Crawl

I’ve always thought of myself as a pretty good “do-it-yourselfer;” you know, the kinda guy who can change out his own master cylinder, install a new bathtub, or build a deck.  Hell, I built my back patio all by myself, and half the homes on the block wouldn’t look near as pretty as they are without all the help I’ve given!  It was a brand spankin new subdivision on the skirts of Phoenix, but the homes were getting’ away from that tract-housing look and moving towards a more home-style look, kinda like the neighborhood I’ve always wanted to live in, very similar to my hometown of Amarillo (I’d moved here when I got my hefty settlement after the accident…bitch’s insurance company paid through the nose!).  One really nice thing about the subdivision was that it ran right up against a mountain preserve, giving a great place for any future kids to run and play.

So, with my do-it-yourself background, I really didn’t think much about the ants I found that day in early spring.  Now, Arizona’s a damn fine place to live, ‘specially in spring: the days are the perfect kinda weather for a man like me, and the nights are just nice enough to have the windows open, ceiling fan (installed by yours truly) curlin about a breeze.  So, the weather was nice enough (and my back fence high enough!) where I thought I’d mow the backyard without my shoes on.  Now normally, I don’t do things like that, walkin around with no shoes or socks on, but dammit, the tiff grass felt so damn good between my toes!  But, while I was mowing, the blades caught a mound of dirt that’s been lifted up just slightly, underneath the cover of the grass.  Now, any good gardener can tell ya that this is from one of two things: a gopher, or ants.  Well, I ain’t kiddin ya when I tell you that them ants decided to make their presence known, as two of them bastards were already on my feet and chomped down on my toes.

Now I’m a pretty big boy, keeping my football form still, even 27 years after high school.  I go about 6’2”, 250 pounds, and though I got my good amount of belly-beer-storage, I also have my fair share of muscle.  But I swear upon my daddy’s grave, that them ants caused me one helluva lot of pain.  I yelped so loud my wife came runnin outside to see what was the matter.

“Honey, I got bit by a friggin ant, a big ass one, two of em!”  I was already moving away from the anthill towards the patio.

She came walking over, she also being barefoot, looking around for any more ants.  “I don’t see any ants….”

“Woman, look over where you see my mower!  See them ants now?”

She smiled, somewhat in a mocking way, and says, “Oh yeah, those are some big ass ants.  Want me to kiss your boo-boo?”  Goddam her.

“Woman, you only lived in Texas for a year, so you never saw your share of fire ants.  Them’s fire ants if I’ve ever seen em!”

“Well, hun, why don’t you kill the big bad ants, and I’ll get back to cleaning the house.”

I pause for a second, and says, “That’s what I was gonna do ‘fore you interrupted me.  Now get back in the house and let me handle this.”

I’d met Callie a little over a year ago; I was on disability from the accident with that bitch and needed a “physical therapist,” and Callie was a widow of six years.  I guess my charm just naturally won her over, as she was definitely the prettiest woman I could ever imagine.

I smiled a bit, thinkin ‘bout her, then put my thoughts to them ants.

Now, bein the knowledgeable handyman-type, I went straight into the garage and grabbed myself a can of Green Light, the connoisseur’s choice for ant killing.  Somethin about that Diazinon that just hit em, right where it counts.  I popped off the lid, pulled my lawnmower out of the way, figured out where the center of the anthill was, and sprinkled the Green Light in a large circle around it.  See, you spread it in a circle so they think it’s food and bring it to the queen as a gift.  Even if they don’t, they’ll walk through it and still bring it into the hill, hive, whatever you call the insides of the hill.

Well, I have to admit sometimes that I don’t think straight when I’m mad, cuz I’d completely forget about putting on shoes and socks, and before I know it, my feet have ants crawlin all over again.  Those bastards.  So, I go running over to the hose, crank it on, and spray my feet down…goddam if there wasn’t a hundred ants that time on my feet!  I could see all the new bites, but I didn’t feel em that much…I was plum thrilled at the prospect of killin off that whole damn hill.

