Gloria Zimmerman

Word Count 801

Growing up in suburban New Jersey, the scariest bug imaginable was a daddy long legs. I worried about those spiders a lot. I worried they’d jump out of my shoes, I worried they’d swing down from the ceiling and bite me in my sleep. If you’re of a certain age, you remember the urban myth about Bubble Yum and spider eggs. So I had to worry about that too.

I briefly shared a grubby little apartment on the Upper West Side with a girl named Lydia. Although it was many years ago, it’s hard to forget reaching for a roll of aluminum foil and a giant cockroach scrambling out, nearly crawling up my arm. That trauma was soon overtaken by another one. The building had a rickety two-person elevator, which had no business being in operation. I had to pry the door open and pull myself out of it at least once. By the end of the lease, roaches in the kitchen had been downgraded to a minor concern.

Death Valley, 1988: LA is the year-round Olympics for bugs of all kinds. They are bigger, stronger and scarier than the ones back East. It’s my first road trip with my new boyfriend. Picture his cranberry-colored VW Bug convertible, rooftop down. I was so young that I didn’t even pack sunscreen. We sprung for a hotel that we could not afford. After a stroll in the dunes, we returned and sensed we were not alone before we actually saw it. Suddenly it flew loudly across the room, casting a shadow on the wall opposite. I ran screaming into the night while my sexy, intrepid boyfriend smote it. I’ve since learned that water bugs can bite. I already knew they could fly.

Mexico City, 1991: You can get fried grasshoppers just about anywhere in Mexico. I was once at a fancy restaurant in Mexico City where my friends insisted that I try the chapulines. I was relieved that they more or less tasted like french fries. Back in LA, I was taken to a restaurant called Typhoon. A display case teeming with ants, crickets and scorpions greeted you at the entrance. An entire section of the menu was devoted to bugs. You could order your choice of insects. Scorpions on shrimp toast, silk worms stir fried with assorted dipping sauces… I ordered the pad thai.

Los Angeles, 1995: That boyfriend I mentioned earlier? We were now engaged and living in a lovely Spanish-style apartment building called Casa de Amor. Home alone one night. I flip on the lights in the bathroom and a water bug the size of a fist is scrambling around in the bathtub. What to do? You use what you’ve got. I scream the monster down the drain. A few minutes later I hear my downstairs neighbor echoing my screams. He later tells me that he captured it in a glass and set it free outside. I’m not sure releasing something like that into the wild was the best idea. Like mice, don’t they return to the same place?

Malibu, 2007: you think that poisonous bugs are going to be garish and brightly-colored. But the black widow looks like a harmless house spider save for the small red hourglass on its abdomen. It’s a good thing my husband has excellent eye sight or else he wouldn’t have spotted one crawling up the back of my beach chair. He stomped it into oblivion. My first thought: he’s so brave! My second thought: Yikes! That beach chair came from the garage. We have black widows nesting in our garage!

Cape Cod, 2010: We are renting a cottage from some people we know. It had sounded like a great location but close to the water meant near the marshes, which meant smelly at low tide and buggy at all times of the day and night. Yellow jackets are annoying but wasps are terrifying, the way they hover and float with their legs dangling down. What I remember most about that trip is not the kayaking, not the beaches, but the kids and me standing outside in the dark, faces pressed up against the window while my husband, broom in hand, valiantly swats at a wasp the size of a humming bird that got in through a hole in the screen door.

Over the years we’ve had our share of insects and critters. My husband continues to be the hero of my bug tales and each time I appreciate him anew. But where have the daddy long legs gone? I haven’t seen one since I was a kid. Were they a spider of the 1960s? Are there new millennial spiders that I have to worry about now? I kind of miss those old daddy long legs.

Gloria lives in New York City with her husband in their empty nest. She teaches English as a Second Language at Lehman College. Her essays have appeared in Mr. Beller's Neighborhood, Borderline Stories and Beach Reads. Her piece, “Multitudes” was set to music for a concert series in New Ulm, Minnesota and she directed her stage play, “The Negative Space,” at Town and Village Synagogue on the Lower East Side.