The alarm on my smartphone triggered the usual nervousness in the pit of my stomach as it did before I had lost my last job. The alarm was a melodic ringtone called Guitar Sonata. I chose it because out of the twenty-seven options, the soothing sound of Spanish guitar mass-produced and compressed into at ringtone seemed to be the only thing which wouldn’t compel me to jump out of my skin every time it went off. 

I now hate even a pluck of Spanish guitar. 

Prior employment had me up at an ungodly hour just to make it to the office on time. I would drive to the train station in the dead of night on a few hours’ sleep. Find parking with the other morons who thought suburban life was so much better than living close to the city where they work, because that makes perfect sense, and drag my ass through the droves of half-asleep drones clambering for an open train seat. 

Between train schedules, weather delays, and the monotonous day in, day out, it’s amazing more people don’t lose their shit on a commuter train every week. My guess, people up before the sun are way too tired for that kind of loose cannon bullshit. If you’re gonna blame anyone for your misery, blame yourself for accepting a life of grinding it out daily with no room for living a happy existence. 

My old job sucked even with the ungodly amount of money I was paid to babysit abhorrently, wealthy morons with a knack for over-spending. Before you and I met, I did the books for some of the richest celebrity nitwits on the planet. We’ll get there. Don’t worry.

The guitar riff has been my alarm for two years. Enough to drive anyone mad. The song, a reminder of time no longer my own. That ’first day back to school after summer vacation’ feeling. Life dragging me back in, all before my morning piss. 

Starting my new job that day, I wasn’t ready to see this as a new beginning. Rather, I ruminated about what laid in wait to make my life more difficult than it presently was. Mornings are never easy. And before you bitch me out for how cliché that sounds, let me explain. I’ve always had trouble facing the day. My mind wanders, thinking about the tasks needed to be accomplished as well as any and all situations liable to pop up in the interim. I’d prepare mentally for every scenario that could arise, weeding out any of a thousand triggers to one of my ’I know nothing bad will actually happen, but I am still going to flick this light switch three times’ episodes. 

Obsessive Compulsive Disorder. It’s fantastic! 

The biggest drawback happens any time a snag in my day actually occurred. Usually daily and very often. Let’s say, for example, I find myself cornered by a horrific rat-like creature in the piss-soaked basement of a dilapidated drug den? It happens more than often than you’d think and when it does everything else becomes a roadblock. And why not? How does one plan for that? 

The previous example may have been on the extreme side of the Crappy Day Spectrum, or C.D.S. if we’re playing the acronym game, though for someone as deeply trapped into the O.C.D. lifestyle as myself, trivialities like coffee on my shirt sleeve could feel like the end of days. A normal person would be annoyed and handle the minor incontinence with a napkin. I’d, instead, claim defeat whenever that cat-piss stench of java offends my olfactory senses throughout the day. Now imagine said the same O.C.D. personality dealing with said horrific rat-like creature stated in the previous scenario. 

Just remember, I am, at present, trudging through a rat filled sewer if that helps any with the visual.

There is a bit of narcissism created by O.C.D. As if the world will explode had I not checked the deadbolt to my apartment two more times before going out. Even just joking about the word ’explode’ would give me a twinge as if I have some ability to cause a cataclysmic disaster with one fleeting thought. Obsessive compulsives may seem like a bunch of assholes, but there are moments when I obsess about someone close to me getting sick or worse if the collection of remotes on the coffee table aren’t parallel to one another. 

If I’d spent a tenth of the time I spend on negativity and transferred it into being an optimist, Buddha himself would quit his job, but who has the time. I’d rather pretend I have some ability to fix problems by not stepping on a crack in the sidewalk. 

Rolling off the couch/bed, I struggled to my feet. It was five in the morning and work was at seven. This would be my first day of manual labor, ever. Used to a gauntlet of monotonous paperwork with little in terms of physical effort, I loved the predictability of accounting. Math is absolute. No surprises.  

Lack of spontaneity. A common phrase The Ex peppered into our fights when I could understand her drunken slurring.  

I had no idea what to expect as an exterminator, or pest control expert as I would later be referred to. No way to plot or plan. No way to build a contingency scenario. All I could do was get there early and wing it. I had even saved a full two doses of FILL IN THE BANK for the first day jitters. 

Stupidly, I wore my only pair of nice khakis that I could still wedge my fat ass into, which would later become work pants due to unforeseen circumstances. Somehow, I managed to find a plain white tee shirt without a beer or booze logo emblazoned on the front to complete the ensemble. Much of my wardrobe consisted of giveaways from the local bars. Going through my closet I dug up a button-down shirt I hadn’t worn in over a year and buttoned it over my distended belly. I felt like a poser. 

Washed, dressed, and holding back the nervous want to dry heave, I was ready to leave a full hour early. My plan: get there, scope it out, watch who walks in and prejudge them accordingly before ever meeting them. It was my sick way of having some control of the situation.

I arrived forty-five minutes early and leaned nonchalantly against a chain-link fence across the street from my new employ. Kellerman’s headquarters were conveniently located in a large warehouse a few blocks from my apartment in the factory district.

Now for a bit of history about Kellerman’s Pest Management. Established in 1969 by Dr. Thomas C. Kellerman, a former government chemist during World War the Second, Kellerman’s aimed to be the cutting edge of pest management. What lead Dr. Kellerman towards his foray into the private sector came when he lost funding for a chemical weapon project he worked tirelessly to no avail. Dr. Kellerman had developed the first “humane poison” cleverly nicknamed Euphoricide. The concoction would bring about a reaction in the brain similar to a psychotropic drug with lethal, yet compassionate, results. The poison worked by attacking the hypothalamus, the part of the brain which controls hunger, thirst, hormonal and behavioral circadian rhythms, as well as fear and defensive instincts. When administered, the subject’s mind was lulled into a false state of bliss. Basic survival needs like eating and drinking would shut down while an increased release of dopamine acted to numb the experience. The enemy would never be aware of their body going through any type of physical duress and those dosed would simply pass away peacefully, yet exhaustedly, over a period of days. 

Early tests of the substance on rats proved very successful, minus the subjects taking several days to expire. Innovative in concept, the Euphoricide project was scrapped when the military realized a bullet proved far more efficient, cost-effective, and far less time-consuming. 

In some ways, Kellerman saw the failure of Euphoricide to be a weight off of his soul having to never had to put an actual human test subject through its paces and instead decided to help people with his chemical know-how. He soon opened up a moderately successful pest extermination business with the help of childhood friend Glen Powell. Working out of the lab he built in the basement of the office, he innovated a “family safe pesticide” which was later mass-produced by a conglomerate before Kellerman could acquire a patent.  

