Our home has been invaded three times now. The first two times, they tried to scale the outside walls and crawl in through the space between our roof and ceiling. The last time— I hope it will be the last, though I doubt it– they tried marching in the front door.
They didn’t rob us, or tie us up, as you might expect in a home invasion. The lilliputians that breached our perimeter didn’t have a chance against us. Though they outnumbered us greatly, we defeated them with chemical warfare.
We were preparing to sit down to a light supper of soup in the dining room. I popped into the living room to play some music on iTunes, and saw the infiltrators–hundreds of them–scurrying in circles beneath my desk. Several had scaled the filing cabinet drawers, and formed a conga line on the desktop.
“Jack,” I screamed, “there are ants. Oh my god, they’re everywhere.” Then I grabbed some insect death in a can and began simultaneously stomping and spraying.
Jack had his headphones on, and didn’t hear my SOS. Anyway, he’s used to my insect outbursts, so he didn’t jump up and rush to my side when my voice penetrated.
I know— the aversion is irrational. My entomologist friend, Kirby, shakes his head in dismay when I recount some horror filled, insect-related tale. When he explains that insects are mostly harmless, I deliver some shocking fact, like, “Did you know that all the ants in the world outweigh all the humans?” Kirby isn’t bothered, but I can reduce myself to an itching, twitching heap merely by imagining so many ants.
“Jack, come in here. I’m freaking out,” I reiterate. “They’re carrying eggs,” I add. Finally, he stirs.
“Holy shit,” he says, grabs another can of spray, and joins me in the Bristol Stomp. “I’m trying to figure out where they’re coming in,” he says, visually sweeping the baseboards.
“Take that,” I say, as I step on one ant after another, but my fight turns to flight when they begin dropping out of the ceiling. “I’m out of here,” I say. I call Bob and Patsy, our friends down the road. When Bob picks up the phone, I announce my nervous breakdown.
“I have this dragon spray,” he says. “It works pretty well. I’ll bring it over.”
“Okay, but can I sleep at your place?” I beg.
When Bob appears, armed with more liquid insect death, he and Jack search outside the house with flashlights. “Wow,” says Bob. “Look at this. There must be millions of them.”
Inside, I’m packing my overnight bag. I look down, and see ants on the floor of our spare bedroom. Several have crawled over my sandals and one of them bites me between the toes. These ants are cold-blooded killers, I think.
I hear Bob yelling “Ouch! oh!” Then he appears on the back porch, furiously wiping the soldiers off his pants before rejoining the fray.
I don’t hesitate. I ditch the sandals and put on sneaks and socks. “See you tomorrow,” I yell as I run for the car.
“When army ants invade a Tico’s house, the family just leaves for a few hours and the ants clean the whole house,” Patsy says, when I arrive at her place, looking around nervously.
“Hm,” I say, but I’m thinking, When I need help with the house cleaning, I’ll hire someone.
