Exterminated

Exterminated

                Bertrund “Bert” Geroux stepped from the air-conditioned home into the bright sunlight of a Florida late morning.  He’d spent the last hour following the hone’s owner and being shown various problem areas that needed to be taken care of.  He’d written some notes on a small flip-open notebook, but expected he wouldn’t open it again after that.  He knew his business.  He’d been doing it for twenty years and had learned from his dad who had done it for many years before him.  Killing bugs was in his blood.  It was what he did.  It was what he loved.

                He opened the passenger’s side door of the white van which he drove to every job.  On the side was painted “Buggy” Bert Geroux and the phrase ‘The only good bug is a dead bug.’  The seats had been removed from the back which now contained everything he could possibly need to do his job.  He wasn’t going for those now, however, he was after the lunch he’d packed that morning before leaving his small two bedroom house in the suburbs.  He used to grab something at the various fast-food joints he passed during the course of his work day, but a recent visit to his doctor showed that his cholesterol was too high and warranted a diet change.  He still made occasional burger runs, but now they were fewer and further between.  He’d quit smoking and had cut down on his drinking as well.  That visit had confirmed for him his mortality and he was taking it seriously.  Lunch in hand he found a picnic table nearby and sat down to eat.  He pulled a turkey sandwich from its plastic bag and took a large bite.  He wiped mayonnaise from his face with the back of his hand and chewed the bite thoughtfully.  As he took a second bite a bit of turkey fell to the table.  He brushed it to the ground and continued to eat.  It didn’t take long for a platoon of ants to start working on the discarded turkey.  Bert took notice of them and sighed with disgust.  Even during his lunch he could not escape the constant torment of insects.  He rewrapped the sandwich and returned to the back of his van.  He grabbed a can of insecticide and began to spray the ants that he found.  He chuckled to himself as he did so.

                “You don’t mess with Buggy or his lunch, do you hear me?”

                Satisfied with the destruction he had wrought on the local ant population he sat at the table to finish his lunch.  He washed bites of sandwich down with swigs from a Diet Pepsi.  With lunch completed he returned to the home to finish the job which had brought him there in the first place.  He whistled as he gleefully brought about the end for yet another colony of insects.  Another extermination.  Another satisfied customer.  Another happy day for “Buggy” Bert Geroux.

                After the first job of the day Bert had several more stops to make.  He faced each job with the same fervor as he had the one prior.  For some reason Bert enjoyed killing bugs.  It was a passion that consumed him.  Each and every job of the day brought him new pleasure.  Whether he was disposing of cockroaches, ants, or any other bugs that troubled his clients he had the perfect remedy for what ailed their home.  He grabbed the right chemicals and sprays for every job, chuckling as he watched the insects writhe in agony for the last few moments of their insignificant lives.  He was god and they were the pitiful lives he snuffed out at his discretion.

                Bert exited the house from his last appointment of the day.  He wiped sweat from his brow as he loaded the destructive tools of his trade into the van.  The day had dawned hot and it was hotter still when dusk had settled in.  All in all it had been a very good day for “Buggy” though.  He waved to the homeowners as he plopped into the worn front seat of his vehicle.  He shifted into reverse and backed down the driveway.  As he drove into the steadily approaching night he ran through his plans for the evening.  He’d get home and shower before heading out for dinner.  Sometimes he’d make a meal for one in his microwave and enjoy some television dramas, but tonight he planned to hit one of his favorite watering holes so he’d grab dinner on the way.  It was his birthday after all.  He could spoil himself a little.

                With his fast food burgers and fries purchased and consumed he parked his van at a meter, fed it the appropriate amount of change for his planned stay, and walked the hundred or so feet to the bar’s door.  He walked from the darkness outside to the dimly lit interior of the country themed drinking establishment.  He waved at a few regulars that he knew before leaning on the bar.  He waved off the male bartender when he approached, preferring to wait for the pretty blonde who was currently mixing a drink on the other end.  When she finally approached him he tried to smile appealingly, but his homeliness made it impossible.

                “I’ll have a PBR,” he said.

                She smiled as she filled a glass from the appropriate tap and then slid it across the pitted wood of the bar to him. 

                “It’s my birthday, you know,” Bert announced as he pulled out his wallet.

                “Happy birthday,” the young woman said with a smile.

Burt left his payment and a substantial tip on the bar just far enough away so she had to lean over to get it.  She obliged.

