I have recently been lying in bed at night feeling as though an army of thousands of miniscule bugs are creeping and crawling up and down my body: in between my toes, in my ears and yes, even in the dark crevices. I am an expert at explaining away most things by distracting myself with other, stronger, more upsetting thoughts than the ones at hand. But if something feels like it is burrowing its way into my hiney hole, there’s not a whole lot else to think about. Especially when I am completely alone in my house.
And yet.
The marching is at its worst when I first wake up in the morning (or maybe I wake up because it’s at its worst in the morning), but believe it or not, once I am up and running I am excellent at completely blocking it all out. How? It’s disgusting. It’s horrifying. There might be live creatures crawling into my ass. I don’t know what to tell you. In my mind I am able to put the emphasis on might be. I have things to do, I think to myself, I’m probably just imagining it.
I may have been able to stay in denial if it weren’t for my neighbor Leslie who asked me if I had any bugs in the house. Oh my god YES, I screamed and immediately began to scratch my head and underarms like a dog with fleas. It’s horrible, I said; I was practically in tears. She told me that the exterminator was coming to her place to investigate, should I send him over to yours?
YES.
I flew back into my house and tore off all the sheets and random items of clothing and washed them in scalding water. I vacuumed up any hair or speck of dust and then washed the floors and bed frames with bleach and cleaner. I wore a mask and rubber gloves. I thought, Oh my God, what happened, I wasn’t thinking, I might be losing my mind. I’m a live and relatively intelligent person and I’ve been letting bugs crawl all over me. I must hate myself.
I was thinking about the way that denial is much more soothing than action, when Tom the exterminator came by. Tom had a completely shaved bald-head and looked like a combination between Irving Swifty Lazar and Jiminy Cricket. He came fully equipped with a flashlight and a clipboard. He knew every possible thing there was to know about any and all species of bugs from the dawn of all time to the present day. His eyes darted from the light switch to the window-sill to the four corners of the walls, “There’s no bugs in here,” he said, then he switched on the flashlight and helped himself to a look around.
I stood out of the way. I knew I was in the presence of a master. I told him I thought I had bed bugs.
What makes you say that?
When I’m in bed, I’m itchy.
He walked to the bedroom and told me about the lifespan and habits of the bedbug. I was riveted. He told me about walking into homes where the bottom of his pants turned black from fleas jumping on. He took the flashlight and examined my mattress, pillows, head board and frame. Then he did it to the other beds.
Tell me why you think you have bed bugs.
I’m itchy. I can feel them crawling all over me.
You got a lot on your mind?
What the fuck Tom, yes. I always do.
He looked at me, his eyes magnified to the size of jelly donuts.
You think I’m imagining this.
I can’t tell you what’s going on in your head.
Tom, you’re messing with me now.
We’re done.
Tom, I felt them. In between my toes. Into my ears. (I followed him to the front door).
It happens.
I couldn’t argue with the guy. He had to be right. He knew what he was talking about.
Why am I so itchy Tom?
Maybe you’re trying to distract yourself from feeling lonely.
I looked at him. He was already halfway back to his van, What if I need you to come back .
Just give a little whistle, he said, and drove away.
smooth and great ending
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