I wrote a story today. It’s called “Wasps in my Bathroom”
Everything is fine. Everything is normal. You wake up, ready to face the day. You head to the bathroom to wash off the sweat of the hot desert night. You freeze. There’s a wasp on the wall.
No big deal, you think to yourself. It’s just a paper wasp. She looks pretty chill. It’s a simple process to trap the wasp and let it outside. You move on with your day.
You wake up the next morning, and head to the bathroom to brush your teeth.
There’s a wasp on the wall.
Is it the same wasp? It doesn’t feel like the same wasp. With a resigned sigh, you trap this one too, and let it outside.
You wake up the next morning, and head to the bathroom to pee. You aren’t surprised to see a solitary wasp sitting on the wall. This has become irritating. You trap the wasp, and let it outside.
On the fourth day, you call the apartment complex. Something has to be done, you say over the voicemail box. Every morning you wake up to a new wasp in your bathroom and it’s beginning to affect your daily life. You just want to poop in peace. This morning, you were halfway through your shower before you noticed the wasp calmly tucked in between the clear curtain liner and the shower curtain. A thin layer of plastic stands alone, protecting your vulnerably fleshy form from the wasp that is undoubtedly watching you. You live every day with the anxious expectation that there is going to be a wasp in the bathroom. You think they’re getting in through the vent.
The next morning you wake up. You head to the bathroom, ready to face the new wasp.
For a week, you walk around, tense, ready for a wasp to show up in your bathroom. After a week, there is a knock on your door. It’s the pest control man. He is here about the wasps. There are no more wasps, you tell him. You haven’t seen a wasp in a week. He nods, reluctant to spray heavy duty chemicals around you and your cats if there are no wasps to treat. He tells you he is here every Thursday, and to call him if you see another wasp. He leaves. His name was Steve.
It’s Saturday. You wake up, ready to start your day. You wake and bake, and then spend several minutes cleaning out the tub in anticipation of a nice long shower. You spray it down with pine sol, let that sit, scrub it out, and rinse. You turn on the water to allow it to heat up. You carelessly fling the shower curtain closed, turning to the sink to brush your teeth while the water grows hot.
You turn back to the shower. There’s a wasp on the curtain.
You’re not sure how you didn’t crush it when you grabbed the curtain to open it. The sudden movement seems to have alerted the wasp, but it remains still. You are grateful that you haven’t taken off your clothes. You stare at the wasp, baked out of your mind.
You fetch your trapping tools, and return. You take one step toward the wasp, and she visibly tenses. You can feel her eyes on you. For several minutes you stand there, western dueling music playing in your head. A tumbleweed blows past the back of your eyes. Instead of a six shooter, you’re armed with a red solo cup and a Christmas card. Your opponent has six arms, and one stinger. You’re so stoned. You can’t deal with this. Trapping a wasp on a flat surface is one thing, but the curtain is flimsy, and the wasp is tucked in a fold. This will be difficult to pull off.
“I’ll be back for you,” you tell the wasp. “I can’t deal with you right now.” You perform some sick acrobatics to turn off the water. Thankfully, the faucet is on the opposite side of the curtain as the wasp. The wasp does not move, but remains tense, watching you.
You have breakfast, lamenting the wasp in your bathroom.
Upon your return, the wasp still has not moved. You grab the cup and the Christmas card and take one step toward the shower curtain. The wasp tenses up. You pause.
After some more olympic acrobatics and careful finagling, you manage to get the shower curtain to unfold so the wasp is presented to you on a relatively flat section of the curtain. You spend several minutes gathering your nerve, and trap it. You let it outside. If you see one more wasp, you’re going to burn the whole place down.
The next morning you wake up. Above the bathroom mirror, you see them.
Im fine its fine Steve will be here on Thursday and the four wasps in my bathroom haven’t threatened me yet and it appears to take more than four wasps to unleash my primal desire for arson
