Wit and Wisdom
by Beth Broderick
I brought him a strawberry. I know in hindsight that this was a ridiculous thing to do, but he seemed weak. I confess I also dipped it into the last dregs of white chocolate cream icing that had adorned that evening’s dessert. I was doing the dishes and straightening up when I saw him there, halfway in and out of the sink in the wet bar. I had thought him gone forever, but, no, it seems he had been hiding in the pipe below, awaiting his chance to try once again to integrate himself into my household.
The first time we met, I was emphatic about the fact that he cannot live here. I attempted several times to trap him beneath a glass so that I could slip a piece of cardboard under him and release him outside. He had ventured up during the “atmospheric river” that subsumed the streets of Los Angeles for several days. Like most of us, he had thought it best to seek higher ground.
The darned thing was fast—too fast. And he was big, like the size of a hummingbird, which made it difficult to center him beneath the tumbler. Frustrated but trying to remain kind, I tried to reason with him.
“I am sorry, Mr. Bug, but you cannot be here.” I tapped on the side of the sink, and he nervously inched forward into the drain.
“I can still see your legs, buddy. You have to go all the way. Go on. Down. Down.”
I tapped several more times, and he finally disappeared. As quickly as possible, I placed a book over the drain. “There is a River: The Story of Edgar Cayce,” a renowned psychic. It was my hope that with no way to come in, he would see fit to go back to wherever he came from. Things were drying off outside.
I left the book there, snugly situated on top, to make sure he got the message that he was not, is not, will never be, an invited guest. It sat there for several days, and I had just that afternoon removed it because I was having company and it looked odd—an old, worn hardcover sitting in a working sink amid an array of barware.
It was a fun evening. I made roasted salmon with a lemon-dill horseradish cream sauce and asparagus with garlic and pistachios. Jeff brought a yummy potato salad. Jason and Glen, some spinach balls. We topped it off with a slice of cloud cake garnished with strawberries and cream. Delicious. Elevated and homey at the same time; my favorite kind of meal.
My guests even consented to play a card game with me: a complicated seven-handed gin game that never ceases to be a challenge. (It took me playing it at least half a dozen times before I got the picture of it.) I have a great group of pals I play “Liverpool” with in Austin, but I am still looking for an LA card quorum. The guys were skeptical but gave it a whirl. They are really good guys.
It helped. This birthday is bugging me. My anxiety has been elevated, and my moods mercurial. My sister Laura thinks my need for puzzles, games, letters, numbers is interesting; possibly puts me someplace on the spectrum. (Honestly, aren’t we all some place on it?) I think I should just be better, should be more… more perfect, more lovable, more disciplined. I should listen better and always have the perfect response to any social query. I should not have said that… I should have said this. I think I should fit in better, be more in sync with the times, but yeah, no. Not gonna happen.
I would rather do some puzzles, play some cards, solve an equation. It keeps my mind from turning on me, and I rely on that. I sometimes make up crosswords in my sleep.
Life is long, but one thing is for certain. If I am lucky, my next birthday will arrive in a flash, and I will be grateful for it.
A SINKING FEELING.
So, bless its heart, this big old bug has been bedeviling me. When I discovered him the other night, he seemed a bit worse for wear. I worried that he had hurt himself when I forced him to scuttle into the drain. I had hoped he would leave the building, but he apparently took up residence inside the metal piping, which is really no place to live. I brought him food to see if he had a fighting chance. If it was worth me trying once again to “capture and release” the poor fellow, or if I should just send him down the drain in a flood of tap water.
I placed the snack on a piece of cardboard that I planned to slip under the glass I hoped to trap him with and placed a large dome over the sink to encourage him to stay put. It was getting late, and that kind of situation needed the clarity of day.
When I woke up and headed in to make tea, I found him sitting next to the fruit and cream, looking like a healthy specimen. He was in fine fettle. This, alas, meant I would have to try once again to re-situate the stubborn little thing. I placed two large picture books over the sink to sort of blockade him in while I went for my morning walk. I needed a plan.
“I’ll be back, Mr. Bug, and then you really will have to go outside. This is no place for you. Say the housekeeper found you here? She would smoosh you up in a heartbeat. I am leaving for vacation and some friends are coming to stay. That could go badly for you as well.”
I spent the entire walk devising my removal strategy. First, I would open the doors to the balcony so that once I had him, we could easily make our way outside. Then, I would remove the book on the right and place it on the chair, freeing that hand to grab a glass with an opening wide enough for him to fit safely beneath it. Once ready, I would lift up the book on the left and quickly trap him on the cardboard beneath his midnight snack. Then, I would slide a dustpan under the gray paper he and his strawberry were occupying and quickly head out.
TO BUG OUT.
I got home and gathered my wits and my tools. I was feeling a teence jumpy but determined. I proceeded to do exactly as I planned, and when I got to the final move—book on left swept up, glass quickly placed over the feeler-ed fellow—I learned it was all for naught. The little guy had bugged off. No trace of him remained. Hmmmm.
I don’t really know for sure that he went back down the drain. He was a tricky thing; it’s possible that he is hiding somewhere in this apartment. Let’s hope not. I am choosing to believe that, once restored by a taste of cream, he had taken my words to heart and decided to get while the going was good.
I took the coffee table books back to their rightful place and returned with the tale of the legendary spiritualist.
“There is a River” is back in the sink, where it will remain for the time being. I just cannot risk the arrival of another visitor from the pipes.
I have been meaning to read the story of Edgar Cayce for some time. I am partial to that sort of tale, but—well, not for the fore-seeeeee-able future.
On we go …
We extend our heartfelt gratitude to our valued subscribers whose support makes the publication of Wit and Wisdom possible. Thank you!
You Are Starting to BUG ME