Crushed, Dr. Kellerman chose to retire rather than face further embarrassment amongst his colleagues. Closing the office early before Christmas break, Kellerman took the opportunity to end his life. Disheartened by his failures, he main veined an overly vigorous dose of Euphoricide in his lab/basement. Dr. Thomas Kellerman was found just after New Year’s when his partner Glen stopped by the office and discovered a note with a key taped to the locked basement door. It read as follows— 

I, Thomas C. Kellerman, after thinking long about my failed legacy, have decided it best to move on. Not wanting to burden those close to me with the trauma of discovering my lifeless vessel, I have locked the door to my lab and provided a spare key for the proper authorities. 

To my relatives, I leave what meager possessions I have to be divided evenly among them. To Glen Powell, my trusted office manager and closest friend, I leave Kellerman’s Pest Management. You’ve kept my business running when I could not. I can think of no one I trust more with the company and its beloved employees. Finally, to my workers, I leave an extra $300.00 in this week’s check and the rest of the week off with pay, which will be taken out of my personal finances. Thank you for your effort and dedication. 

Know that my final moments on this Earth brought me more elation than my earlier days ever had. 

My fondest fair well to you all,

Dr. Thomas C. Kellerman

The coroner’s report stated the good doctor’s body was found sitting comfortably in an office chair. His lips Riga mortised with an eerily serene smirk. I later found out the C stood for Clarence.

What does any of this have to do with my present predicament? We’ll get there soon enough. Don’t worry.

My heart was racing as I sipped on a second coffee. Mistaking anxiety for caffeine overconsumption happened a lot. The milky tan sludge tasted a bit too sweet as the empty calories clung to my taste buds, staining my breath with a noxious odor. I unwrapped a piece of gum in hopes of quelling the java fumes I’d be wafting into the nostrils of my new co-workers who I’d been watching walk into the office for twenty minutes or so. As the pocket-soft gum passed my lips a dull sting pained my shoulder blade. I heard a crunch followed by an involuntary whimper as I bit the tip of my tongue to the point of near bleeding.   

"You must be the new guy?"

Frozen for a moment, my mind raced as to who was bold enough to lay a manly slap on the back of a total stranger.  On an owl-like pivot, my head turned to find a living cartoon character standing behind me. He was short. Not Danny DeVito short, but enough to cause a disadvantage in certain confrontational situations. His hair was sparse, clipped close to the scalp.  This was the kind of guy who proves God has a sense of humor. An ’eager to please’ vibe exuded from his facial tics. A trait, I gathered, he mistook as positivity where others see overcompensation. With the exuberance of a game show host, he introduced himself.

"Hey, there buddy. Name’s Paul,” Paul paused and continued, “Paul Bellows," his surname ironically matching the vocal delivery. From the nametag and Kellerman patch on his shirt I was put slightly more at ease that he wasn’t a lunatic. At least he wasn’t a vagrant looking for money because I honestly had just enough money for my coffee habit that morning and maybe dinner. Staring at me energetically, as if to expect the same upbeat treatment, Paul never broke eye contact. My chapped lipped grin awkwardly greeted the peculiar fellow who continued to smile and nod as if agreeing with something I’d never agreed to.  

Paul’s gung-ho demeanor is one I’ve yet to get used to to this day.

Happy-go-lucky types bug the shit out of me— and with good reason. I’m jealous. I wish I could wake up elated, skipping headfirst towards the day, ready for whatever kind of fucked up mishegoss the world throws at me. To be able to harness the kind of ignorant positivity a child possesses before life shifts into full gear must be a wonderful thing to experience. That right there is bliss. Alas, this is a mentality not coded into my cranky-ass DNA. 

"I’m Meyer. How you doin’?" My reply was curt. Not from an angry place, although, my outward expression might have conveyed otherwise. It was still too early to know for sure. The eagerness of people like Paul Bellows never made much headway with the morning version of myself. This version needs a softer touch; a slow approach. You don’t just run up to a cat and expect to pet it right away. It’s likely to claw your goddamn eyeballs out! One needs to advance quietly, letting them suss out the situation, earn trust, and once given the green light they may proceed, keeping an air of trepidation in the back of their mind. A concept Paul hadn’t a clue about.

Paul extended his paw for a shake. Calloused and grubby, I begrudgingly shook it out of the convention. 

Moist. Expecting rough, I got moist. 

My mind reeled at what Paul Bellows may have touched in his travels only to generate more germs on his Petri dish of a hand. A mental note scrolled through my brain— 

‘Buy hand sanitizer. Lots of hand sanitizer. 

"Did you say ’Meyer’?" Paul excitedly asked in his Paul Bellows way. I could see the wheels turning behind those capricious eyes. This bold sonofabitch introduced himself to a complete stranger hoping it was the guy he was to train as an exterminator that morning allowing his boldness to feel even more like foreign a concept.

"Yeah?" the answer sounded more like a question as I uttered it. A pit grew in my guts as Paul’s once innocent expression shifted into that of an old pal seconds after seeing each other after twenty years. 

What door had I opened?

"Guess you’re my bitch today, newbie," he hugged me. Hard. The hand I held my coffee cup in, now wedged between us, drained down my right hand. Sticky, lukewarm liquid streamed over my fingertips, somehow finding residence on the crotch of my work pants once Paul added in a few jostles for good measure. The khaki color would luckily mask the coffee stain once dry but would do nothing for the smell. 

Ah, cat piss.

Glancing up at Paul, he had noticed his faux pas. “Whoa, partner. Looks like you better work on those Kegels, am I right?” he said in a jokingly frazzled attempt to deflect from the onus of drenching my groin in coffee. Pointing at my wet patch, he beamed with a childlike mischievousness. 

What Paul Bellows didn’t seem to understand was just how completely lost I was in this back and forth. 

After a long, awkward pause, Paul reiterated his point, "Sorry, thought I’d mess with the new guy on his first day." His emotional state shifted. “Shit. I took it too far again. I always do that. Sorry, Meyer.” Nervously sincere, his tone revealed a person who more than likely spent his school years with his underwear yanked firmly up his ass by those larger than himself.

“It’s fine, Paul." It was so fucking far from fine, but I played it off with a smile. My voice became lighter, friendlier out of convention. Annoyed as I was, being outwardly cruel to people was never a goal of mine. Deep down I don’t like being an asshole, even if it seems that way and I usually save a good portion of my misdirected anger for my inner dialog. 

"Scared me there for a second," Paul admitted through a sigh of relief. This seemed to appease Paul’s need for acceptance, which, in turn, filled me with some sense of pride having placated his fragile ego. "Cool-- Cool, man. Like I said, my name is Paul and I’ll be training you. You ever work in pest control before?" Paul asked. 

"Newbie," I replied still using my pleasant voice. 

I watched as Paul dropped his shoulders, relaxing into the conversation. Body language was a definite tell with him. Paul used erratic hand gestures accentuated by an overly excited grin. Innocently transparent, but honest, he seemed far too genuine to be phony. A trait I’d eventually grow to respect in the guy. Even now, recounting the more benign events of this story, I sincerely regret the way I initially judged Paul Bellows. First impressions are often misconstrued by our selfishly jaded perception of the world. I guess that’s the thing with getting to know, or rather, being forced into getting to know a person, bonds form. In our case, it was for the better. Though, for the sake of story structure, I loathed Paul Bellows at this moment in time.  

