A Bedroom Safari

For the last few nights, rather than eating, I have been food. For the first time since the start of summer mosquitos have invaded, pouring into my apartment through the ducts of unused air-conditioners to feast of my sleeping form. For some reason they always go after my knuckles, so that when I bend my hand the sting wakes me up. Incensed by pain and the indignation of the recently asleep, there is nothing to do but get up and chase the little monsters down. This happened almost nightly last summer, and by September I was an expert mosquito-hunter. Based on last night’s exploits, my skill seems undiminished.

Two nights ago I was thoroughly chewed by one of these invasive critters, so I was not surprised to feel, as I was drifting off, an itch on my left thumb. (Always the knuckle! Why?! It’s the worst place!) Preferring to deal with him while I was still alert, rather than bleary and squinting, I flipped on my light. I squinted and blinked for a few moments, and then began the hunt.

I whipped my head back and forth, trying to catch a glimpse of the spindly black form against my largely white walls. I saw nothing. I stood in the corner, hoping to use my body as a lure, and attracted nothing. (This was unsurprising, as it is what usually happens when I visit nightclubs and bars.) I stood on my bed and inspected the ceiling. Still, nothing. Finally, incensed, itchy and anticipating a long night of the same, I sat at my computer to write a blog entry complaining of mosquitos. (Meta!) And there to my left, resting against the black of a picture frame, was my little friend. He was about this big:

He launched into the air an inch ahead of my swat. I brought my right hand up and grabbed wildly, like someone trying to defend his nose from a tickling feather. Somewhere in my flailing I broke the monster in half, and I was able to return to sleep a conquering hero.

I woke again two hours later with a few more itchy knuckles, apparently the gift from an insect come to avenge his fallen brother. Frustrated but swift, I leapt out of bed and reached for my preferred weapon: the New York Times arts section. (This is the only reason to subscribe to a print newspaper.) This time the hunt was brief, as I found my prey in one of the breed’s preferred hiding places, perched above my pillow digesting his meal. A split second later and he was flattened against newsprint, reduced to a splotch above the face of Roman Polanski.

But before I could crawl back into bed, another one seemed to flit before my eyes. As hard as I looked I couldn’t find him, and I went back to sleep uneasy. I was not awoken again, happily, but this morning while making tea I saw one disappear behind my toaster. Last night’s downpour seems to have driven them inside, and I fear that I’ll be dealing with them for days. The hunt never ends.

I need to seal off my A/C vents.