“Mutt, get away from thar, you dipshit!”  My dog, stupid mutt, was outside and sniffin around the Green Light, like she’s gonna eat it or somethin.  When she didn’t move, I aimed the hose at her, put my thumb over the end and gave her a good blast.  “That’ll learn ya.  Now git’n the house.”  With that, I opened the glass door for her, givin her a little love-kick on the butt for good measure, and decided to call it a day; ‘sides, rasslin’s on!

The next morn, Monday, I went outside to finish cuttin the grass, knowin by now the Green Light’d worked its magic.  But when I got out there, there was a path, a three-inch wide patch, made through the Green Light!  Now I’m a monkey’s wanker, lookin at that patch and wonderin just how in carnation these ants could do somethin like that!  I mean, the fire ants I’d battled in the past (not just your ordinary, run-o’-the-mill fire ants, I’m talkin Texas fire ants, pronounced Tay-has, like the natives pronounce Texas) had been crushed by Green Light…hell, some’d just dug up a new ant hill a foot or so away, which is why I put it down in such a big circle.  But no ants, not even Texas fire ants, just walk right through it!

Shakin my head, I walked back into the house, shouting at Mutt to follow me (dammit, she’s sniffin the Green Light again…now she’s itchin, great, probably bringin ants into the goddam house.).

I walked next door to Charlie’s place, knowin my next course of action.  When he answers the door (he always looks so damn disappointed when he opens the door, like he’s spectin Jim McMahon with his million dollar check or somethin), I ask him point blank: “Chuck, your son still got some them firecrackers from last Fourth?”

Charlie kinda half-smiles, and says, “Yeah, I think he was saving up the remainder for this Fourth.  Some M-80s.  Why, you need…say, this doesn’t have to do with that argument…”

“What argument?”

“…You had with your wife yesterday about some ants?”  He was leadin me around to the garage door, which was already open.  Charlie was a bit of a do-it-yourselfer himself, but he made a livin out of it: restorin old cars and sellin em.  Made pretty good change too, I reckon.  “Did you use Green Light on them?  That’s what I always use….”

“Yes, I used the Green Light on em,” I mocked him.  “Them’s some kinda hard-ta-kill fire ants, I figure, so I thought I’d try the ol firecracker trick on em.”

Charlie looked at me, with a worried look on his face.  “Firecracker trick?”

“Yeah, ya dig a little hole, like with the end of a madax, drop in the firecracker, cover the hole, and boom, the shockwave kills the ants.  Great idea, huh?”

Charlie had the same look on his face.  “Why don’t you just call in an exterminator?  You know, they have access to a lot stronger pesticides….”

I had to stop him.  “Chuck, anything they kin do, I kin do, an a lot cheaper.  You see any plumbers comin over to my house?  You see any TV repairmen comin over to my house?  No, they only come to your house.  I’m a handyman, and I do the work on my house, so no sterminator’s comin to my house.”

Charlie sighed, and started poking through some drawers.  “I admit, you’re a pretty decent handyman, but sometimes, you just gotta call in the professionals.  Remember last year when you shorted out half the house installing ceiling fans, and the only thing that kept it from burning down was Joe from the hardware store?”

I waved him off.  “Joe spotted the same thing I’d already spotted…I wanted to test him out a bit, see if he knew half the shit he claimed to know, workin at the hardware store.”

There it was, that worried look again.  “Okay, here’s the M-80’s.  I’ll give you two...any more and I’d be afraid you’d get hurt.  I take it you need to borrow my mattock…I mean, madax, as well?”

“If you don’t mind.”

Good ol Charlie, always the worrywart.  I went back to the anthill, remembering where I pictured the center to be, and swung the madax smack dab into it, burying the entire spike.  A couple more swings opened up a pretty good-sized hole, big enough to drop both M-80s into.  This agitated the damn ants again, but I moved away fast enough to not get bit again.  In fact, I went inside and sat down a spell, waitin for the ants to calm down enough so they’d all be right inside the hill.

After about a half-hour of the Springer show (that Jew always cracks me up), I went out to the garage and grabbed an oil drip pan that’d been under my project car: a 72 LeMans, just waitin for me to get some time to devote to it.  I planned to use the drip pan to keep the shockwave in the ground, stead of comin up through the hole.  Just an example of usin the noggin. 

