Literary Killers

Summer has definitely arrived to Todos Santos. Literally, the day Ais and Finny left, heat rushed in to take their place. Not only did the heat rush in, but it appears the bugs are rushing in. I've had a new dilemma of late...which author's book makes the best tool of death? Sunday night I encountered a scorpion on my bedroom wall. No, it couldn't be in the kitchen or in a room absent of guests....no sir, it had to be on the wall beside my bed. Where I sleep. With the lights out. I was a little excited about the first scary visitor. I mean, I've been shaking out my Uggs for four months now thanks to Jody's constant warnings in January. I have looked for a scorpion in bags left unattended; in shoes unworn. Who knew he'd be there on the wall. And a big bugger to boot. His body outstretched the length of a fly-swatter and I couldn't find the scorpion-swatter. So I decided a book would have to be the main instrument of death. One of us was going to have to get bludgeoned with a book if I was going to get any sleep...better him than me. So I went to my shelf and looked around. Henry Miller? No, too French. The Sabbath? Too Jewish. Jack Kerouac's The Road? Perfect. He's been to Mexico, he must know how to kill a scorpion. And with one swift underhanded toss, Keruoac and I landed the bastard. He was squishy too. Saucy, in fact. I got a couple follow up shots in to be sure. It was gratuitous violence at best, but I need my beauty rest. The night continues. Next up: the cock-a-roach. Not just a cockroach, but a cockroach as my mother would say, "the size of Lassie". I prefer to call it a water bug. It's so much more friendly and clean. He's just big from the water, that's all! This was the third Lassie sized visitor I've encountered. Experience has taught me to to carry the same look in my eye that I see in friends who have children that get up very early in the morning - a dull reserve that says, this is probably not the first or last time this is going to happen, so there is no need to react. But again, in order for me to sleep, he would have to die. Who then to kill a cock-a-roach? I pushed through to the "unread" shelf to find Bill Clinton and Jimmy Carter. Not your standard beach reading, but the primaries were firing up as I left and I had just seen the Carter documentary. Presidents Carter and Clinton are both Southern bred and notoriously Mama's boys. They have no doubt killed a cockroach or two in their lives. But regardless of your political leanings, it seems a little disrespectful to call on the past leaders of the free world to kill a roach. Even if Carter is fluent in Spanish. There must be someone better. Larry Brown! Now that's the man. His hardback volume of Joe shined as Larry looked down from heaven, half lit with a cold beer in his hand and said, "Well hell yes, let's get it." And so we did. Unfortunately, not all varmints can be easily handled with books. Before the night ended, I found another scorpion and decided he could be had with a scorpion swatter after all. I'm telling you, they're juicy. Who knew. "Scorpion" has such a desert ring to it. Then in the corner of the room, a spider the size of my hand. My full hand, as in spread out wide like I'm in a hand size comparing contest. I wish I was kidding. I counted his legs. I apologized. Even with the good fun of matching up the perfect literary death, I don't like to kill. But a girl has to sleep, so he got the feathery end of a broom, again with far more force than necessary for his death...but just the right amount to let me sit up in bed and read Joe until I fell asleep. Sweet dreams.