Paul, in one brisk robotic motion, brought his fist up to his face, nearly backhanding himself. Strapped tightly to his cubby wrist was a dated calculator watch, a device I hadn’t seen since the late eighties. The sight of the device made me feel old. 

“We should head on in. Don’t want to clock in late. I hear the boss is a real hard-ass,” Paul cackled, obnoxiously nudging me. 

“We wouldn’t want that,” I replied while doing my best at pretending to care. 

In all seriousness, I hated being late. Control issues and all. 

Paul walked and talked as though he had about twelve cups of coffee. A fair analogy would be to compare his aura to a beehive; constant motion and sound. Which can be almost motivating coming from a likable person, but with Paul, it played as desperate. “What are you’re feelings on insects?” Paul asked hurriedly. I stared at him silently, still getting a handle on his personality. He didn’t wait long to clarify the question, “Like roaches, are you a grab a shoe kinda guy or you let the wife take care of business? This is not a job for the skittish.”  

I answered abruptly, “Divorced.” Paul cringed. “And I’m a grab a shoe kinda guy,” I continued, steering the topic back on track. He began to buzz once more with a barrage of questions to which my answers were cold and quick.

“How are you in tight spaces, dark basements?”

“I’m not scared of the dark.”

“Rodents?”

“I had a hamster once.”

“Hamster. You’re a funny bastard, Meyer. I’ll have to remember that one.”

“I try.” 

“Okay, we know you can handle a hamster. How are you around rats? Say about a pound or so?”

My stride slowed. It wasn’t until Paul got a few steps ahead when he’d noticed I was no longer beside him. Patiently smiling, he waited for me to catch up. In my mind, I began to imagine just how big a one-pound rat actually was and the revelation churned my stomach. 

“Was it something I said?” chuckled Paul. 

Using a sip of coffee as a deflection, I caught up to him. “Sorry, I’m still wakin’ up,” I lied, taking another swig of the cloudy beverage. Anxious twinges trembled through me as we approached the front entrance of Kellerman’s Pest Management. What I was feeling was reality setting in. Change is tough enough without the trappings of a compulsive routine weighing you down and the inclusion of rodents of unusual size brought back the heaves. I anticipated how I would eventually create new compulsions to cope with everyday stress, while, logic and reality kept me lurching closer to the office. 

We entered the main door of Kellerman’s Pest Management. A sad, nearly windowless room of grey cinderblock painted over in an even colder shade of grey. It resembled the set of a prison movie. Just past a small, unmanned, reception area, the back opened to a sizeable warehouse space. Folding chairs peppered the room in no discernable order, many occupied by my new co-workers. Past that was a half wall with shelves housing the tools of the trade. Glue traps, roach bait, canisters of poison with ominous skull-shaped warning labels emblazoned to the side. There was a sadness to the place, understandably, considering the décor and what the job entailed. A combination of dread and monotony stained the air. The employees seemed affected by the tone as well. Although, the sullen crew could have been adjusting to the start of another work week. It felt familiar in its malaise, not that I could relate to manual laborer per se, but office folk have bad days too. Hell, it was a bad day that led to my present situation working for Kellerman’s. 

Now before I come off as a snob when discussing my new co-workers understand one thing, in my past employ I was basically a number-crunching office monkey staring at a screen all day. The toughest person I ever met there was the ninety-eight-pound I.T. guy Jonas— Exactly. Polo shirted business-casual types whose hardest part of the day was waiting in line at Starbucks. Far from the office drones I had assimilated into, these men came from what one might call ‘difficult walks of life’. 

I walked two steps behind Paul, following his lead while feeling like the fresh fish marching his way through C Block on their first day in the pokey. My initial impression of Paul left me safe to assume he was the bitch of this bunch, thus, designating me the assistant bitch. 

“Sup, Law,” Paul said to a rather formidable gentleman who resembled Ving Rahmes. His reciprocation came in the form of a quiet nod. Paul kept smiling and continued down the line. He leaned close to my ear conspicuously, “That’s Law. An old buddy of mine. I trained him back in the day.” The smile never left Paul’s face as he glad-handed everyone in the room, whether they liked it or not. He continued to explain how “Law” was actually Lawrence. Law was the moniker he got during his last week in prison. Law’s sentence was overturned through a loophole he found while going through law books during his two years inside. 

My blood ran cold as I muttered to myself, “I work here now.”

“What’d you say?” inquired Bellows, a smile bookended his pudgy cheeks.

I was narrating out loud again. Quick to cover up my quirk, I threw on a convincing face and replied, “I work here-- wow.” Not my best acting, I’ll admit. 

Luckily, Paul took it as sincere and exclaimed, “I knew you’d like it.” Without missing a beat, we continued on. What followed was a parade of new names and faces. My mind on overload, I lost track of the names in Paul’s constituency pretty early on. I’ve always been more of a face guy. For some reason names immediately escape me. Introduce me to a person and before I’m shaking hands, I forget the name. Chalk it up to social anxiety, I figure. I find myself intimidated by new people and what they might think of me. We all do it. Just some more than others. Though, I never forget a face. For instance, that morning I met Teardrop Tattoo Guy, Jaundice Eyes, Hair-lip, Fonzarelli, and Skullet. I remember features over names. Probably, why I call most people I re-meet at large gatherings things like ‘Hey You’ and ‘Sup, man.’

Paul kept working the reluctant room. I became preoccupied with the notion of everyone thinking the new guy pissed his pants. Not that they would’ve noticed as most of their attention was buried in either smartphones, newspapers, or breakfast, most likely in an attempt to not engage with Paul. Each guy dressed in the same workman style uniform as Paul; rough work pants and a matching button-down shirt with the Kellerman patch on the right breast and a nametag sewn to the left. It was hideous. I would soon receive the same outfit.

“If you ever want coffee, the machine’s over there. But you’re better off with the bodega around the corner.  It’s owned by a guy named Manny. Great egg sandwiches,” Paul informed me as if it were the mystery of the Sphinx. 

Quick aside, the egg sandwiches are, in fact, excellent at Manny’s. 

Paul’s mannerisms would take some getting used to. Not being the type of person who could sit in comfortable silence with anyone for more than a few seconds, he would accentuate his point further with hand gestures. Like a maestro of drivel, he composed symphonies of random ideas with his whole body telling the story. I wondered to myself if it was blind confidence or nervousness which fueled Paul Bellows. Either way, I was stuck with him.

“You’re doing this for Bea,” I mumbled to myself, exhaling a cleansing breath. I could feel the pangs of a panic attack churning in my guts.

“Who’s Bea?” Paul inquired.

