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The sunlit terrorist
By Witchy | June 15, 2008
I’m sitting on the easy chair in the living room, reading a book, when I hear the deep drone of a wasp.
Lowering my book, I look around uneasily. I am terrified of wasps. Worse than terrified. Dealing with them outside is different. They have lots of places to go, and things to see that are far more interesting than me.
But trapped inside a house, they become irritable, cranky, mean. And they smell fear.
I cast my eyes across the room, careful not to move, to attract the attention of the object of my terror. And then I see it, hovering angrily by the fridge.
“J!” I scream. “J! Help me!”
Feet pound on the stairs as my son hurries to help.
“What’s wrong, mom? What’s wrong?”
“It’s a wasp. There’s a wasp. Kill it!”
It takes him a couple of minutes to locate the beast, and when he does, he grabs a fly-swatter. I stare in horror as he brandishes the swatter through the air in wide, sweeping arcs.
“That’s not going to work!” I yell, panic causing the frequency of my voice to rise. “You’re going to make it mad!”
Obviously attracted by my fear, the wasp turns and heads straight for me. I scream and lunge from the chair, running down the hall, flailing my arms. The wasp goes berserk. I dive into the bathroom and slam the door. Then, for good measure, I lock it, and pull out the drawer.
“Kill it!” I yell.
“I can’t find it,” comes my son’s muffled voice. “I can hear it, but I can’t see it.”
I sit on the toilet seat and put my head in my hands. I am trapped. I can’t leave the bathroom until I know the wasp is dead. But I can’t stay in here forever. I have to drive my son to work soon. And what if the wasp is still flying around once he is gone? What then?
Suddenly inspired, I stand up and grab a can of hair spray, then yell through the door again.
“Where is it?”
“It’s in the window,” he says.
“How are you going to kill it?”
“I don’t know!”
There is only one thing to do. I have to somehow master my fear and kill the wasp myself.
I brace myself mentally and ease open the door.
Approaching the window on silent feet, I hold the can of hair spray out like a crucifix against an unseen demon.
Behind the blinds, the wasp crawls up the glass. I swallow hard. He is huge. Almost two inches long, and he looks angry.
I take a deep breath, press down the nozzle and spray him. Nothing happens. I spray him again, and again. The smell of hair spray fills the air.
The wasp is obviously impacted by the chemicals raining down on him, as he staggers slightly, then his wings flatten on his back and he begins crawling back up the window, madder than ever.
“Give me a lighter!” my son says.
“Are you crazy?”
“You spray him, and I’ll light the lighter!” he says. I look at him in disbelief, and wonder how he will survive in the world when he moves out next week.
“You’ll burn the house down,” I say. “Get a shoe! A boot!”
He returns with a hiking boot, and I take it from him, full of false bravado. I move toward the window and get ready to squish the little terrorist. But before I can convince myself it is safe to do so, the wasp crawls even further up the window and is soon out of reach. Then it starts buzzing again, an angry, vengeful buzz that promises pain and retribution as it slams its body against the blinds, searching for a way out, a way to reach the enemy with the spray can.
I leap backwards.
“Give me the spray!” my son says.
“No!” I yell, and turn and run toward the stairs.
“Mom! Come back!”
“No! Kill it! Do something!” I scream as I thunder down the steps. I run into my office and close the door, trying to catch my breath. And then I realize that I’ve left him alone with the wasp, and if he burns the house down, we have bigger problems.
I creep back out.
“Is it dead?” I ask, hoping beyond hope. “Did you kill it?”
Silence.
I inch my way back up the stairs, half expecting to see my son lying dead on the carpet from the sting of the wasp, but to my surprise he stands triumphantly with a bottle of Sunlight dish soap in his hand.
“What happened? Is it dead?”
“I immobilized it,” he said.
Immobilized it?
I look at the window, and there on the bottom of the frame lies the wasp, squirming in a pool of bright yellow liquid. I shake my head. It’s not good enough. It’s not dead yet.
“The shoe!” I yell. “Squish it!”
Now that it is over, now that the carcass of the terrorist who invaded our home is lying flat and glowing with neon sunlight, I take a deep breath. My heart begins to slow.
And I wonder, when my young hero moves away, what I will do when yet another winged invader penetrates the defenses of my home.
Topics: Our Witchy Family |
4 Responses to “The sunlit terrorist”
Comments
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July 4th, 2008 at 9:45 am
Well? What are you doing now that he’s away?
July 4th, 2008 at 9:59 am
July 4th, 2008 at 10:38 am
I’m allergic to bees and wasps and the such. They freak me out too. DS … he still loves his mom. You should meditate on his love for you when you’re trying to sleep. Bet it works.
July 4th, 2008 at 11:23 am