Somehow, in the early nineties, I ended up with a five-and-a-half-foot tall inflatable Spider-Man.
Otis blew Spidey up after the Other Marie and I gave up, our lungs too weak and our interest too minimal. Spidey hung in the window of our Mercer Street (JC) duplex for a few years, watching over indie rockers fresh in from Hoboken, asleep on our living room floor.
"Look, it's Spidey!" I'd hear people call up from the street at night when our apartment lights were on.
Spidey has spent the last twelve years deflated and crushed into the bottom of a box. I unpacked him yesterday and tried to inflate him, but gave up quickly. I put Spidey in the shower to get the dust off him so that he can move to Kuwait or Egypt in a few weeks. The company I work for translates Marvel, Archie, and DC Comics into Arabic and sells them in the Middle East and North Africa. Spidey can be a guest star next time there's an event at Virgin Megastore in Kuwait City or Cairo.