Anteater
A
short story by Tim McMullen
As he reached out, he
envisioned the scattered fragments of appendages; however, when he turned the
sponge over, he saw nothing but a mere black speck on the blue surface. He held
the sponge under the stream of the faucet and watched the remains swirl down
the sink drain.
Tom Jenkins had always felt
uncomfortable when he killed an insect. A sad, queasy feeling tremored from his
stomach to his throat, and he often apologized aloud.
“Sorry, buddy,” he would say,
“but you just wouldn't listen to reason!”
In fact, he often did try to
reason with them; that is, he gave them a chance by trying to herd them out of
the room. Spiders were the easiest: He just picked them up by their web or got
them to crawl on a kleenex, and then he walked them outside. And flies could
usually be coaxed out the door merely by his waving his hands and blocking
their flight.
“No, really! Thomas tries to
rehabilitate them and give them a college education,” his ex-wife would chortle
to friends as she lashed out to swat a fly or squish a spider.
Now he just stood there with
the water streaming down the drain. After turning off the water and wringing
out the sponge, he heard the drone of the clock radio from the bedroom. He used
the radio's “snooze bar” mechanism to indicate the time in ten-minute
increments.
“And now, here's Joanna with
an environmental update….”
“The President,” the radio
bubbled in buoyant feminine tones, “obviously elated over his latest tactical
triumph, said,
'Industry must be given a
chance to fulfill their responsibilities without a bunch of uninfor….’”
“Must be 6:20,” Jenkins
mumbled to himself, and he hurried off to tap the button.
Ten minutes later, standing
in front of the bathroom mirror, he reflexively caught his nose between his
thumb and forefinger and pinched his nostrils closed.
“Damn! The stench of that
dump is getting
worse,” he muttered.
When he and Anita had moved
into this new housing complex, they had been unaware that a dump was situated
nearby, if you could call over four miles away “nearby.” Then, about three
years ago, he and his neighbors had begun to notice a pungent though not
unpleasant odor, a smell resembling strong orange blossoms, wafting
sporadically through the air. Eventually, someone had linked the smell to the
dump, and the mystery had been solved. The smell was no longer orange blossoms,
however. Tom experienced a sudden olfactory deja vu: he remembered a blast of
dank, musty air gasping past him as he opened the ragged, rotted, wooden door
of an old shed on his grandmother's farm. He had never gagged before, and he
staggered; a sour, fetid stench flared his nostrils, and he fled from the shed
and the sight of the dead cat's rotting carcass.
This morning, the malodorous
miasma from the dump was a cross between that decomposing cat and one of those
portable chemical toilets after it's been sitting in the hot sun for several
days. He'd have to call Ted from the Tenant's Association about the outcome of
their last meeting. He almost wished that he had been there. They had really
pressured him to join them in their campaign against the refuse reclamation
operation.
“C'mon, Tom, you're the
perfect person,” Ted Rainer, the association president, had pleaded.
“Yeah, Tom,” added Jill Benton,
peering out through glasses whose lenses grotesquely magnified her mottled
hazel eyes. “You're a lawyer. You can talk to the people from the government
and make 'em understand how bad it is.”
“Yes…yes…well, I'd like to
help,” he had stammered, “but I… I…just don't have the time right now.”
It was true. His caseload was
quite heavy right now, and it would be hard for him to squeeze the extra time,
but that wasn't the real reason. The fact was that he just wasn't a joiner.
Besides, what did he know about it? People took it for granted, “Oh, you're a
lawyer? Well, can you tell me about…my dog, my aunt, my boss, my doctor, my
leg, my food, my car, my landlord, my fishing pole, my dump?” Tom laughed at
his list. He was only a junior public defender. What did he know about dumps or
dog food? Nevertheless, the stench from the refuse disposal site was getting
more odious; there was certainly no doubt about that. Maybe he really should
call Ted and find out how things were going.
The traffic report clicked on
as he cut a swath through the lather on his right cheek. He listened for a
moment to the banter of the deejay and the copter pilot. Reassured that there
were no major pileups on the freeway, he walked briskly to the bedroom.
