RITE OF PASSAGE

Big’s Aerial Molt on the King Bed in Room 12

It was nothing to sneeze at

Big, the most ambitious bed bug of his generation, had serious plans for his fifth molt. During a ceremonial rite in front of his whole village, Big would gain adulthood. While all bed bugs go through this rite of passage, none did so like Big.

He had the loftiest of goals.

Big lived with his parents and four hundred thirty-three siblings. Big was #357, which was his legal name too, but early on Big decided his name would be different than a number. It would denote importance and challenge the world to take him seriously.

His self-chosen name had a great effect on his own mind, where he grew visions of himself as something giant. Although, outside his mind, the rest of the world couldn’t help but notice he was 2 to 3 millimeters tall.

Big’s family was part of a large community who lived underneath the headboard of the king bed in Room 12, in a hotel just off the casino strip in Atlantic City, NJ. It was warm in their village, with good food, and low light. Life was good.

I take that back. Life was great.

It’s all in the training

Typically, a juvenile bug approaching its final molt was trained to know the protocol for ceremonial practices. Each molt requires one thing — a satisfying meal. Once the juicy feeding happens, the bug swells, turns a lovely reddish hue, and the exoskeleton pops off. Voila — adulthood. The only goal for the ceremony is that it happens. Wake the host and you risk catastrophic event cancellation.

Along with his classmates, Big was trained to feed from one of three places — the butt, the back, or the belly. A ceremonial bite in these places will go unnoticed by the sleeping host and allow for hors d’oeuvres and dinner for hungry attendees. A properly placed bite makes way for a delightful Fifth Molt party.

Big had other plans. He saw this public blood feeding as an opportunity to shine. He thought if he could convince the villagers he was a courageous young bug, he might be invited into the leadership counsel and thus position himself for a path of influence. Big wanted to be as big as he could be.

His ticket was to nip the tip of the nose. If he could pull off a nose bite, Big would be catapulted to fame and legitimacy. It was even possible, Big speculated, he could become President.

Numbers matter

This might seem like a power grab, but that was the furthest thing from Big’s little mind. There was an even bigger reason he wanted to attempt such a dangerous feat — her name was Little. She was a puffy, fourth-molted female at his school.

Little was the love of his life, though she knew nothing of this, for Big was shy with the girls. Little was #358 in her family, and since Big loved numbers, he saw this as a message from the number gods — he and Little were meant to be next to each other in the long line of bedbug love.

Big would steal glances at Little when he saw her around their Serta mattress village. He watched her joyful laugh and listened to her smart answers to questions posed. More so, Big ran his gaze across Little’s pouchy abdomen and just knew she’d be good for 200 of his babies.

For Little, who’d been privately stealing glances at Big, she saw a protector in Big and 400 babies. There was a small discrepancy between their numbers, but nobody was counting in those early days.

Big’s historic day

When the big day arrived, the villagers waited for the host to get situated and fall asleep. Big was lucky because not all hosts are so cooperative. This host was a swarthy — bloody — man in his mid-forties who regularly entertained rather young ladies in Room 12 on weekends.

He’d bring his rotating guests to the room after much persuasive merriment and plenty of drinking — as each tipsy bed bug who’d dined on him could vouch. Then he and his guests would thrash about in the dark for a short bit, flop into stillness, utter a few murmurs, and sleep. This was the cue for dinnertime.

Big waited patiently until the host was fast asleep, then mounted and began his long ascent toward the nose. As he moved toward the face, the villagers tilted their weensy heads in confusion. Where was he going? He continued until he reached the jawline where he hopped onto the swath of curly hair that lay draped over the man’s face.

Big millimetered his way along the hair bridge until he was directly over the snoring apparatus he sought. He took a pause, said one last word of encouragement, stepped off onto the tip of the nose, and bit. The juicy dinner flooded his body. It was a mix of Johnnie Walker and hemoglobin. The villagers held their breath. It was a moment for the ages.

Goodness gracious

Suddenly, the wooziness in the blood overtook Big and he lost his footing, sliding down the nose. This tickle caused the even woozier host to inhale. Big couldn’t withstand the vacuum and tumbled into the left nostril. The villagers gasped. What horror! Had it been the riskiest move any of them had ever made?

Who knows, but at that moment, the host felt the bug wriggling inside his nose and ejected him with a tremendous snort. This shot Big through the air, head over heels, in a swirl of fearful unknowing, until he landed smack into the arms of none other than Little.

The village let out a roar of dumbfounded congratulations. How could this young bug be so brave? How had they mistaken him for another in an endless line of identical middlings? In one expulsion Big had achieved his goal. The elders saw a new leader among them, and Little reached her front legs around Big’s neck and kissed him.

This story ends well as all stories ever do. Big and Little married and had hundreds of babies, who they never officially counted because they were too busy running the village.

Eventually, the Johnnie Walker-loving host married, too, and his questionably young bride asked that their honeymoon be in Room 12 where the bed bug village had the reception of their lives. Everyone ate, drank, had children — or had married them — and ruled the world happily ever after.

The End

Thanks to Andrew Rodwin for his skin in this story. I call him the Grand Molter.

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