With firecrackers, matches, and drip pan in hand, I stood on the grass.  The wicks on the M-80s was long enough, so I twisted the wicks together and stood right over the hole I’d dug.  The ants were still a touch agitated, but it was high time: I lit the wicks and dropped em in the hole.  I then grabbed the pan and laid it over the top and moved back a few yards for good measure.

The M-80s went off like an ol muzzleloader rifle, causin my ears to ring for a spell.  Figurin that the wave had killed the ants, I went over to the drip pan and picked it up.  What happened next can only be described by givin ya a brief description of what was said:

“HolyMarymotherofJesusmotherfuckerowohohshitGoddamnsonsabitches!”

I was flailing about, swingin my arms and legs everywhere, feeling the crawling all over my lower body.  This only ended when Callie opened the door and cranked the hose on me, full blast.  During my screaming, I saw her smilin and shakin her head through the kitchen window, obviously enjoyin the pain I was in.

By the time she was done dowsin me, I went straight to the bathtub, fillin it with cold water and pourin the whole Arm & Hammer box from the freezer into the tub with me (an ol trick I learned from my Maw).  Even though I’d worn jeans, shoes and socks, the bites ran from my toes all the way up to my upper thigh…not just bites, but huge, stingin welts.

I was done messin with ants for the day.

The next morn, I woke to find that the ants had made their way into the house.  My house.  I first saw the trail, a thin, black line, weavin longside the kitchen cabinets, workin its way to the pantry.  I took a small can of Raid and sprayed along this line, killin em “on contact.”  But I didn’t realize the full extent of the infestation; when I opened the pantry door, the dog food was crawling with the fuckers.  Ramen noodles, spaghetti, the half-loaf of bread, mac and cheese, a box of instant potatoes, the bag of flour, everything.  I immediately began throwing food away, Callie still bein in bed and I not wantin to upset her none.  Everythin went straight into a trash bag, Mutt watchin my every move, damn dog.  I had everything pretty well cleaned up (I used the Dust Buster to suck up the remaining trail of ants) by the time Callie woke up.

“Hi honey!” I said, in as nice a voice as I could.

“Hey, babe, Sally Jessie’s on…can you fix me a bowl of cereal?” 

I was in luck.  There was one unopened box of cereal, some generic shredded wheat.  “Sure, honey, but all we got left is shredded wheat!  That okay?”

“We had nearly a full box of Raisin Bran yesterday…what happened to that?”

I thought quick.  “Mmmmm, it was gooood!”  I even rubbed my gut for good measure.

“No wonder you’re getting so fat, you ate the whole box?!?  The whole god damn box?!?”

I felt pretty darn insulted by this.  “I’m not fat…in case you haven’t noticed, I’m well within my guidelines….”

 “Babe, you’re 5’10”, and you weigh somewhere around 270.  How in the hell is that within guidelines?”

I felt even more insulted.  “Honey, I’m 6’2”…”

“5’10”.  In shoes.”

“…and the bathroom scale says 250”

“I’m your physical therapist.  You haven’t weighed 250 since your Freshman year.  Now give it up and get me some cereal, God damn….”  She trailed off, watching Sally.

I went into the kitchen and grabbed the box of cereal, ripping off the top, tearing the bag open and pouring a bowl full of the wheat chunks.  I went to add sugar from the sugar bowl on the counter, but thought better of it when I saw the mound of ants, literally swimmin in the sugar.  “Honey, we’re out of sugar, that okay?”  I heard more mumbling, and figured she was okay with it.  I poured milk onto the shredded wheat, added a spoon and brought it to her.  She was seated on one end of the couch, the dog laying next to her with its head on Callie’s lap (damn spoiled mutt).  I sat on the other side of the dog, at which time she farted on me.  I sniffed the air a couple times til I smelled it, then wrinkled my nose in disgust.

Callie stopped, threw her spoon into the bowl, and set the bowl down on the table in horror.  “Is this some sort of sick fuckin joke?” she shouted, starin right at me.  I look at the bowl and see that the wheat chunk on top of her spoon is crawlin with ants from the inside of it.  I look back at her and watch as first one ant crawls out of the corner of her mouth, then another, looking almost like a couple of moving blackheads.  Then she scowls bigger, and I can see her teeth, but I can’t really cuz they’re covered in black.