“…that although the bill had
passed unanimously during last year's reelection campaign, a majority of the
committee's members, after some aggressive lobbying from industry, reversed its
vote and killed the bill. “
“Business as usual, I see,”
Tom Jenkins observed cynically. “Somebody unhappy about something, I'll bet.”
His hands dripping water and his face full of lather, he nudged the snooze
alarm with an elbow and went back to the bathroom.
That sad, queasy sensation
swept over him again as he gazed from the sink to the windowsill. A line of
black writhed back and forth in random movement.
“Jeez! Where the hell did you
come from?” he muttered.
He reached out instinctively
with his hand to sweep the inch-thick line of ants into the sink. Then,
thinking better of it, he grabbed a washcloth from the rack in the shower,
soaked it in the tub faucet, and then went for them.
In a second or two he had
cleared the windowsill. It was easy to spot the doomed vermin as they broke
rank and scampered across the muted pink tile and the dusty rose calico of the
wallpaper. As he rinsed the little, brittle, black bodies into the sink, he
pondered whether it was more merciful to wash them down with hot water or cold
water. If they were still alive, would the hot water scald them? Maybe, with
cold water, they could survive in the pipes? The thought pleased him. He didn't
necessarily want them dead ...he just wanted them out of his house!
“This is ridiculous, fellas!”
he said, wiping the final remnants from the basin. “What the hell has gotten
into them?” he wondered aloud as he rinsed the remaining lather from his face.
He was sitting on the side of
bed putting on his left shoe when the radio sounded again:
“We're in your corner,” sang
the jingle, “We're on your side...”
“Uh-huh,” Tom grunted
sarcastically.
“We know what you need, and
we make it with pride!” the chorus tittered.
“Well, this is what I need!” he said, reaching over and
pushing the bar to silence the ad.
His liberal, socioeconomic
sensibilities had been slightly appalled when these giant corporate
conglomerates had first begun to advertise.
“Another fine product from
your friends at 'Whateveritis'” or “Remember us? We're 'Whoeverweare!’”
“Talk about 'antitrust,'“ he
had quipped to George Sherman while watching an ad on security's little T.V.
during a recess. “How can one company own tractors, chewing gum, textiles,
sanitary napkins, canned fruit, plastic containers ...?”
By this time, however, he was
no longer alarmed at their diversity; nevertheless, the absurd incongruities
were still amusing. Pretty soon the whole country would be run by an oil
company, a soft drink conglomerate, and an insurance company.
With his “Haveaniceday”
coffee mug in his right hand and his suit coat draped over his left, he glanced
at himself in the full length mirror on the back of the closet door. He was
meeting with the department head to talk about a promotion, so he had dressed
carefully. Some of the guys in the department were too casual… some were
downright slovenly. If this promotion didn't come through, he had actually
contemplated going over to the D.A.'s office. At least those fellows took their
appearance seriously. He set the cup on the dresser and slipped on the coat.
This was his blue Brooks Bros.; he had bought it two years ago and had used it
only for special occasions like today. The coat hung well, and it still looked
new.
With eyes closed slightly, he
waggled his head back and forth at the neck, craning it forward and tipping it
back. A little stiff, but not too bad. Stepping closer, he examined his face.
Although he'd been careful, he did find a bit of dried shaving cream just
behind his right ear. As he picked at the crusty, white flecks, he noticed that
the hair around his ears was beginning to edge closer; it had only been two
weeks since his last haircut, but it just might be time for another. Finally
satisfied with his inspection, he picked up his coffee cup, flipped off the
bedroom light, and walked down the narrow hall.
With his finger still on the
hall light switch, he edged sideways into the kitchen; then, he flicked the
hall light, pulled the door shut, and turned.
“H-O-O-O-L-L-Y-Y SHIT!” he
sang out loudly.
The cup fell from his hand
and bounced across the floor; the coffee splashed, but Tom barely noticed it.
The entire kitchen was black. The light from the overhead kitchen lamp was
muted, but the morning sun filtered through the drawn curtains. His first
impulse was to turn and run; instead, he vaulted the window and threw the
curtains open. Pulling away, he clapped his palms together and then examined
them in the roseate light of the window.
