Bugs

Compassion is due everyone, but in particular it's owed to those afflicted with neuroses.  Compulsions, phobias, these can wreak havoc in a life.

Consider the weekend I spent with my college chum Alice.  Our schedule had been well organized.  Friday I would sleep at Alice's; Saturday my uncle Irv would drive us to Bayshore.  He'd leave us at his home there to enjoy its delights and come back on Sunday when we'd return.

Knowing the hour Irv planned to pick us up, I was determined to retire early on Friday night.  I was just brushing my hair, preparatory to bed, when Alice convulsively gripped my hand.  "A moth!  A moth!" she shrilled, dragging me to the bathroom.  In wild terror she slammed its door.

I was bewildered.  "I'm sorry," she confided tremblingly.  "I'm phobic about bugs flying into a room.  We'll have to wait for Jules."

"For Jules?" I echoed blankly.

"My brother.  He'll kill it for us.  Unless he's feeling mean."

Valiantly I offered to slay the moth myself, an act of heroism Alice rejected.  "Don't open the door," she shuddered.  "It could get in."

We spent a grim hour and a half in that bathroom.  From time to time I would glance longingly at the tub, conscious ever of my need to sleep.  Nor did the rhythmic drip, drip of the faucet do much to keep me alert.  Then, clump, clump, clump.

Alice put her mouth to the keyhole.  "Jules?" she called.  "There's a moth in my room!  Kill it!"

Clump, clump, clump.  "Okay, Alice."

"Oh, Jules, you're just fooling me," Alice quavered.  "Please, please kill it!"

"It's gone, Alice.  You can come out."

"I don't believe you," she wept.  "Oh, please!"

Jules was patient.  "Alice," he reassured her, "it's dead.  I found a suicide note."

Firmly I led my friend from our hiding place.  "We both need to sleep," I reminded her.

"You don't understand," she complained wistfully.  "You don't have any phobias."

Reflecting on this unhappy lack in my nature, I snuggled between the sheets.  From the bathroom the steady drip, drip calmed my nerves.

Clump, clump, clump.  Jules, I decided sleepily.

Drip, drip, clonk, screets.  My eyes flew open.  Drip, drip, clonk, screets.  Screets.  Screets.  Gussssssh.

"Man the life boats!"  shouted Jules, bounding into our room.  "Women and wash cloths first!"

It was 3:30 that morning before the mop-up was completed.  The faucet still dripped, I noted sadly, and now so did my bathrobe.  Wringing it out, I flung it across the shower rod.  "Throw it out if it dries with a stain," I told Jules.  "Or make rags from it.  You'll need them."

"I'm sorry," he murmured.  "But that drip was getting to me.  I just couldn't take it."

"She doesn't understand," Alice interjected glumly.  "She doesn't have compulsions."

"Oh yes I do," I cheered her.  "I'm obsessed now with getting some sleep."  And despite Alice's insistence that that didn't count, I fell blissfully into the bed.

I felt equally peaceful at Bayshore ‑-the afternoon was a summer delight.  That ended, unfortunately, with the appearance of Art.  He entered, placed his suitcase in the front hall, and whistled at us approvingly.  "Nice of Irv to provide what I need," he leered.

I moved hastily to set him aright.  "My uncle probably forgot to tell you we'd be here," I ventured, recalling that absentmindedness was a family trait.  "He didn't tell us about you, either."

"Yeah, kid, sure," he muttered disbelievingly.  "Well, the name's Art, and I'll take the room across from yours.  See me later, after I get some sleep."  Then he marched up the stairs, leaving Alice and me gazing at each other astonished.

Art must have indeed been tired; no stir came from his room till 10:30 that night.  By that time Alice and I were safely reading in bed, our door foresightedly bolted.  And affairs might've remained at this impasse had not Fate introduced another unforeseen guest.  Into our room flew a beetle.

Being most unlike a rose, I was singularly unimpressed with its menace.  Not so Alice.  Blanching, she leaped from the bed, and when she saw the beetle hovering near the door, she plunged into panic.  "Ronnie," she gasped, pressing her back to the wall, "do something!"

Grateful that at least she wasn't screaming, I seized my copy of Newsweek and headed purposefully toward the bug.  It flitted higher, toward the ceiling.  "Oh please, Ronnie," wailed Alice.  Futilely I waved Newsweek at it, but my ambition exceeded my reach.  The high ceiling of the old mansion gave the beetle a foot of safety.  Meanwhile, back at the wall, Alice was becoming desperate.  "Oh, do something, please," she begged.  "Help me!"

One look at her and I realized that injunction wasn't to be ignored.  Forgetting Art's curious convictions, remembering only that he was taller than I, I strode across the hall and pounded on his door.  He opened it and greeted me with delight.

"Please," I begged, "we need you!  Come to our room."

"Glad to," he smiled.

Disregarding his knowing grin, I fled back across the hall.  Art followed me eagerly.

Perversely, the bug had hovered nearer to Alice, was, in fact, directly over her.  She looked about to faint, but at the sight of Art she snatched the sheet from the bed and held it against her nightgown.  "Get rid of it!" I pleaded, pointing in her direction.

"Of her?" he asked, incredulously.

"No, no, of the beetle."  I handed him Newsweek.

He strode toward Alice and performed the necessary execution.  With that Alice half collapsed onto the bed, still clutching the sheet to her.

Turning to me angrily, he demanded, "Is that what you called me in here for?"

"Why, yes," I assured him, blinking my surprise.

Wordlessly he stomped from the room, slamming not only our door but his.  "What's he so sore about?" I asked my friend.  Unbelievably Alice was laughing now.  I stared at her, wondering if she was hysterical.

"Without a bathrobe," she chuckled, "and in that black lace, you'd give anyone the wrong idea.  Didn't you realize that, you dope?"

I plucked at my prettiest negligee and blushed.

"But maybe you're an exhibitionist," Alice continued, more reflective now.

Spluttering, I began to protest.

"It's all right," she soothed me.  "Everyone has some sort of problem.  We're still friends, no matter what."

And we were.

But compassion, as I say is owed those afflicted with neuroses.  Not their own, you understand ‑-these they can cope with.  No, I refer to the victims of other people's oddities.  Like me.  Some weekends I just lose.