Last night, about midnight, after Jill was asleep and I was going around making sure the lights were off and doors locked, I almost stepped on a bug in my bare feet!
In the Southland, we've got some bugs of unusual size. People who know me, know that one of my most enduring characteristics is a lifelong fear of bugs. Okay, not fear. Phobia. Twice, over the years, I've become so incapacitated by that fear that I've had to go for treatment. It's not that I think they're annoying, or ugly, or symbolic of everything evil in the universe. It's all that and more. They have all those skinny little legs. They move so fast and unpredictably. Sometimes they fly and even get ON you. And they crunch when you step on them. I could go on.
It's only been a matter of a month or so ago that I was doing the late night circuit and came upon one of those midnight visitors. As usual, I screamed uncontrollably and started doing the tiptoe dance, which brought Jill out of her much-needed sleep. She sighed and took over. She knows her job well. I cowered in the other room while she destroyed the creature, which really was THIS BIG, regardless of what she says, and worried about whether she would properly dispose of the carcass. It's a demand that goes unspoken, but has great repercussions because it can affect the next few days or longer. Unfortunately, she put it in the kitchen trash, right there on top in front of God and everybody, but since I had already ruined her slumber and she had to get up for work at 5:15, I stayed mum and sucked it up like a good soldier. First thing in the morning, I stepped on the trashcan pedal, averted my eyes, and put several perfectly good, unused paper towels on top of the monster.
I have never actually killed one of these creatures myself ----- until last night.
It's true that when I finish writing a novel, I plunge into an abyss. I don't quite know what to do with myself. I cast about for things to do, try to catch passing ideas and see if they'll spin out into some sort of narrative, read and scrabble around on the internet machine, and generally start to feel that I have no particular use in the world, or excuse for taking up oxygen. That can lead to very bad places if left unchecked. And in its wake, fears and phobias are able to resurface from their ever-present hiding places. Kind of like bugs in the walls and crevices.
I've been introspective, off balance, a little weepy, not in the pink, I guess you could say, ever since I finished the last book. In fact, I have two unopened cartons from CreateSpace sitting in the front room, with books inside. So when I encountered that wanton, six-legged varmint last night, I immediately started to freak out and dance around ----- but I didn't scream. Perhaps that is the beginning.
I made a split-second decision not to wake up my blissfully sleeping wife and take on this threat my own self. Our big, brave 55 pound dog looked on as I cast about for a weapon. Spray was my first thought, but that would involve going out to the garage, which could give this thing time to slip into a crack and disappear, and then I'd never get to sleep. No, it had to be immediate and decisive. I would have to use a flyswatter. That's what they're made for. But where was it? Not in either of the two places I usually hang it in the kitchen. Then I remembered hanging it from the cafe rod by the table. That would mean crossing in front of the beast, which would give it an opening to attack, but I had to take a chance. I leaped like a creature of the forest to the other side of the room, grabbed my weapon and ------ no. I could not come at it from the front. That would never do. It would mean not only that it could charge me, but I'd be at a disadvantage having to use a cross-body swing. I was certain to miss.
With another heroic leap, I gained a foothold to the left of my quarry and slightly behind. Pausing only to blur my vision enough to aim for the moving spot on the floor without being able to distinguish the disgusting legs, I swung. Splat! A near miss. It shot in the direction of the refrigerator and I swung again. I was determined not to let it out of my fuzzy vision. The third time I slapped pink plastic against the kitchen floor, I winged it. It was no longer running, but wiggling in its tracks. A final swoop of the flyswatter and the deed was done. I was victorious!
I knew I had reached my limit. The clean up crew would have to take care of the remains. I left the flyswatter across the trashcan as a symbol of my triumph, and hoped that neither the dogs nor the cats would decide to munch on the carcass. It took awhile to go to sleep; I felt an odd mixture of pride and horror at the evening's adventure.
This morning I woke up long enough to announce my feat to Jill.
"I killed a bug last night!"
"So did I."
"In the kitchen?"
"Yeah."
"That's the one I killed."
"Oh, I killed it again. I thought it was just resting."
We're an unstoppable team.
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