Ants. Although legs and heads
had been mashed together on his palms, the remains of the carcasses were
identifiable, and some were still moving. One large black ant flailed his
forelegs frantically in an apparent effort to drag his crushed body out of
danger. His demonstrative antennae fluttered wildly in some secret ant
semaphore. Feeling slightly nauseated, Tom wiped his palms on his suit pants.
Now the walls caught his
attention. The kitchen was a writhing mass of ants. They were everywhere and on
everything. The refrigerator and the stove, once white, were no longer
distinguishable from what had been yellow walls and cabinets: Everything was
black and moving.
Already, he could feel them
on his legs and in his shoes. He kicked at the floor with his foot as if to cut
a path through the ants, but to little effect. He ran to the window and tried
to slam it closed. Instantly, his hands were again covered in the wriggling,
tickling things. He felt them flooding up his sleeves. Thrashing furiously and
beating at his arms, he sprang to the service porch and looked for a way to
fight them off. The porch, if anything, was even deeper in ants. After a moment
of heightened alarm, he grabbed a broom and a giant can of insect spray. Both
objects were covered in ants.
Pulling the lid off the can,
he aimed the nozzle at the windowsill, and holding it only a few inches from
the ants, he sprayed.
At first, the mist blew a
space in the advancing horde, and he actually saw a few of them swim for a
moment and then stop moving. Instantly, however, the empty space was filled
with new recruits. Rather than deterring them, the dead bodies merely served as
steppingstones over the poison-drenched sill, and the monsters swarmed in by
the thousands. Dropping the empty can, Tom Jenkins swatted at his neck and
arms; and then, he brushed at his face with both hands as if washing with ant
lather.
He grabbed at the black,
ant-covered broom; whirling around, he swept at the floor in wild, exaggerated
movements. He found that by brushing back and forth as rapidly as he was able,
he could keep clear about a three-foot circle. If he could hold his own for
just a minute, he reasoned, the ants would get wind of the danger and halt
their advance. Now that he had overcome his initial shock, he entered the
battle in earnest. He got a rhythm going.
One/two/three/four/five/six/strokes
at the floor, then one/two at the cabinets.
One/two/three/four/five/six—one/two—one/two/three/four/five/six—one/two! He
gained confidence every moment; the ants were faltering. He increased his
circle of unoccupied territory to nearly four feet, and one of the cupboard
doors was nearly clear.
Stepping backward to increase
his attack, he inadvertently placed his foot on the dropped coffee mug, and the
jolt sent him sprawling. Instantly, he felt a terrible pain, and he realized
that he had cracked his head against the corner of the stove. He felt the warm
ooze at the side of his head, and he slumped to the floor.
“NO!” he screamed, but when he opened his mouth, he felt the dirty
little things crawling allover his lips and tongue. He spat, “Phah! Phah!” and
sealed his lips tightly. He could feel several of the ants wriggling between
his lips as he crushed them closed.
Only half-conscious, he made
feeble attempts to stop the ants' advance. Like the cup and the appliances, he
was now completely submerged in the crawling sea of ants. As they poured into
his ear canal, they made a sound like horses on sandpaper roller skates. He
opened his eyes for an instant then blinked them closed, but it was too late.
Ants streamed across his eyeballs, and the room grew dark. He tried blinking
rapidly—he rubbed at his eyes with his fists—but the ants were too much.
His head throbbed
mercilessly, and it felt sticky somewhere. One of the advance guard entered his
left nostril; Jenkins snorted furiously, but more ants followed instantly. He
could feel their progress: waving their little legs and antennae about, they
lurched forward, tentatively, into his nasal passages. Breathing had become
almost impossible. He snuffed, and then gagged as several ants were sucked up
into his sinuses. He opened his mouth to gasp for breath and then involuntarily
swallowed a mouthful of the crawling invaders.
No longer able to move, he
felt them scurrying across his eyeballs, scrambling into his nose and down his
throat, scrabbling deep into his ear. Then, through the sound of their
continuous onslaught and his own stertorous breathing, he heard the click of
the radio.
“Next up...an alarming report
on honey-bees, but first….”
“We're in your corner,” sang
the jingle, “We're on your si....”
©1985 Tim McMullen
All Rights Reserved
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