Jesus Ants

Jesus Ants

A week ago, I found an aggressive ant in my peony plants. I killed it just as I had slain armies like him in the past. I supply the healthiest, pest-free plants to my customers, even if it requires the extermination of a few bugs along the way.

That night I soaked in the bathtub. I had just rotated onto my belly and noticed that the caulk between the tile wall and porcelain had become black in some areas. Leaning on my elbows, I ran my right index finger along a two-inch line of sealant to see if it would rub off. At first, I thought it was a floater wiggling down my eye. That’s when I saw actual movement, racing in like the cars in Fast & Furious. Ants. I had black ants funneling into my bathtub! I jumped up, naked and dripping, stepped out of the tub and slipped, clunking my left knee against the porcelain. I landed flat on my butt.

Immobilized on the ground, I watched, hypnotized, as three rows of walk-on-water Jesus Ants continued to launch themselves onto the soapy water. The next brigade climbed on top of them as the ones on the bottom formed a matted life raft. The ever-widening raft of comrades grew higher toward the tubs lip. Chills and pain finally broke the spell. I grabbed my towel and wrapped it around me.

The pest platoons continued their advance. If I didn’t let the water out, they could climb over the tub’s edge. I wasn’t about to stick my arm into that sea of insects. Instead, I hobbled to the guest bedroom to retrieve a wire hanger to loosen the rubber drain plug.

If I could hook the ring on the stopper, I could yank it up.

“Got it!” I growled, “Die you bastards.”

I ought to be in the Guinness Book of Records for the highest number of ant kills. Victory was mine that day.

I turned on the shower to hasten the ants’ exit down the drain. Relieved at the sight of their disintegrating life raft, I limped to the garage to get ant spray and gloves. When I returned, the influx of ants had stopped. I secured the Velcro tight around the wrist of my gloves, drenched the tiny crevice with the poison, then stuffed toilet paper in it to avoid strays. My hermetically sealed gloved hands pushed the remaining stragglers swirling to their final home down the drain.

I traded my gloves for a robe and went to investigate the other side of the bathroom wall. It was a back porch of solid masonry. My flashlight revealed no entry point. I’ve heard of ants living inside walls, but that many was unnerving.

I applied ice to my knee and called my boyfriend for sympathy. He didn’t seem too impressed by my creepy-crawly story. I’d been too busy defending my territory to document the attack with a selfie. He did volunteer to bleach the black line and re-caulk the gaps.

While on the phone, I noticed that my finger that had touched the moldy caulk was black, the entire finger. Probably leftover dirt from inside my gardening glove. After I hung up, I scrubbed my finger, but the black wouldn’t budge.

Whatever. I need to take a Tylenol PM and get some sleep.

***

I dreamt that ants were in my bed, biting me. My arm felt prickly, like I’d been sleeping on it. Too groggy to wake up fully, I fell back into a deep sleep.

When I stumbled out of bed, nine hours later, my arm still felt tingly. I hadn’t opened my eyes yet as I sat on the toilet and rested my head in my hands. What the—? My hand didn’t feel like a hand. I raised my head and stared at my right arm. My breath caught in my throat. Sweat popped from my pores. In place of the arm I went to sleep with, there was a cast-like dark brown crust. I forced myself to resume breathing, but hyperventilated instead. The arm felt hot. I jumped off the toilet, shoved the deformity in the sink under cold water.

The crust splintered and fell away in one piece. Instead of fingers, my hand had become the head of an ant. The gold bracelets that had been on my wrist now hung from the ant’s thorax, my arm from elbow to shoulder transformed into the abdomen. Legs and antennae unfolded and sprang out of what used to be my arm.

Dizzy and nauseated, I grabbed for the sink’s edge with my left hand but missed. I collapsed. My head hit the floor, and everything went blank.

When I regained consciousness, I turned my head to the right and the sweetest bug eyes looked back at me, waiting, pleading. I knew what I had to do. I threw on clothes, rushed to my backyard, dropped to my knees and grabbed my garden trowel with my left hand. I dug deep into the loam where the peonies were blooming. My right arm instinctively dropped in the ground and within minutes was covered, becoming the queen ant of her own colony.

***

“So, Doctor, that’s how my arm got like this.”

I faced the doctor sitting on his wheelie stool. His eyes blinked rapidly, mouth slack, and he cocked his head. “Uh,” he said. Very profound.

He took my arm in his hands and squeezed gently in a few places. “Any pain?”

“Nope. No pain. A little tender maybe.”

“Any headaches?

“No headaches.”

He scratched his forehead. “Hold on.” He swiveled to open a supply drawer and withdrew a mirror. “Place your right arm in front of the mirror and tell me what you see in the reflection.”

“Ah, look,” I said. “Isn’t she cute? A big beautiful giant ant has taken residence as my arm. I know I sound crazy, since I used to hate those little buggers. But my ants were Jesus Ants. They converted me. Now I see them as the lovable creatures they are.” I hugged my ant arm.

“Interesting. Let me ask you, exactly how many poisonous chemicals would you say you’ve been exposed to over the years?”

I shook my head. “I don’t understand the question.”

“Never mind. May I take a photo of your arm? I want to call an associate who has more experience in this area.” He snapped photos with his cell phone, “Wait right here.”

He went in the hallway to make his call. The door didn’t close all the way, so I heard him say, “Hey, Phil. Do you have a minute? I have a doozey of a case for you. This lady is the most delusional woman I’ve ever seen. She thinks her entire arm is an ant . . .Yep. One large arm-size arthropod ant.”

Silence.

 “I swear. I am not punking you . . . Serious as a hailstorm on a golf course. She believes it. . .  Nope. No scratches on her arm. No fever, no headache. I’m texting you her pics for your files.”

***

“So, Dr. Phil, that’s how I ended up here with you. Can you help me?”