The Crying Man and the Bedbugs

The Crying Man had bedbugs. And they had him.

In fact, he was about all they did have, poor loathsome blood-engorged creatures that they were. Skittering about his studio apartment, silently, like wound-up tiny little robots. Only wanting to live another day. Or night. Unable to even stop and ponder their own meager existences. Always on the search for blood.

His blood.

There really was no getting rid of them. They were a worldwide scourge, currently. As a child The Crying Man's mother used to tell him, "Goodnight, sleep tight, don't let the bedbugs bite". He always thought it was just a saying. There were no bedbugs then, that he could tell. Now, humanity had settled into a new paradigm: humans PLUS bedbugs.

He had tried sprays, and traps. He even bought an encasement for his mattress, so they couldn't nest inside. Unfortunately, he couldn't afford a second one for the box spring, just yet. These measures, especially the sprays, which he could scarcely afford, only provided relief that lasted a few weeks, like a type of hygiene. Then, the bugs would return. Like jilted yet faithful lovers, coming back into his life.

They came in all sizes. There were the nymphs, the young ones, just big enough to straddle the head of a pin. Kind of reddish in color, like tiny little crabs, he'd find them scampering toward or away from him. Happy, maybe, to be alive. Really, kind of cute in a way, they were mindless little things. He'd smush them with his finger and they'd leave a small dark, rusty smear like the skid mark aftermath of a lilliputian car accident, there on his wall, or on the white encasement which covered his mattress. He'd notice a smell, like ripe figs. Sometimes, the crying man would clean this. Other times he'd leave the smear there, as perhaps a warning, or a kind of memorial. For the others.

The Crying Man would feel bad.

Then, there were the smaller adults, tinier versions of the full grown ones, which he could see puttering about the surface of the uncovered box spring sometimes when he pulled the mattress up, to see if there were any around. There often were. Other times, they were no where to be found. But The Crying Man knew they were there.

They were the closest thing The Crying Man had to roommates.

There were times when The Crying Man would uncover miniature little orgies, at night taking place right below where he slept. Little reveries taking place. Breedings. Goings on.

One time it was where the zipper, not quite closed, on the mattress encasement, sort of pooched out, letting them in. And out. They must place such significance on that hole, he thought.

There, he'd find them in these miniature, bacchanalian tribal affairs imagining he was breaking up a great party as the little bugs fucked and socialized, maybe, in their buggy kind of way swapped stories about him, their God, amidst a smattering of eggs and larvae which darkened the temporary hole in his defenses like some kind of encroaching mold.

Revolted at these discoveries, The Crying Man would quickly grab the half-bottle of lime green and cleansing glass cleaner he kept in the kitchen and sprayed for all he was worth, between sobs, soaking and saturating them in the caustic liquid chemicals.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry" he would say, his revulsion turning into pity, his eyes blinded by tears as he squeezed the plastic trigger of the bottle again and again. The little bodies writhed beneath him, in agony.

After all, what else did the little creatures have, but The Crying Man? He must be like their God. A force, un-seeable, yet all pervading. Omnipresent. Sustaining, yet terrible: He gave life, and then he took it away. And every 3 or 4 nights, they would take communion, using his body as the host.

Oh, it wasn't asking much. A bite here, a nibble there. Just enough for sustenance. Nothing fatal, certainly. Just enough to live another few days. They were even nice enough, for the most part, to wait until he was sound asleep. Immobile.

This time, he had woken up at 3am and found one of them scampering away from his arm in the semi-darkness. Lashing out in revulsion, instictively, yet again, The Crying Man smeared the little body on the cover of his sheets as he turned on the end table light and pulled the sheet away from his body. He could see another scamper away over the side of the bed before he could do anything.

"I'm sorry," he would say, seeing what he had done, to the first, and the stared beyond his little cone of light, spying yet another one making its way studiously along the wall nearby his bed, as if a climber on a sheer cliff.

"There's too many of you," he said, frowning.

For a moment, the crying man did nothing but regard it, as it made its way, before reaching over for a tissue on the nightstand and lovingly killing the lost little creature beneath its folds, this time expertly popping its little body within the Kleenex's absorbent confines before getting up and tossing it away the small bundle in the waste paper basket.

"There's too many of you," the crying man said again, sighing.

Wheetmort Pendergrast, The Crying Man, looked around his meager apartment for any more, but couldn't see any. He rubbed his hands against his dark blue plaid pajama bottoms and gave out a sob. The first of many that day.