Her eyes got real big then and she covered her mouth and ran to the bathroom, vomiting into her hand the entire way.  I followed her, half wishin I didn’t.  In the bathtub, which she kneeled hunched over, was a pile of vomit, ants crawlin out of.  I felt a twinge of vomit myself, but I forced it back down until the smell hit me, and I leaned over her shoulder, vomiting as well, getting’ a little in her perm.

This did it for me.  As soon as I was sure she was okay (she was now in the kitchen, throwing away everything from the pantry, including the canned goods; she wasn’t listening to me by this time), I left for the hardware store.  She had started in on me like Charlie, tellin me to get a sterminator.  I tried to tell er, “What good’s a man if he can’t solve his own problems?”  I pretty much left it at that and left.

The usual crew was at the hardware store, headed up by smartass Joe.  Joe thought that, just cuz he owned a hardware store, he was the last word on anything related to bein a man.  The zit-faced kids that worked for him worshipped him like a golden cow.

“Hey Joe!”  I figured I’d be civil.

“Hey, how’s it goin, dumbfuck?  Whatcha gonna fuck up today?”  Joe had a penchant for cussin.

“Got me a bit of a ant problem.  Need the strongest stuff ya got, well as a sprayer.”

“Strongest stuff, eh?  Well, follow me, got just the shit for ya.”  Joe led me through the aisles, to the Lawn & Garden section.  As we was walkin, Joe kept yappin.  “Hey, I was serious about that shitcan LeMans.  Name your price; I know it ain’t been touched in years, but my son and I need a little project….”

“Not interested.”

“How ‘bout $800.  It still ain’t got an engine, right?”

“Not interested.”

“Oh, come on, dipshit, just tell me what it takes.  Charlie says you ain’t so much as cleaned the rat jizz off it since you got it, so why don’t you give the piece o shit up to somebody who can do something with it?”

“Only interested in bug spray today, Joe.”

Joe looked at me with a tired look.  “K, have it your way.”  He picked up a 5 gallon can with a red label.  “Now, the instructions say to dilute this shit 1 part to 5 parts water…now, you & I both know that the straight shit does the better job, so, I’d probably skip that water part altogether.  Course, anybody asks you who gave you the fuckin idea, I never heard of ya, right?”

I looked at him as we was walking back to the counter.  “No clue who you are.”

“Got that fuckin-A right.”

After I paid him and walked outside, I almost immediately heard laughter.  I look back through the glass door and could see Joe leanin against the counter, talkin to all the zit-faces.  Joe saw me watching him, stopped smilin for a second, then started laughing again.  I get in my car and drove home.

The pesticide was thin enough to spray easy undiluted, so I poured it straight into the sprayer, almost the whole 5 gallon can.  The sprayer had a shoulder harness attached, making it easy to carry; all I had to do was pump the handle for pressure, aim the nozzle and squeeze.

I started out sprayin the frame aroun the backyard glass door, makin sure the kitchen wasn’t invaded again.  Then, I moved into the grass, pumping and spraying the pesticide everywhere, workin my way to the hill.  The smell was almost painful to my nose, but I pressed on, knowing that this was the smartest move.  As I got closer to the hill, I could see the ants, running away from me, the giant with the sprayer, killin everythin in my path.  I felt I could actually see terror in the frantic motions, ants scurrying everywhere, antennae waving.  The closer I got, the thicker the carpet of ants got, but I just kept spraying.  I’d taken some extra steps this time:  I was wearing my fishin waders, so I was protected up to my chest.  As the carpet of ants got thicker, I took the precaution of spraying my legs with the poison.

Soon, the grass was no longer green, but black with the bodies of the dead ants.  I finished the rest of the pesticide in the middle of the hill, then went inside, through to the garage, and put the sprayer and waders away.

It was with much joy that I told Callie that it was all over with.

During the night, Mutt got real uppity, whinin an pitchin a fit.  It got so bad I had to push her out of our bedroom (she always slept at the foot of the bed, damn mutt) and close the door, locking her out where she continued whinin for a minute, then I heard her run down the hall and then was silent.

I woke up in the morn, still feelin the thrill of victory, as well as the mornin wood.  I rolled onto Callie real quick, tryin to seduce her with a good leg hump, but nothin doin this morn.  So, I got up and went to go get some food.

