HEATHER VS. THE ANTS

July marked a period of our apartment ownership I call the Great Ant Siege of 2014. If I made a list of things I blatantly hate, ants would sit high in the top five, somewhere between fake British accents and the sound of nails on polyester-based fabrics.

It started in our bathroom, in the corner by the sink, right where the linoleum peels up to reveal the unattractive underfloor. Just a few ants dawdled at first; enough to annoy, to rouse curiosity, but not to raise alarm. These were the scouts and they were testing the waters of my tolerance. Each time I’d sit on the toilet, I’d squish a few more with my big toe much to Jordan’s disgust, but they obviously had to die. I’d grown up around the occasional plagues of ants. I’d wake up in my bed at night, finding them crawling along my neck. Climbing a tree one sunny afternoon, a few red ones bit my legs and elbow--my elbow. They patrolled the kitchen regularly, waiting for one sweet wrapper to fall, a Dorito crumb, or even an onion peel, just as my mum had warned. I used to have this dream where I’d be sitting in a wooden chair or on the ground outside, surrounded by dry brush and dirt under a hot sun. Then, I’d see them marching up my arms, coating my limbs in black, pulsing masses, until my entire body was engulfed up to my face so I could just see them eating my flesh. Morbid, right? This was imaginative, but it might as well have happened in a past life, and it wore such a scar on my memory. Ants and I have a vendetta that goes back as long as I can remember.

Now, they were testing my patience more than ever. With more frequent invasions, I went into full defense mode, laying down ant poison and wiping the bastards up with bleached cloth whenever I felt vengeful enough. This was my home; a cheap, studio apartment, yes, but it was 200 square feet of my property, damn it. The last straw hit around 10 pm on a weeknight, after a long day of work followed by a pile of dishes to be cleaned. I picked up a blue sponge, the brand new one I’d replaced only just that morning, and quickly flung it down after turning it over. In my safe kitchen sink space, on my nice, clean sponge, dozens of ants clung and crept inside the holes. In such a state of shock and disgust, I could have vomited, but I was too furious. The ants caught on first. This breed was the sneakiest and speediest, and once I’d discovered their newest acquisition, they scampered out in a million different directions, trying desperately to hide behind soap bottles and crawl back into the walls. But I was ready. In two steps I had the bleach in hand, and five different aerosols ready to go, spewing colorful language at the top of my lungs in the most terrifying display of heroism. I sprayed bleach, air refreshener, soap, hair spray, nail polish remover, anything I knew was toxic to ants since my broke ass couldn’t afford legitimate bug spray. I might as well have fumigated the apartment. I would not stop until each damn insect was exterminated and died knowing that they had gone too far.

Across the room, Jordan looked my way in horror, this spitting cobra/evil deity/dragonlady of a girlfriend, swearing genocide upon these tiny, black creatures. I couldn’t understand how he wasn’t as livid. It didn’t occur to me for a second how insane I must have looked, but I still emitted a few fragments that weren’t full of curse words to justify my radical behavior.

“Ants. There were ants. In the kitchen.”

“Yeah,” said Jordan, although his face said a number of things, most importantly: Are you fucking crazy?

I could tell he also wanted to say something along the lines of “they’re just ants.” But I’m glad he didn’t. It was a courtesy he granted me, even though days earlier, I’d belittled his FIFA video game, his virtual livelihood, by saying “it’s just a game.” Worse than that, it was a game of a game. He'd shot me a look of deep hurt and bewilderment, a mix of “How could you?” and “You are dead to me.” It was as if I’d just seen a World War II film and said, “Big deal, it’s just the Holocaust.”

This was serious business. These weren’t just ants.

This was personal.