This Ain't No Rock n Roll
We just didn't have scorpions in Jersey. Except for a lot of records and a concert or two. In California we had them, but out in the desert, where I rarely ventured except for a few trips to Vegas, with the AC on and the windows shut. I don't think I ever even stopped except for that Greek place near the giant thermometer.
But here in Costa Rica I've killed two already. In the house. That just ain't right.
The first one was a couple of weeks ago in the garage. I've got a clothes dryer with the exhaust vent running on the floor to the garage door. When I use it I crack the door and stick the hose outside. I had just dumped something in the trash (also in the garage) and as I came back to the kitchen I looked down.
It wasn't moving much, and it had a piece of dryer lint stuck on its stinger. It looked kinda cute before it registered, "dude, this is a scorpion." I threw a towel over it, ran for the closest heavy blunt object, which happened to be a hammer, and hammered it.
I tossed it on the workbench to examine it. The bits that weren't destroyed by my zealous handiwork looked just like in the movies. Curly tail, little hooked stinger, lobster claw thingies. For a good week I made sure I had something on my feet before going into the garage.
Costa Rica is a wet country, even when it's not raining. In the dry season we're in now, people have a habit of starting fires to get rid of stuff they don't want; or just for grins and giggles. It's not uncommon to be driving down the road with the grass burning away on the side, and nobody paying a bit of attention to it. In California this would not only make the local news but also probably spread through the Santa Monica Mountains to Malibu and make it to the six o'clock news in Azerbaijan. Here, it hits a wet patch and goes out. They don't bother calling the fire department.
After my first houseguest I told myself, "Hey self, they like heat, they live in the desert, right? It's only natural that one lonely scorpion would cuddle up to the nice warm vent." It didn't occur to me to think about where they might spend their time when they didn't have a nice warm clothes dryer.
The other day I thought I had a mouse. I thought it funny to tell the maid, which made it back to me via the girlfriend, which was the plan, and I was amused with myself. I have a habit of amusing myself. I think I'm one of the funniest people I know. Of course, I realize not everyone shares my unique sense of humor, including mice, one of which I had plans for that included a box with really sticky paper on the bottom.
Last night I had settled down to watch some Japanese cartoons that I had recorded about a year ago. Two chicks, one with amnesia that calls herself Noir, make up a team that takes on contracts to kill people. Cartoon assassins with long legs and guns. What could be more entertaining? I saw the 'mouse' make a beeline behind the sofa.
I paused the show and ran upstairs for my trusty Mag-Lite. Alas, underneath, my sofa has this black material sewed to the bottom that likes to sag toward the floor, and I saw nothing. It's also kind of big, so moving it is a pain, and the little guy would likely just scuttle off in the process. I had pleasant thoughts of boxes with sticky paper and settled back down. For a brief moment I considered the fact that I had removed my sneakers, silently did the size calculation and decided 'mouse,' as opposed to 'rat,' and figured nobody was going to be nibbling on my toes. I sipped my Bailey's.
Then I saw it. It weren't no mouse, or rat either. And it wasn't slow. I hit the lights, grabbed a pillow from the sofa and smothered it. And I started punching the pillow hoping that the stinger wouldn't find its way through the cushion. The pillow was thick, and obviously comfortable, for when I lifted it old Scorpie was twitching its claws and turning in circles trying to get a handle on the sit-rep. I reapplied the pillow.
I frantically looked around, found a discarded sneaker about six feet away, did the math, lunged, swatted. Twice. There was much less left of it than there was of the first one. (Must remember: towel and hammer are more precise instruments than pillow and sneaker.) The tail was still recognizable but the stinger had made its exit, maybe into the pillow. Mostly mush and juice though.
As the heart rate returned to normal I put on my sneakers, (after looking well inside to make sure no relatives were overstaying their welcome), shut the lights and watched murder and mayhem continue unabated in the cartoon world. I went to bed.
This morning in the harsh light of day I returned to the scene, wearing my flip-flops, to find—nothing. Except one lonely ant nudging a small bit of husk. No juice, no splatter. Not even a small squad of flanking ants looking around for other tasty treats. I also nudged the carcass, if you could call it that, and the ant took off running for the door and slipped out of the house. Weird.
Today I'm looking down at the ground a lot humming 'There's no one like you.'