When I opened the door, what I saw caused me to stop breathin for at least a full minute. 

There, on the floor, was Mutt’s head.  The body was nowheres to be seen.  There was also no blood on the carpet.  I felt that vomity feeling in the back of my throat, and struggled for a while to keep it down.  I grabbed the bathroom garbage pail and gingerly picked up Mutt’s head, putting it in the pail.  Softly, slowly I walked out into the livin room, lookin around.  I knew right away that it was the ants, but how the hell’d they survived?  How’d they manage to not only kill a dog, but do it without any blood stainin the rug?

I had my answer when I got into the kitchen.  The yellow bones of Mutt lay on the floor, picked clean.

The ants had eaten Mutt alive, then picked the head up and took it to the bedroom door to leave me a message.  “Jesus H. Christ,” I says under my breath, feelin really powerless.

I got in the car and headed straight for Joe’s again.  This time, I didn’t even pause to talk to him; I laid a $20 on the counter, walked to the pesticide, grabbed another 5 gallon can and walked out, knowin that he had at least $3 of my money.  Joe looked flabbergasted.

When I got home, I didn’t even bother with the sprayer.  I went out to the hill, alive with activity, ants bustlin everywhere, and set down the poison.  After a quick trip into the garage, I returned wearing my waders, carryin a four foot length of pipe, a rubber mallet and a funnel.  Of course, I looked carefully inside my waders before putting them on. 

In the backyard, I walked straight onto the hill and set the pipe in the main hole, poundin it repeatedly with the rubber mallet til it was a good two feet into the ground.  The ants were swarmin all over my waders, but the poison still on the legs seemed to be driving em back down after the first couple inches.  Then, I stuck the funnel in the top of the pipe and poured the pesticide down the pipe, straight into the hill.

The activity was frantic.  Ants come out of the grass in twenty places at once, swarming at my feet.  I felt sheer joy watching em writhing in pain, watchin em die.  This is for Mutt, I thought, pouring the last bit of poison from the can.  I flung the can across the yard and stood, glaring at the hill, hopin they saw the mocking look on my face.

I was so intent on intimidatin em that I almost didn’t feel the ticklin, crawlin, then bitin on my feet.  Now, when I looked at the waders, I could see the ants had dug through the rubber feet, and in areas, were attacking my bare flesh.

With a scream of terror, I run, takin off my waders on the patio and runnin inside, closin the door behind me.  I could hear Callie movin in the bedroom, and I run straight there, crawlin onto the bed and shaking her.

“Callie, wake up, we gotta get outta here!  Callie, wake…”

“I hear you, what’s going on?”

“The ants…the ants are back.  They killed Mutt, now they’re gonna come after us.”

She rolled over and looked at me.  The look said it all: she thought I was an idiot.  “Baby, ants don’t kill dogs, and they sure as hell don’t attack people.  You’re having a really bad dream, or something, and….”

I had to cut her off.  “Callie…look at the carpet.”  She leaned up on one elbow and looked.  The carpet fibers were movin back and forth, almost hypnotic, just wavin with a non-existent breeze.  Then, the color of the carpet started changin from a beige to a black, as ants sifted up from the floor beneath the carpet to the top.  “Callie, we gotta run…we gotta.”  I wasn’t really terrified at this point…I just really felt a need to get her out of bed and out the door. 

She, on the other hand, was terrified.  “Okay, I’m up, I’m up.”

“Honey,” I says, looking at her, “run down the hall and out the front door.  Don’t stop for nothin.  Just…run.”  She got up and run, screamin, me tailin, but she stopped at the end of the hall where it curved into the living room.  “Why’d you….” I began askin, but stopped when I saw it.