While stammering for a response something became clear about Paul. Through all of his vocal diarrhea, the man listened and actually gave a damn about what people had to say. Sincerity is a trait lost nowadays with our quick text responses and emoji hieroglyphics. Also, when Paul asked how you were doing, he meant it. He was a better man than me in that department. I had gained a smidge of respect for Paul Bellows, even if I couldn’t stand upbeat assholes like him.

Paul immediately followed with, “Is she some hot chick you’re screwin’?” 

In a mere sentence, any respect was now gone. 

“She’s my daughter,” I answered sourly. Waiting for a long awkward pause which never came. 

Paul kept up his yellowed grin. “Oh, sorry. Well, you at least got laid once, am I right?” said a filter-less Paul nudging my ribs roughly with his elbow. A maneuver I didn’t know people ever performed in real life or at least I’ve never been privy to such a gesture until then. Seemed so vaudevillian. 

I smiled and let it go, feeling a twinge of OCD creeping in. 

Did I lock my apartment door this morning?

Stress is a trigger and so far, the frantic nature of Paul Bellows brought my heart rate up a click shy of making my hands tremble.  Rubbing the thigh of my pants, a cylindrical bulge grazed my palm, sending a burst of calming reassurance through my body. 

I know what you’re thinking and, yes, you are a pervert. The bulge in question was the pill holder on my keychain with one of the last doses of FILL IN THE BLANK I had left. It seemed as good a time as any to take it. Realizing there was nothing but sugar sludge at the bottom of my coffee cup I turned to Paul. “Where’s the men’s room?” I asked, noticing Paul was no longer near me and instead standing at a beat-up old podium in front of the room full of workers. 

“If I could have everyone’s attention. Could somebody please wake up Omar and Curtis? Thank you. Now, before we get started today, I’d like you to meet the new hire, Meyer.” There was a pause as Bellows processed the rhyme, “Hey, that’s funny.” 

It wasn’t.

Chilled blood flowed through my veins as Paul pointed me out. 

Fuck, I wanted my pill!

I mustered up a half-smile as I nodded at the room.

Paul addressed me, “Come on, Meyer. Say hi. They don’t bite.”

I counted at least three guys who most definitely bit someone at some point in their lives. My heart pounded while Paul’s eyes widened, his busy hands urging me to talk. 

“Hi,” I murmured.

Everyone’s eyes darted up at me and just as quickly trailed back down towards their other interests. Two or three halfhearted colloquialisms were thrown my way but nothing one would call sincere. 

“Alright, fellas. Settle down,” commanded Paul to the nearly silent crowd. He continued with a sudden sternness in his voice, as though he had some authority over these men. “Line up to receive today’s jobs. And no trading jobs. You do the ones assigned. I’m talking to you, Hank. Don’t think I haven’t noticed.” 

The crowd of men stood, lined up in an orderly fashion, and were handed their work for the day. My jaw dropped as I watched this room of Alphas fall in line for Paul Bellows of all people. He handed the men their work slips on printed out forms. Each one grumbled about their task no matter what it entailed. As they exited, the workers grabbed a set of van keys from a pegboard on the wall and exited the building.

“The harbor again? That’s the third time this month, man,” shouted an extremely annoyed Law as he read his sheet aloud. My ass cheeks clenched up as if the rage were aimed at me. 

“What do you want me to tell ya? Mr. Gutierrez asked for you personally. You should be proud that he likes your work,” Paul said with pride.

“Listen. I know I do good work. I just can’t keep working at them docks. Bugs and shit, I got you. But those rats down there are no joke. I almost got bit twice on my last run, man,” Law leaned in close, his face inches from a smilingly unfazed Paul.  

Now, I’ve never actually been in an actual drag-out fight, and to be honest, I’d never actually seen one in real life, but I was sure this was about to change in about two seconds. 

Lawrence puffed out his chest. Paul grinned idiotically. I wondered if I would be held responsible if I stayed completely neutral and did nothing to stop it. Suddenly, Law’s menacing visage morphed to that of a puppy dog pout. “I can’t be fucking around with those rats again, Paul. Please, man,” Law quietly begged as Paul visually worked something out in his head. Law looked over at me with disdain. A ‘look the fuck away’ intensity glowed in his eyes. Staring back at Paul, Law’s expression reverted back to soulfully begging.  

With a reassuring smile, Paul replied, “I’m sorry.” 

With a man of Law’s size and dubious background, one might be surprised to not find Paul eating his teeth at that moment. Instead of anger or rage, Law appeared as though the world were crashing down around him. Paul merely stood there with a creepy smile on his face, almost as though he delighted in Law’s dismay. Paul grabbed his cell from his belt clip and dialed a number. After one ring the other end answered, “Mr. Gutierrez. Paul from Kellerman’s Pest Control. My apologies but Lawrence is already scheduled somewhere else today. It was completely my mistake. Not to worry though, I’ll be down there personally first thing this morning.— Thank you for understanding. See you soon.” Paul hung up and clicked his phone back onto its holder. With that, he took the work order from Law and replaced it with a new one. “An easy apartment re-baiting. Should be in and out in an hour,” Paul said with a heroic tone.

Law glanced up with what I could only imagine was the same expression he made when the judge overturned his sentence. He held out his fist for a bump, which Paul caucasianally reciprocated. “Thanks, Paul,” Law uttered, never taking his eyes off the job slip. 

This exchange between my new co-workers had distracted my pharmaceutical cravings for the time being. Instead, I was focused on the shift in Kellerman’s pecking order. Well, that and Paul still having a belt clip for his cell phone. The scent of pot wafted past my nose as Law exited the room. Self-medicated. Maybe we had more in common than I thought.

Alone in the cinder block room, I stood silent waiting for Paul to take the lead. Slowly, almost intentionally, he turned on his heels to face me. A devious grin consisting of shifted teeth gleamed yellow in my direction before he spoke, “Today’s your lucky day, Rookie. You get to bust your cherry on ‘Tribble Duty.’” 

Wonderful. Now there were nicknames for what lies ahead. I could almost taste the metallic bitterness of chewing down a FILL IN THE BLANK as I lamented the horrors of what ‘Tribble Duty’ might entail. 

Law’s words echoed through my mind. “I can’t be fucking with those rats again, Paul. Please, man.” 

Needless to say, my confidence in the day going smoothly was quickly kiboshed.

“So you’re not even gonna ask?” Paul queried, beaming with excitement.  

“What’s ‘Tribble Duty?’” I asked numbly. 

Paul’s face took on an almost Jack-O-Lantern quality. His dingy grin accentuated a dramatic pause before Paul added, “You’ll see.” 

There was a mischievousness to Paul’s reply, which started as a snicker and topped off with a forced maniacal laugh. Heel turning one hundred eighty degrees like a military school drop out, Paul soldiered down a small hallway off to the side of the warehouse. Over his shoulder, Paul’s pudgy index finger motioned for me to follow suit. I did. As we walked single file down the boot-scuffed hallway my mind drifted back to simpler times when H.R. quickly squashed fraternal rituals such as the one I was more than likely about to endure. You see, when one lives in a cubical long enough, litigious behavior can oft be the quickest way out, regardless of how dopey the claim. Prove the boss was winking at you and not just wiping something from his eye and a big payoff coupled with a long vacation awaited the bold. This sort of frivolity would be laughable at Kellerman’s. This was a men’s club. Weakness would be sniffed out and exploited at a moment’s notice, Human Resources be damned. 

