.)
When I got home, I couldn’t see the lizard. It’s probably gone, I thought.
The next day a handyman, Darren, came to replace my weird, undersized toilet seat – and I was telling him (in the past tense) about the lizard. “I think it’s gone now.”
He looked wistful and said I was lucky, that lizards were the best creatures – so gentle, sweet, AND they get rid of the snakes.
“It takes one in your house to really realise how close we are to nature!” he said.
With the lizard outside, I agreed with him in principle.
That afternoon, I continued reading the terrifying book. Again – it made me anxious and full of dread. Having a break, I went to the laundry and screamed. The lizard was still there. It saw me – looked freaked out and crawled back into the crevice.
But this time the scream was just a reflex. My fear was not as acute. I knew the lizard wouldn’t hurt me (unless it bit me). Maybe the lizard had been living here for a long time … maybe longer than me. Maybe it was I who was invading his home.
I rang several animal rescue services who assured me that although people keep them as pets, the lizard would not have chosen to be in the house.
“Wild animals want to be outside,” said the man from WIRES. “It sounds like the lizard came in because he was hot or thirsty, but he’ll want to get out.”
I rang another group who promised to dispatch volunteers.
They turned up at the front door. They were unafraid, full of purpose and confident they could move him. They had big wildlife rescuer energy.
We moved the washing machine. The lizard was gone ... again. The rescuers left. The lizard stayed … somewhere.
I took my book outside. The novel was moving towards some sort of grim, apocalyptic crescendo. But a theme had emerged. Sometimes we just have to trust the strangers and let them into our houses. And – by fearing each other, we lose our humanity. Each other is all we have.
I needed to stop being scared of the lizard, stop thinking of it as an invader, and perhaps more like a tenant, or a housemate or a ... friend. It could stay as long as it liked.
Then just as I finished the book, the lizard walked past me and disappeared behind a tree. At last – we were both free.
The Link LonkDecember 17, 2020 at 11:32PM
https://www.theguardian.com/commentisfree/2020/dec/18/i-went-into-my-laundry-and-screamed-the-giant-lizard-was-still-there
I went into my laundry and screamed. The giant lizard was still there - The Guardian
https://news.google.com/search?q=Laundry&hl=en-US&gl=US&ceid=US:en
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