                Bert began to guzzle the cheap beer and crossed the room to the ancient jukebox.  He inserted his money, a rip-off in his opinion, and chose a couple of favorites by Johnny Cash and Hank Jr.  As the songs played he finished the beer and ordered another.  He sang out of tune as the music played and the other patrons were much relieved when his requested songs were over.

                The two beers became four and then became eight.  By the time the male bartender announced that it was last call Bert was barely able to get the cash out of his wallet to pay for his beers.  He was beginning to think that he may have to cancel his early appointments for the next day.  He tried to buy one more beer, a request which was refused, possibly a few too late.  He finished what was left in his glass and headed for the door trying to find his keys in his pant’s pocket.  He was finally noticed by the male bartender when he nearly ran into the closed door.

                “Hold up,” the man said as he scurried around the bar.

                Bert hesitated, hand still searching his pocket, and turned to the man.

                “Let me call you a cab,” the bartender said, clapping Bert on the back in a friendly manner.

                “I’m fine,” Bert slurred.

                “I know you are, but let me do it anyway.”

                Bert was silent.  He had finally managed to fish the keys from his pocket.  He looked from the young man to his keys and then back at the young man again.

                “I’m okay,” Bert said at last.  “It’s my birthday.”

                “Happy birthday,” the young man said and shrugged his shoulders.

                Bert reached for the door handle, catching it on his second try, and stumbled through the door into the cooler night air.  He staggered along the sidewalk, precariously close to falling into the road, until he reached his van.  He attempted to put the key in the lock several times before collapsing against the vehicle in exasperation.

                “Ready for that cab?” Chip, the persistent bartender, asked.

                Bert looked up.  At first he saw three of Chip, but after rubbing his eyes several times was able to see just the one.  He nodded. 

Chip led him back into the building, phoned a taxi company, and sat Bert at a table with a tall glass of water.  He kept a watchful eye on the drunken patron as he went about the business of closing up the bar.  It was only a short time later when he saw the cab pull up and escorted Burt to it.  He gave the cabby the address off Burt’s license and hoped it was correct.

“We’re here!”

The cab driver’s bellow woke Bert from his drunken stupor.  He wiped drool from his chin and exited the back of the cab. 

“Hey, Buddy!” the driver called out his open window.  He held his hand out.

Bert, realizing the man needed to be paid, wobbled back and gave him the rest of the cash he had in his wallet.  The taxi pulled out into the street and Burt began his unsteady journey to his front door.  After what seemed an eternity he made it.  He managed to insert the key after several failed attempts and fell into the house.  With his consciousness waning he shoved the door in an attempt to close it and crawled up the stairs.  He knew he couldn’t make it to the bedroom and so instead settled for a night on his couch.  He collapsed onto it and instantly began a loud, drunken snore.

As he slept a single, solitary ant crossed the carpeted floor.  It climbed onto the couch and then onto the slumbering exterminator.  It was soon joined by another.  And then another.  Soon a multitude of ants had made the journey onto their nemesis.  The ants began to bite and to crawl.  Some crawled into his wide open mouth.  Others journeyed into his ears.  And still others found their way into his cavernous nostrils which flared with every exhalation.  With each bite they injected toxins into his blood stream.  He swatted them in his sleep, but there were too many of them.  The biting continued. 

Bert woke with his skin feeling like a crawling fire.  He burned all over.  He saw the ants on him.  There were too many for it to be anything other than a dream.  He could feel his airway tightening.  He began to brush at the ants, but they kept coming.  He was covered.  His couch was covered.  Even his floor was covered with them.  He kept feeling the bites.  He kept feeling the burning.  He spat them from his mouth.  He tried to blow them from his nostrils and pull them from his ears.  They crawled toward his eyes which he promptly closed.

I need air, he thought.

No air was coming.  His tongue and throat were swelling.  He continued to fight, but to no avail.  Slowly the fight went out of him.  His thrashes came less frequently and finally ceased.  Sensing their victory the ants began to retreat, leaving the dead man in their wake.

The sun had risen on another beautiful Florida morning.  As it climbed higher in the sky Burt’s phone began to ring.  It rang several times before an answering machine finally picked up.

“You’ve reached “Buggy” Burt Geroux,” the machine said.  “I can’t take your call right now, but please leave your name, number, and message after the tone.”

The machine beeped which prompted the person on the other end to speak.

“Buggy, this is Kathy.  I had an appointment with you at ten.  You didn’t make it so I’m hoping we can reschedule.  Please call me at…”

The woman continued to leave her message which Bert Geroux would never listen to.