Growing up, physical confrontations seemed moronic to me, mostly because I sucked at fighting. And it wasn’t that I couldn’t necessarily win a fight, rather, I just found the whole idea pointless. One might think being as snarky and angry as I was growing up, pugilism would be part and parcel with my attitude. Alas, this was not the case. I believe the term you might use to describe my rung in the societal pecking order is ‘a gigantic pussy.’

Apologies for being graphically sexist in my honesty. I’m a throwback to a less woke time.

I contemplated dry swallowing the FILL IN THE BLANK, but with my luck and coffee dehydrated mouth, chances are I’d gag it up onto the un-swept linoleum. A risk I could not afford at this point. Nor was retching like a fool in front of Paul, inevitably leading to some hilarious nickname like Spewie.

Reaching around his beetle shaped waist, Paul unhooked an unimaginable sets of keys from his belt loop. By unimaginable, I mean this keyring was in actuality a series of quarter-sized key rings draped with keys that seemed to run on like a chain, one linked to the next. It had to weigh three pounds easy. I am, even on my worst day, neurotically observant about these things, so to have only noticed this jangling monstrosity until that moment, my mind had to have been in another place. I couldn’t imagine needing a tenth of the keys this man had accumulated, probably since the advent of locks, in my entire lifetime. Paul abruptly stopped in front of a steel door marked with a very official skull and crossbones warning sticker. Then, in an almost magician-like motion, he pinched between his chubby thumb and forefinger a plain unmarked key from his Jacob Marley chain of plain unmarked keys. His knack for telling one from the next planted the notion of Paul being a high functioning idiot savant or whatever. Letting out an almost erotic sigh, Paul inserted the key into the lock with an unnerving tenderness, simultaneously, grasping for the chrome doorknob with a slow clasping fist. 

Believe me, this was a lot less sexy than it sounds.

Paul paused to further the dramatic tension, slowly craning his head in my direction. He began a spiel which was undoubtedly used on past trainees. His voice lowered a few octaves for the sake of showmanship, sounding more pained than menacing, “The job we’re on today is, dare I say, a life-changer.”

Life changer. Check.

“This morning we will be working the docks,” Paul paused for dramatic effect. I stared blankly into his wild eyes. My reaction, or rather, lack thereof, spurred him to continue, “The docks are not to be taken lightly. Bustling with ships importing and exporting all manner of products day and night. Tens of thousands of shipping containers touch down and ship out every year and with those containers, we receive our consumer goods; electronics, housewares, clothing, cars—“ He continued on after listing several other items, “On occasion, these modern conveniences are shipped with stowaways. Stowaways, who have nothing to do on their long journey from God-knows-where other than eat, sleep and fornicate.”

My kind of vacation. Sign me up.

“Besides the vermin from our own soil: Peripplaneta americana, Lepisma saccharina, Cimex lectularius—“ 

The scenario being laid before me didn’t have it’s intended effect given scientific names failing to have the same impact as the common nomenclatures laymen like myself are used to. In case you were wondering what creatures Paul referred to, they were The American Cockroach, Silverfish and Bed Bugs. Itchy yet? 

“— but the one to look out for at the docks is Rattus norvegicus,” Paul spouted with dark glee. “Your common Brown Rat or ‘Sewer Rat’, as it is commonly referred to, en mass, is a nightmare machine if ever there was one.” 

As someone in the know, Paul is one-hundred percent on that. 

Bellows had my complete and utter attention. The word PILL blinked in and out of my mind with each quickening heartbeat. An empty coldness lined the pit of my stomach as one of my pesky panic attacks goosebumped across my insides. Dread came in the form of realization. The realization of what I was now expected to do as a source of income. Masking the anxiety best I could, my body let out a quiet shudder when Paul averted his eyes momentarily.

What was I doing here?

Paul still hadn’t opened the door, his hands at the ready for whatever big reveal he had up his sleeve. “Thanks to state of the art pest control methods and advancements, us bipeds have a leg up, or rather two, against the steady stream of infestation which plagues our cities,” Paul did his best to make it all sound official. Turning back towards me, he was now staring hard into my eyes. His unique body odor strangled my every olfactory sense. Between Paul’s unwashed reek accompanied by a waft of halitosis, I tried my best not to wretch coffee across the hall. Suddenly came my next realization of having to spend eight hours a day with this man. I plastered an expression on my face which Paul mistook for terror, not my revulsion, and played along.

“But not to worry, Rookie. Behind this here door—is what kills nightmares.” With that Paul flung open the thick metal door with the gravitas of a carnival barker and said, “Welcome to The Menagerie.” 

I peered slowly into the inky dark before Paul flipped the light switch illuminating the room. The Menagerie, as Paul so fancifully put it, went far beyond my trepidations. What lay before me was a dimly lit workshop, complete with the disconcerting strobe of faulty fluorescent lighting adding to the slapdash mystique Paul so generously hyped. The walls were lined with metal shelving housing all manner of, from the looks of the labels, highly toxic chemicals, and their means of deployment. Chrome hand-pump canisters with shoulder straps and rubber hoses leading to spray guns, way more severe than the basic equipment housed in the front room at Kellerman’s. Everything appeared customized from their generic counterparts.

 “I’m what you might call a tinkerer,” Paul bragged as he motioned towards his inventions lining the cold metal shelves. Traps, baits, powders, gels, aerosols, all crudely modified by this buffoon. As my eyes perused the armory one item stood out from the rest. Hanging front and center over the display of gadgets was a crudely lathed wooden club with a pink stain on the flat cricket bat end. Worn, dried-out fabric tape wrapped around the grip further adding to the aged appearance. The bat was mounted proudly on a wooden plaque the way one would hang a prize Marlin over their fireplace. Affixed just below the weapon, a brass nameplate was the inscription, ‘Doc’.  

I imagined how many times, and on what creatures, a tool of that nature had been employed. Judging by the rosy hue embossed on the business end Doc had definitely been in the shit more than once. 

With my gaze uneasily focused in on Doc, I hadn’t noticed the warm aura of another, more pungent, being within smelling distance standing right behind me. “I see you’ve met Doc,” Paul whispered into my right ear. Taking a breath as I prepared a reply my sinuses engulfed a whiff of the most horrific mouth stench to ever emanate from a human being, dead or alive. 

“Not officially,” I bantered back, exhaling the swamp gas Paul had wafted my way.

“Yeah, that old girl has stories to tell,” Paul said with a hint of nostalgia. 

“I bet,” I replied in hopes of not having to hear the war stories of a gore-splattered bat. 

