SYMPTOMS
By Mather Schneider
Mather Schneider is this month’s winner of $640.00 for a story about knowing what to do.
Bio: Mather Schneider's poetry and prose have been published in many places since 1995. He lives in Tucson. His book can be found here: https://a.co/d/0gSTUTzR
Without further ado, “SYMPTOMS” by Mather Schneider.
Termites are not as high as bedbugs or German cockroaches on the list of insects people don’t want in their homes, but they’re right up there. The species of termites common to our Tucson area will not destroy a house in a week, or even in a few months, but eventually they will. Every situation is different. It’s impossible to predict with certainty and that is why it is best to act quickly. I don’t own a home myself, which is high on the list of things my wife is not happy about. It’s not as high as the fact that I drink too much or that I can’t get along with her family, but it’s right up there.
I was sent to a house yesterday to do a termite inspection. We used to be exterminators, but we’re pest control technicians now. Inspections are easy. I don’t mind inspections. It’s the treatments that are the pain in the ass: drilling holes all around the house, mixing the chemicals and dumping them in, dripping sweat into the rubber gloves and the rubber boots and inside the lower lip of the safety glasses, refilling the holes, hoping you did it right and the little bastards don’t come back in a month.
They taught us the behavior and biology of termites when I took the class and the test for my pest control technician license six months ago. Not everything, just enough, and I forgot a lot of it soon afterwards, because use-it-or-lose-it. But I do know what a termite tube looks like, and as I walked to the front door of this house I clearly saw them coming out of the ground. They were like protruding earthy veins growing up the eight inches of the cement foundation and into the wood, or the cellulose, of the structure.
Also, I had a gouty foot. It was mainly in my right big toe but I could feel it migrating to the other toes and along the side and on top. I know a bit about gout from what the doctor told me. He also told me gout is not the only thing wrong with me, and it’s not even on the top of the list. When I told him I still smoked cigarettes he about had a stroke. Systemic is a word he kept throwing around. He warned me. I can’t say I wasn’t warned. Beer is the guilty culprit. Poor Mr. Beer picked out of the line-up, crying that he’s innocent. Red meat too. And worry.
Most homeowners don’t have bug problems, but there are some who want us to apply the chemicals anyway because it makes them feel better. Can’t hurt, they say. It helps them sleep at night, and it’s true a good night’s sleep is important for physical and mental health. This is not entirely the homeowner’s pathological fantasy. They were sold on that idea by the salespeople who go door-to-door insisting that without regular, professional chemical pest control service, the homeowner will one day wake up ankle-deep in cockroaches or scorpions or carpet beetles or any number of creepy crawlies waiting in the dark. When a homeowner calls us on their own, because they do have a problem, it’s often too late. It’s like when someone with a thousand health issues that they’ve been ignoring for years and exacerbating by bad living goes to the doctor and expects a magic pill. I’ve been to people’s houses with roaches crawling on the walls so thick they fall on your hat when you open the door, clinging to the curtains, rippling like a rug when you move the stove. Houses that reek of roach and rat urine and old food on the floor and filth that you cannot wrap your head around. These are people who might seem normal as they go about their day in the outside world. They’re homeowners, after all. They might be someone you work with or stand in line behind at the grocery. You’d never know it, but I see the dirty secrets. I treat the symptoms, like a doctor, and give them a list of things to do: clean, disinfect, throw out the garbage, seal everything in containers, no cardboard boxes…knowing they’ll do none of it.
My boss says much of our job is to make a show of it. People want a show. Even if they don’t have any real problems and the job is a piece of cake, we pest control technicians must make it seem like a big deal, a very arduous, altruistic and useful thing we’re doing, throw in some fancy words and if possible a tap dance. The boss holds employee meetings every month. He’s a young guy, in his thirties, gung-ho. He says we’re all a family. He stands up in front and makes lists on his whiteboard with his blue marker, or if that one runs dry, the green marker. At the top of the list is always customer service. We must wow the customer. Actually, he refers to customers as clients, like we’re a law firm.
But these termite tubes on this house were no joke. I pushed the doorbell button and didn’t hear a ring and then knocked. It doesn’t happen often, but I admit to a sense of satisfaction when I come upon a clear pest problem for which I am able to offer a clear solution. It’s nice to help someone, especially if they are appreciative. Sometimes they even tip me a five or a twenty. One guy gave me a twelve-pack of beer, Dos Equis, without even asking if I drank. I guess he could tell somehow. The thought of life without beer is a dark one.
As I turned to leave, the door opened. He was younger than me, in his 40s. He wore shorts and no shirt or shoes. He was bald and thin and looked like he’d just woken up from a three-hour nap in a tanning chamber.
“Yeah, what?”
“Hello, sir. I’m Mark from A-OK Pest Control. I’m here to do your yearly termite inspection.”
“Already?”
“Yes sir. You didn’t get the notification?”
My boss insists on eye contact, so I stared right at him. He looked ill, despite the tan, which had left a white shadow under his chin and the top few inches of his chest. His arms were too thin, and the skin was papery. Several open sores spread in full blossom around his mouth. They reminded me of a map of Nevada I had seen in a book, with little red hearts all around the border to indicate the whorehouses.
“Okay,” he said. “Just do your thing.”
“Actually, I’m sorry to tell you, but I can already see some termite tubes here on the foundation.”
“Give me a minute,” he said, and shut the door.
I continued around the house to inspect the back, limping badly. A molten knife went through the sole of my foot with each step. I dug into my pocket and popped another steroid tablet the doctor had prescribed. The literature which came with the tablets provided a list of side effects in tiny print, and mood swings was right up there.
The house was run-down. I went through the back gate, which was held closed by a loop of sliced garden hose. A large, below-ground swimming pool dominated the east half of the yard. Around the swimming pool were cement statues of naked men and women in erotic poses. Water came up through the leg of one statue and poured out an erect penis into the pool. Another had water pouring out of three tits. The water was brownish, and the pool was filled with trash and the pump gargled on its last legs. I followed the house around to a wooden pagoda with a little bridge that went over a koi pond lined with black plastic. One smallish orange koi swam in circles beneath a schmaltzy nonfunctioning cascade. The patio was littered with beer cans and whiskey bottles, and two ashtrays lay under hills of cigarette butts on the table. There was a bar too, complete with stereo speakers attached to the pagoda roof. This guy was really starting to annoy me.
I could see more termite tubes all around the place. He came out of the back sliding glass doors, exhaling a thick cloud of marijuana smoke and then coughing for three minutes. He opened a green bottle of beer of some exotic variety I always passed in the store on my way to the 30-packs of Busch Light. He had put a hat on but not a shirt. He could barely walk, trembling and hesitant like a 100-year-old man.
“Sorry,” he said. “You caught me at a bad time. So what’s all this about termites?”
“I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but the house is infested.”
