They're tapping on the window like kamikaze raindrops. It'll take us 10 minutes to realize that there's a little gap they can get through, so when I kill 10 with my high voltage bug swatting tennis racket, 20 more appear. They're harmless but icky, little carrier pigeons from my subconscious sent here get my attention and say, first as a whisper, then as a yell, "this is not okay."
Or maybe the little Flying-Ant-Moth things are just trying to get in out of the smoke. Creepy South American insects, they're just like us! The old AQI needle has been blood red for two days now, jumping between three digit prime numbers: 173, 181, 197.
But I have my Raqueta de Tennis del Diablo! It sizzles those little bastards with a satisfying popopop, sending up little sparks and licks of flame. It smells like burnt hair when I popopop these guys. One man shouldn't have this kind of power.
I'm swatting in my undies because it's 100 degrees and humid and we don't have an air con in the kitchen where the insects are congregating. I'm worried I'll catch a knee or a hip on a misplaced followthrough and the current will split my leg right open like a well crisped chorizo. It'll hurt like hell, and I don’t know how electrocution works, but this thing has so much juice I’m pretty sure it’ll sterilize me, and in a country where women have basically no reproductive rights, maybe it’ll all be part of God’s plan, if that’s how that whole thing works.
Was it Sartre who said you aren't scared of the height when you peer over a cliff but of your willingness to jump?
I've backed out of the kitchen while I wait for the bugs to launch their counterattack and I really want to stick my finger through the coils of this tennis racket murder weapon to see what's it all about. I've felt l'appelle du vide a few other times since we arrived here, but it's always had to do with storming out of a faculty meeting or finishing the last few bad idea bites of a giant steak. I haven't answered the call yet, but maybe tonight's the night?
I'll be turning 40 in a few days and I've never done anything Thelma and Louise reckless. N-- is in the shower, washing the shadowy stink of bug murder down our uneven drain. Maybe she's hugging her knees to her chest and sobbing? Maybe we're in a psychological thriller. Maybe that guy across the street who hangs out at the auto parts store is Paul Verhoeven, come to live out his last days in this smoke-filled tax haven. Is it sexy to stick my finger in this Raqueta del Muerto and scream like the lonely hound dog up the street?
The curtains are open and the sunset is a sickly chartreuse. The elevator down the hall whooshes by and a parrot wails from one of the mango trees behind the apartment. I'm standing in the kitchen entryway, backlit by the overhead fluorescents, which are once again filling up with bugs. I look like John Wayne, but with bad posture and ill fitting boxer briefs.
I'll have to touch the void another night. For now, I have bugs to zap.
Oy! Sounds apocalyptic! This can’t last forever. Hold on to your great sense of humor!