But we all know I’m not that lucky.

“You see, Doc is from another time when Pest Control Specialists went by another name, Paul said with quotation fingers. A name, which nowadays, doesn’t sit too well with the politically correct folks. Evidentially, exterminator sounds a bit too extreme for some. But that’s what we do here, Meyers. We exterminate.” Paul quoted again with an eye roll.

We murder small creatures. Check. 

“You’ve heard of the Black Plague, right? The Silk Road?” Paul asked. Fearful to interrupt the intenseness in Paul’s voice I craned my neck left to right to indicate “No.”

“Europe, 1346. The Yersinia pestis bacterium causes one of the most significant outbreaks ever to befall mankind. Nicknamed “The Black Plague”. Paul used air quotes yet again. “The blight stormed across Europe through The Silk Road. You see, the Chinese figured out a method of trade throughout Asia which proved to be very lucrative. The transporting of silk became their bread and butter as far back as the Han Dynasty in 207 BC. An endeavor so profitable, in fact, that The Great Wall of China was extended to make sure the route was safe,” Paul prattled on, reminding me of Cliff Clavin from Cheers. “You see, The Black Plague is believed to have come from black rats, or Rattus rattus. The rats carried oriental rat fleas, which came in with the ships delivering goods from China. Killing off anywhere between thirty to sixty percent of Europe, the population didn’t recover until the seventeenth century only to have the disease pop up now and then until the nineteenth century.” 

I was learning a lot. I was also beginning to freak out about what Paul was getting at with this history lesson. I needed my medication fix soon or I was going to lose it. Not even 7:30 am and this was my day. 

Fuck.

“Rats are the perfect carrier of the disease. Agile, adaptable, quick. Their nature is The Four Horseman all rolled into one. The perfect global killer in a cute little fursuit.”

I could feel my hands tremble as Paul spoke. The slow build of anxiety was becoming more than I could keep hidden. He saw it as a reason to go on. Listening was all I could do. I began to focus on my new mentor. Turning my panic attack into a caddy critique of Paul. A childish tactic, which would redirect my angst away from my problems and aim them at him. The way he looked. The way he smelled. Anything to block out the nerve-racking lesson Paul was relaying so vehemently. Did Paul Bellows have a bone to pick with rodents? The fire in his eyes was intense. His voice was far too passionate to be insincere. Even though I could easily overpower a man of his stature if need be, Paul Bellows’ blind trust in his convictions might just win the day if he got really weird on me. Experience has taught if a person is convinced of an opinion, trying to sway them is futile. It was then I decided to deal with Paul much the way I deal with those of differing political or religious opinions, nod in agreement until a subtle exit can be made.

Paul continued, “We, as pest control specialists—“ he again used air quotes, “— have been given the unpopular and often overlooked honor of being the first line of defense against the true menace facing this city and our country as a whole. Take all the terrorists, criminals, and general garbage humans that makeup mankind, lump them together in one place and their numbers come nowhere close to the swarm of vermin living right beneath our very feet. In our homes. Our schools. In our workplaces—“

Paul kept on like this for a while. A very long while. I began to feel sweat forming down my back.

“Now imagine a threat, driven completely by instinct, without regard for its impact on the landscape. For them, this is who they are, what they are, and how they thrive. Eat. Breed. Repeat— Simple.”

My tongue was dry and puffy. Realizing I’d been breathing out of my mouth through all of this, I worked up a wad of saliva as a makeshift thirst quencher. This was a lot to take in before 8 am. Placating Paul’s rant I continued to nod, hoping it would be over soon.  

This man had bodies buried in his basement. I was sure of it.

Paul could see I was drifting, “You still with me, Rook? Don’t want you swooning at the first whiff of mouse terds.” My feigned expression assured Paul I could handle what he was going on about. I glanced behind him, noticing what looked like a glass enclosure of some kind. Paul immediately grinned as if my noticing the display was part of his scheme. Which I’m sure it was.

“Bet you’re wondering who those fellas are?” he beamed, motioning over his shoulder with his nearly nail-less thumb. 

The shelving behind Paul held one by two-foot terrariums made to look like a child’s diorama decorated to resemble sewers, basements, and dusty, crumb riddled cupboards. Within these cases were various vermin posed in taxidermically deliberate positions which coincided with the environment they may have been discovered in. 

“That one there. That’s Octo-Roach”, Paul pointed to a display at about eye level made to look like a grimy place setting with old food on a dinner plate. Inside was a giant, almost impossibly so, cockroach with four antennae protruding from its shiny rust-colored head. After closer inspection, I spotted only four legs. Paul stepped back, allowing me more room to peruse the bug. A gust of putrid breath brushed the back of my neck as Paul continued his orientation ritual, “Found him in a Turkish restaurant I cleared my first year on the job.” I peered closer at the bug in hopes of seeing dabs of glue holding the extra antennae in place. To my surprise, the spare parts did, in fact, grow out of the head. There were even a couple of divots where the antennae sprouted out. And as far as the four legs, where the two missing appendages should have been protruding was a smooth, untouched exoskeleton. 

Pill! Pill! Pill! My pulse kept time with the thought of my meds. What the fuck was I in for today?

“Next to him is Bucky,” exclaimed Paul with the fervor of a carnival barker running a freak show. Which was exactly what this all was. In the center of the sewer-like diorama was a rusted water pipe made to fit end to end in the display. The center of the pipe had a hole purposefully cut out of the side to allow ‘Bucky’ to be exhibited inside. Bucky turned out to be a common brown rat curled up like a cocktail shrimp in the fetal position, his muzzle nestled tightly into its fuzzy belly. Almost— peaceful. Almost. 

“Found him wedged in a pipe near the very dock we’re clearing today,” Paul explained, “This sorry son of a bitch managed to get stuck like that in an unused drainage pipe and remained stuck in this position for several days surviving on whatever water and filth flowed his way. Fact. A rat’s teeth are always growing and they need to chew on anything they can find to wear them down. Bucky’s front teeth, having nothing to gnaw on, continued to grow. The incisors slowly, and no doubt torturously, burrowed their way straight through his gut and out the back. How he managed to live so long while it was happening only shows the gumption of these little bastards,” Paul said sounding impressed.

My morbid curiosity forced me to take a closer look. Then I noticed the long yellow teeth speared through Bucky’s fuzzy back. This was a freak show. Only, in some crazy way, Paul sold it as generally interesting. At least in his mind. What started as an attempt to scare the new guy, became a passionate showcase of a subject he had great reverence for. This didn’t excuse how disturbing I found it but my acting held strong as Paul continued. 

“Now, the real gem of the collection—”

Pause for dramatic effect. 