Across the entryway from the hall into the living room was a livin wall of ants, legs interlocked, coverin the entryway from ceiling to floor.  “Hun, we gotta go through it.”  She was petrified, and didn’t seem to notice that her socks were now covered in ants, reaching for her legs.  I knew what I had to do, and, lowering my head like in high school, I ran headlong into the ant wall, feelin the ants cover me with bites.  My plan worked, though, and Callie was behind me, runnin to the front door.  I could see the ants were everywhere: the floor, the walls, the ceiling, the furniture, everywhere, a spreading blanket of black.  Callie was out the front door and halfway to the car when I made it out the door and I felt the blanket fall on top of me.  Ants had been waitin, holdin onto the ceilin of the front patio, waitin for me to come out to fall on me.  To be honest, it felt like raindrops, until the bitin started.  I was almost becomin numb to the bites, except for one which really stung, when one got me on the right eyelid.  Sonofabitch swelled shut in a second.

I ran to the car, wiping sheets of ants off me, finally taking off my shirt and using it to brush them all off.  At the car, I handed the keys to Callie.  “I gotta stay.  I have to handle this.”

She looked at me, disbelief on her face.  “Okay, okay, you stay here then.  I’ll call an…”

“No you won’t.  You won’t call anybody, understan?”  I was beginnin to realize that my tongue was swellin, either from the venom throughout my body, or due to a bite on it.  “This is personal now.  A man has got to be able to take care of is home, and that’s what I’m doin.  Just drive, and don’t come back ‘til I say it’s over.”

She had a slight look of tears in her eyes as she said, “Don’t worry, I won’t be back.  And don’t worry, it’s over.”  Without another word or look, she got in the car, backed out the driveway, and drove, slowly, out of the neighborhood.

Now, I wanted blood.  I walked next door to Charlie’s.  I could hear him in the garage, workin on his latest project, so I pounded on the garage door.  He opened it, and his eyes opened wide.  “What the hell….”

“Chuck, gimme your blow torch.”

“What for…?”

“Gimme…the…torch.”  He gave it to me then, without any arguments.  I went into the house, oblivious to the swarmin ants, then into the garage.  I grabbed my spade and a can of Raid, and headed out into the backyard.

The next three hours are a blur as I dug.  I would dig up one shovel full, spread it out on the earth and blast it with the blowtorch, killin everythin in it.  Every shovel-full revealed more tunnels neath it, requirin more and more shovelin.  I could see the ants in the house were making their way outside to protect the hill, but they weren’t getting’ nowhere near me: the Raid and flame was more than a match for the ants.  Any that got on me got blasted by the Raid, and, to be honest, I don’t think I was noticing much of the ant bites anymore.

As I said, this went on for three straight hours, at least.  The only reason I stopped there was because the blowtorch ran out of fuel.  I only have a vague recollection of the conversation between myself and Charlie:

“Chuck, give me more fuel.”

“Hey, what happened to your….”

“Gimme the fuckin fuel, Chuck!”

I somewhat recollect being confused by what Charlie said, and the way he was lookin at my head, so I looked in the mirror we had hangin in the living room on my way back to the hill.  At some point, the ants had gotten to my face, and I do remember spraying some Raid on my right cheek, but I would’ve thought I could feel the pain, cuz I no longer had a right cheek, just a hole showing through to my teeth and gums.

I looked like a living skull.

I spent another several hours diggin and burnin, makin my way deeper and deeper.  When the burner ran out this time, I just gave up on it and began digging and sprayin Raid.  When that ran out, it was almost sundown, but I didn’t stop; I just kept diggin, goin through every shovel full of dirt, looking for ants and crushin em with my fingers.

The sun was slowly making its way up from the east when I finally felt that the job was done.  I lay on the remainder of the grass and slept.

When I came to (the automatic sprinklers went off), my lawn had an eight foot wide circle in it, goin least 5 feet deep.

Nowadays, I have two less fingers, no toes on my left foot, and no right foot at all.  My cheek is still being reconstructed through plastic surgery, thanks to the ol lawsuit settlement (the bitch).  The Docs were absolutely amazed that I could have withstood the stings of that many ants (I tried to tell em: men don’t feel no pain, specially men from Texas, pronounced Tay-has), but one thing did puzzle them:  What kinda ants were these?

There was no ant remains at the house at all; there was a few ashes, but no I.D. could be made a those.

I know what kind they are.  They’re the kind that I hear late at night, mocking me from the hills behind the subdivision.   There’s more of ‘em, millions, no, billions more. 

And they plan to kill me.  Someday, they will come out of the hills, and then it’ll be them and me.

And I’ll show ‘em.  Show ‘em all.