Bug-Batty—A Phobic's Guide to Hosting

Shauna had never hosted a writer’s group before, and she was a little nervous. She had a thousand phobias. Dirt phobias, noise phobias, and especially insect phobias. The smallest gnat would put her in a catatonic state until it was caught and removed.

But she had all her ducks in a row. She had written an email invitation with very careful instructions. Once more, she reviewed those written instructions in her mind, and the reasoning behind them:

1.    Park in the front of the house, not the side. (A reasonable request—the side driveway has light-colored concrete, and I don’t want any tire marks.)

2.    Ring the bell, don’t knock (I have a very gently tinkling doorbell—knocks make me jump out of my skin.)

3.    Enter the house quickly and close the screen door tightly behind you (Insects not allowed. Perfectly understandable.)

4.    Bring white wine, not red (for the sake of my white carpet. A rational, logical request.)

5.    For snacks, no dip, please. Crackers and hard cheese only. (Again, the carpet.)

6.    Be on time—7 p.m. (That’s just being polite.)

She envisioned them all lining up like happy little soldiers and following her to the living room.

She had covered all her bases. And it was 6:58 p.m.

She stood by the front door, hand on the doorknob, and waited, breathing in through her nose, and out slowly through pursed lips.

She heard the tinkling of the doorbell and smiled, feeling a wave of relief. They are following my instructions! Maybe I’ll make it through without passing out!

Sure enough, they were on time. They even lined up like little soldiers as she led them to the living room. And not a soul brought a drop of staining red wine, or dips, or sauces.

She began the meeting and could feel her anxiety evaporate as she sank into her chair, grateful and happy.

Everyone was delightful. Everyone was interesting and engaging, and not too loud, and neat as pins. They shared stories and giggled, and everyone praised her for her perfectly organized meeting and her lovely, orderly home.

But suddenly… there it was. She saw it with her own eyes. Her heart went into V-fib, fluttering in her chest. Her face turned white, and as she collapsed to the floor, she shouted, “There’s a bug in my…” and she tumbled into her chair and went limp.

Jennifer, who knew her best, patted her cheek gently. “Shauna! It’s all right! We’ll find the bug and get rid of it.”

Eyebrows were raised, and someone reached for the phone to call 911 but Jennifer shook her head, quickly explaining Shauna’s phobia. “I’ve seen it before. If there is a bug in this house, we have to find it. She can hear us, but she is too afraid to wake up. Now—Shauna said, ‘There’s a bug in my…’ my what?”

Lola the Lush said, “My wine?” She looked in Shauna’s glass. Chardonnay, yes. Bug, no. Lola shook her head. “No bug in her wine glass.” She took a surreptitious swig and set down the empty glass.

Betty Bouffant, with a bee-hive hairdo, suggested, “There’s a bug in my… hair?” She proceeded to check Shauna’s perfect coif, as carefully as she could. "Not one bug. Not a hair out of place, either. She sure is… perfect!” Betty had always admired Shauna and was perhaps even a bit jealous.

Frank the Farmer said, “There’s a bug in my… rug?”

He got down on his hands and knees in overalls and sock feet, searching her carpet, floor mat, and even the woven throw rug in front of the fireplace, amazed at the cleanliness of everything. His carpet had crumbs, muddy footprints, and probably even bugs. He stood up after his thorough inspection. “No bug in the rug.”

Jennifer patted Shauna’s cold, unresponsive hand. “If only you’d finished the sentence. We are looking as hard as we can, my dear friend. Hang in there!”

Geriatric Gerald shouted, “Maybe she meant, ‘There’s a bug in my hearing aid!'”

Jennifer tried not to roll her eyes. “She doesn’t have a hearing aid, Gerald.”

“Oh!!” he shouted, not meaning to. “I got a bug in my hearing aid once!!! I heard it buzzing around!! Or maybe it was just the hearing aid buzzing.”

Clepto Carl offered a guess, “I have a bug in my… bag?” He grabbed her purse.

Jennifer frowned. “I’ll do it.” She peeked in Shauna’s purse. There was a wallet, a lipstick, a packet of tissue, and hand sanitizer. There was no lint, no gum wrapper, and… “Nope. No bug.”

Just then, the door creaked open, and there stood Shauna’s husband, Jack, looking fit to be tied. “There’s a bug in my driveway!” he roared.

They all ran to the window, expecting to see the Godzilla of Gnats or a literal Lord of the Flies.

Jack continued his tirade, “Who’s Volkswagen is parked in our side driveway?”

Shoulders relaxed, and there were a few comments such as, “Whew!” and “Thank the almighty!” and one voice screaming, “Oh my god! How can you see a bug in the driveway from here?” It was Gerry, who had missed the Volkswagen comment.

Jack growled, “There’d better not be a tire mark! Shauna will have a fit!”

She already did have a fit, explained Jennifer, pointing to poor Shauna in her chair, her head hanging to the side.

Farmer Frank blushed sheepishly and said, “Sorry, my bad. I’ll move my car.” He trotted outside, and soon the gentle purr of the Volkswagen bug was heard pulling back out of the side driveway.

Jack, who had followed him out, inspected the driveway very carefully with a flashlight and magnifying glass, and finally shouted to the gawking crowd at the window, “No tire mark! I repeat—there is no tire mark on the concrete! Disaster averted!”

Shauna sat up, her color returning. “Thank you, everyone. I heard every word, and I know how hard you tried to solve the mystery. You are the dearest friends a girl could ever have." Her eyes misted with tears, and everyone settled back into their chairs, immensely relieved.

Farmer Frank popped back in and took a knee in front of Shauna. “Please forgive me. I simply forgot. And you had written such easy-to-read instructions, too.” He hung his head in shame, looking as if he would have accepted the guillotine had she commanded it.

Instead, Shauna smiled warmly. “It’s okay. I realize my anxiety gets a bit carried away. Thank you for your kind understanding, all of you!”

Farmer Frank took her hand and gave it a reverent pat, his chest heaving with relief as he choked back tears of gratitude for his redemption.

Jack offered a hand and a reassuring smile to Frank. “No harm done, my friend. All is forgiven and forgotten.” As an extra measure of benevolence, Jack gave Frank a friendly pat on the back of his overalls (and a centipede dropped out of Farmer Frank's overall bib and fell onto Shauna’s lap).

The moral of this story is: Centipedes are people, too.

No, that’s not right.

The moral is: Writers with weird prompts write even weirder stories and should never be trusted with a laptop unsupervised.