“The King,” Paul beamed with pride as he motioned to a case draped with a tiny red velvet curtain. Resembling the stage for a children’s puppet show, my stomach was queasy at the notion of its reveal. Paul’s excitement level went to that of Christmas morning proportions. Eyes wide and glazed, he exuded the anticipation of a child wanting to show their parents how well he can do a cartwheel. His chubby cherub face would have been strangely adorable if his cartwheel wasn’t a hideously misshapen abomination, which mocked both God and science. Paul drew back the curtain with an awkward panache. All I could do was allow my brain time to absorb the confines of the ornately lit glass case. Outfitted with mini spotlights accentuating the more grotesque features of the exhibit, leaving in shadow the right amount of unnerving imagery best left to the imagination.

“The King is possibly the only known ‘Rat King’ taxidermied anywhere on the planet.” 

What I heard in my head, “I made a freak beast from Hell!”

Paul mistook my horrifically confused expression for intrigue. Lucky me. “Your expression is priceless,” he teased, “I bet you have all kinds of questions.”

Yeah, like why what the fuck is going on at Kellerman’s. 

“What’s a Rat King?” I asked, hoping to get this nightmare over with. Paul Bellows, now given the opening he intended, spoke as if he had found the Ark of the Covenant. He rubbed his grimy little hands together before he belted out in dramatic fashion the diatribe he had undoubtedly prepared for The King, “Once thought to be an urban legend, The Rat King is one of the more disturbing— ‘creatures,’ plural, to reside in the darkness. What were first mistaken as bad omens, The Rat King is actually the result of overcrowded communal living amongst rat colonies.” His showmanship rivaled that of ‘As Seen On TV’ hosts. 

The furry carcass, or carcasses, encased within the diorama sat frozen in time in their glass case. The multi-rodent beast, or beasts, lay lifeless upon a red sating pillow adorned with gold tassels where the corners squared off.  I could feel a dozen lifeless eyes glaring back from the display like shiny black buttons zeroing in. 

Paul droned on about the monster in his pseudo-Vincent Price voice, “Colonized rats have been known to stay in close proximity to their brethren. Using each another for warmth and survival, occasionally the group becomes fused in an entanglement of filth, excrement, scabs, and in some cases frost. Like bedsores, their bloody wounds heal to the other rats they are pressed up against. Over time the tails become entangled in one another. Panic ensues.” 

I stared closer at the exhibit. A thick, pale-skinned dreadlock met the several butt-ends of about six rats in the display case. Their bodies seemed to be straining to become single entities again but to no avail. Or at least, that was the description eventually given by the maniac who mummified these rats into the grotesque mass of horrors they had become. 

The Maniac continued, “Being trapped that close to one another, rats resort to cannibalism in order to get free. Cannibalism not being uncommon amongst most rodent species, it becomes Darwinism at its darkest leaving the strongest rats to take charge of the conjoined pack and in some cases, as legend tells it, they can become hive-minded in their struggle to survive.”

The contents of the display were now abundantly clear through Paul’s morbid description. Six brown rats stuck to one another by crusty shit and scar tissue. The shape of each individual rat popped into view like one of those optical 3-D illusion posters college kids ruined their eyesight with back in the nineties. The smaller rodents in this taxidermized scrum had missing parts unlike their larger,‘Darwinistically’ stronger, counterparts. Gnawed stumps where paws used to be marked the pecking order. Then I discovered something, which for a moment drew my attention away from the abomination for further morbid speculation. A disembodied tail was weaved into the nauseating bundle entrapping these poor souls. I wondered to myself if the rat who once belonged to that tail had eaten himself free or was eaten by the others. I then wondered where I would stand in a similar scenario. Best guess, eaten for sure, but probably, like, third or fourth in the chain. Either way, not a positive outcome.

Finished peacocking, Paul pointed his sausage finger at The Rat King display, puffing out his chest in a show of pride. He resembled a fifth-grader who just won the science fair. I stroked his ego with a reluctant smile, partially out of morbid curiosity, partially out of the need to get the fuck out of Paul Bellows’ House of the Macabre.

“For years I’ve said a real Rat King existed. Laughed at by “so-call” experts in Rodentia, I kept looking, knowing one day I would find proof of a King’s existence. Then, I found Cybil,” Paul said while staring intently at his prize. 

“Cybil?” I asked in hopes of hurrying this along.

“She had already passed on when I found her. During a baiting down at the docks, I tripped over an old stack of rotted out wooden pallets. There, lying still in the corner was the outline of a raccoon, or so I thought,” Paul said acting out the entire scenario, “I grabbed an old broom handle laying on the floor and nudged it. Nothing. So, I poke it again. Nada. Figuring it was a goner, I grabbed my torch and went in to investigate.” Paul grabbed the conveniently equipped flashlight from the belt holster on his hip, quick drawing it like a gunfighter, he shined it in my face. The world became blindingly white. 

“But once I got in close, I realized what I’d found. Something I’d hunted for since becoming a pest control specialist, an honest to God Rat King. Possibly the only one in existence.”

Paul stood there, his sausage finger tapping the glass of his disgusting ass fish tank to further the point. 

“I had to be careful not to damage Cybil here once I knew her value. To think, for years taxidermists created countless frauds just so they could lay claim to the discovery. Myself, I’ve never been one for forgery. Everyone I mount has a unique quality to them, accentuating the unconventional beauty they all exude.” 

I bit my tongue trying not to laugh at his last sentence while holding back the coffee gurgling up my windpipe trying not to heave.

Paul leaned in close to Cybil’s display with earnestness in his eyes, an earnestness which would have made this interaction no less creepy to anyone having walked in on this fucking mess. His breath fogged up the glass display as he continued, “To the untrained eye, these are nothing more than poor animals who were slaughtered and put on display. Quite the contrary. I never killed them. That would be barbaric.” Paul looked at me for a reassuring response to his oddly terrifying statement, which I did. 

He did know what he does for a living, right? 

At that moment Paul Bellows had managed to unnerve me beyond the point of rational thinking. 

“The Native Americans— “

The Native Americans now? My mind raced at where this was going.

“—believe you put back what you take out of Mother Earth to keep the scales of nature balanced. These poor creatures never asked to be different,” Paul pointed sorrowfully at the fish tanks, “They were victims of circumstance. Each of them met their end before I ever showed up. I happened to find their oddness interesting-- almost beautiful.” Paul’s eyes made their way from one exhibit to the next, stopping for a moment to acknowledge each specimen with a sympathetic reverence almost as though he could relate to whatever back story he fantasized for them. He genuinely felt pity for each and every monster in his twisted circus. I began to feel the same about Paul in my own defeated way. And with that, Paul managed to tug my heartstrings-- and cut them just as quickly.

“I have made it my goal as middle management in Kellerman’s Pest Control to continue on with what Mister Kellerman had envisioned as his legacy,” Paul said, proudly.

Holy shit! First the Native Americans and now-- 

“Mr. Kellerman was a pioneer in chemistry. His innovations, if brought to their full potential, could have revolutionized the pest control industry.” 

What followed was the entire story of Dr. Thomas C. Kellerman which you had the pleasure of learning about earlier. 

