illustration of Jordan Kohl


— 2 min read

Crickets of the house Gryllidae, true crickets indeed, are in the late stages of a full scale invasion of our apartment. They are practically streaming in through every orifice of the building. We've closed off access to through the back door with duct tape, but that has only served to detour their attack route.  Six-legged Santas now come happily chirping down our chimney.

I will not call it war, because despite their numbers, it is a rather one sided battle. I don't coddle or shoo them out the door. That would be a day job. Instead, I rain down on their stupid heads with objects the relative size of sport utility vehicles. I push until I hear their exoskeletons crushed underneath. It does not bring me joy, merely relief. I do it to protect my wife from jumping completely out of her own skin.

Last night my wife woke up from a nightmare to the sound of their infernal chirping in close proximity to her head. Two of them, likely mating, had crawled from who knows where, to the head of our bed. Like Romeo and Juliet, I ushered the young lovers to an early death.

They are literally in the walls now. We hear their "song" coming from the attic, from the air conditioning vents, from the electrical outlets. Their wiggly little antennae poke out from sink drains.  I can only imagine the amount of scurrying they must do. My skin crawls.

We put serious thought to owning a bird that could swoop down from the mantle to feast on our enemies. That seemed like it would create an entirely new set of problems. A dog is out of the question. We found a lizard and decided to let it live on, inside our home, and pleaded for it to join the circle of life.

In just a few more days, we will be abandoning ship, moving to a new location, hopefully cricket-free.