Paul continued on, “Dr. Kellerman was asked to create a weapon but instead created a peaceful alternative. It didn’t hurt or maim. There wasn’t a folded flag going home to wives and mothers along with what’s left of some blood-stained dog tags. He brought civility to the chaos.”

“I don’t know how civil it is to kill someone,” I blurted out, wondering why I was egging on this back and forth. 

Paul engaged, “It’s not. That was the point of his work. He knew killing was a necessity in times of war but as a man of science Kellerman also held life as precious, even down to the tiniest of God’s creatures.”

At this point, I was all in because what the hell else could I do. “Why go into extermination if you see the value of all living things?” I asked. Either Paul Bellows was going to have an answer which made perfect sense or I was going to be dropped deeper into the abyss of ‘what the fuck’ this lunatic was leading me into.

“It all goes back to balance. Man needs to survive the same as the animals. But our success depends on keeping a handle on our environment. If pests and rodents infest dwellings and food storage, disease breaks out. Also, no matter how fast we spread our seed, we’ll never out-breed the pest population no matter how hard we try. Not that we should, what with the limited resources the Earth can produce. It’s a numbers game. What we do is a necessity. What’s not necessary is the method. Every life is precious. Shouldn’t our last moments be treated the same?”

Still not swung to his side, my face gleamed with puzzlement. 

Paul continued, “Life and death are the ultimate Yin and Yang. To have one the other must inevitably happen. A cruel fact we humans have trouble coming to grips with. But if you think about it, even vegans kill to survive. Plants die to help them live the only difference is plants can’t show emotions the way animals do. If an ear of corn cried out for mercy every time it was ripped from the stalk what would a tree hugger eat?”

His odd logic caught me at a weak moment. Nodding in agreement he continued, “Back to the Native Americans—“

Oh, lest we forget.

“— they knew life continuing meant death for another and struck a balance with the natural order, never taking more than they could return to the Earth. They saw reverence in every kill and even went as far as to thank each creature for its sacrifice.”

Always be polite to those we’ve demised. Got it. 

Paul became serine. He clasped his hand over his belly, lowering his head. The excited red-cheeked smile dropped to a solemn expression as he closed his eyes. I found myself inadvertently mimicking Paul, making sure to keep one eye peeped on his next move, just in case. Of what? I had no idea. 

Paul, keeping his hands in the same position, lifted his head, and stared at me. He resembled a fat Rod Serling doing an intro on The Twilight Zone. Lowering his voice Paul said, “I’m telling you this because being in pest management can get—complicated, both mentally and physically.” 

“Complicated?” I replied anticipating Paul’s need to complete his speech. 

“Taking a life is tough no matter how small,” Paul whispered, putting his hand on my shoulder as a support mechanism, or perhaps he’d be moving up to my trachea to end this madness. It was hard to tell. “When someone gets on a plane, they just zone out, eat some peanuts, and arrive in a completely new city.”

Plane analogies now. 

“But if that person thought about what was actually happening, they would most likely shit their pants upon take off. The idea of being stuck in a metal tube while hurtling hundreds of miles an hour, thousands of feet above the world without an ounce of control over the situation. That’ll get the old hamster wheel spinning, “Paul tapped my temple, “good luck enjoying the rest of the in-flight movie. It’s the same with what we do, Meyer. People call us to get rid of bugs and rodents.”

It is not at all the same, but I let Paul continue.

“So, we go to a home or business, lay down some traps, spray some chemicals, collect a paycheck, and call it a day. Right? But when you think about how we mass exterminate living, breathing creatures who are only doing what thousands of years of instinct and evolution are driving them to do. They’re victims of a necessary evil. And that’s just the mental part.”

He did mention a physical part, didn’t he?

“Do a job long enough and it becomes old hat. You get used to the disgusting images of vermin swarming together in a writhing mass, scattering as you flip on the lights. Then every now and again, you may run across something even a seasoned veteran would find hard to shake,” Paul motioned towards the displays, his rough hand still gripping my shoulder. “But with a newb like you, it might take some time to get used to even the everyday calls. Later tonight, when you head home and take a shower or two— I took three my first day— you might find yourself looking around more. You might think you see a roach scurrying across the floor. You’ll look and find nothing there.” Paul continued as if telling a campfire story, “You’ll wonder if you could’ve brought something home from a job. All it takes is one little baby roach to hide on your pant leg or maybe a few eggs ended up in your shoe. Your mind plays tricks. Something there one second and gone the next. You think it’s nothing, but in the back of your head you know you saw it.”

My skin rippled with goosebumps as Paul continued. Why didn’t I take that fucking pill?

“Hell, I’ve seen guys break out in hives from what they saw and mistake them for bites. One fella, Felix, lasted less than a week. Wanna know why?” Paul began before I could beg him to not tell me, “He stopped sleeping. He got the worst case of crawls I’ve ever seen.”

“Crawls?” I asked as I polished off a space in my brain for whatever horror Paul was about to put there for me to obsess about later tonight and forevermore.

“Literally every time he’d get in bed, Felix would feel things brushing up against his legs. I told him it was just body hair tickling against the sheets. A trick of the mind, but once the crawls start, it’s hard not to take that shit home with you. Needless to say, it ended his time with Kellerman’s. The trick is to keep your wits about you and always, always—WHAT THE HELL IS THAT?” 

I felt the eighty-grit sandpaper of Paul’s hand roughly brush the back of my neck, though at the time it could have been a three-foot fucking tarantula. Lucky for me, I realized it was a prank midway through the very girlish squeal my throat had chosen to create. Unfortunately, the adrenaline/anxiety attack cocktail surging through my brain’s amygdala over-road my mouth’s off switch.

Paul began to guffaw like a goddamn hyena, nearly hyperventilating. If he wasn’t so socially awkward, I would have thought it fake, but no, his snorting chortle was one hundred percent authentic. Every gasp of it annoyed me to no end. I’d fallen for the primate’s obvious ruse. My blood boiled as I watched the veins in his neck protrude from the strain of laughter. I imagined them bursting, leaving Paul Bellows a lifeless sputtering husk on the floor, which was immediately followed by a twinge of guilt at the mere thought of wishing such a fate on him.

Another quirk of mine growing up was feeling shitty after thinking ill will on a person. Tends to eat me alive. As if saying, “I hope you get hit by a bus,” to someone who cuts you off in traffic could actually cause him to, in fact, be hit by a bus. Again, me thinking I have some narcissistic control over the universe. O.C.D. takes all the fun out of sarcasm. Yet, I still felt shitty about thinking such a thing about Paul.

“You should have seen your fucking face,” Paul managed to say through frail heaving, “I thought you were gonna cry.” He wiped a tear from the corner of his eye and held it up like a toddler proud of a crap he just took, chuckling, “Now I’m crying.” His laughter was incessant. 

Still doubled over, Paul struggled to a chair and collapsed into a heap of rippling flab. I waited as the laughter died down only to immediately start up again. This went on for four excruciating minutes.