He lashes desperately against the glass. After two weeks of mild entomophobia, I’ve established dominion over the living room. He first came to my attention at this precise hour, two weeks previous. I was in the same place then; on the couch, watching a film, drifting sleepily. Unprepared for the unexpected intrusion of any among the beasts with an excess of legs. He has thirty. Not that I counted, mind you. Our previous encounter set the score at 0 – 1. He ran from beneath the couch and I dashed towards the kitchen. The procurement of a suitable trap presented a dilemma, for not just any glass would do. It should be one I don’t use regularly, it had to be sturdy. Largely clear, that I might inspect my intended prisoner. Indecision begat failure. When I returned to the villain’s last known position he had disappeared. The remainder of the film observed with one eye towards the ground. I mis-identified him as a silverfish, too lazy to reach for the laptop. Part of me knew this was wrong, but the next best option was a centipede, and images of the thick brown s-curved demons from Naked Lunch colored this less likely.
By this hour, most humans have ceded domestic administration to those possessing of compound and sensitive eyes. For silverfish to emerge and chew untidy edges into curtains. For House Centipedes (the correct taxonomy, we’ll soon learn) to hunt the silverfish. Both species offer enthralling evolutionary profiles, more so when studied at a distance more considerate than what we now share.
Silverfish can go a year without eating. The mating ritual: Following an hour of antennal foreplay, the male darts off at great speed. Her esteem intact, the female gives chase and commits him to the happy congress. His reaction seems measured as regards an affair soon involving words like ‘spermatophore’ and ‘ovipositor’ and a carpet begging for the mercy only a vacuum and wet sponge can provide. When not engaged in this ribaldry, the silverfish distinguishes itself by dining on polaroids, love letters, and other concrete memories.
Years earlier, I watched these barbarians climb the walls of my parent’s basement. I cringe at the memory of extinguishing them, though karmic self interest, this is not. It is their transformation to dust and grime against a white wall. The crippled abdomen limping from the violence wrought by paper towel. But fifty eggs per mating yields execrable odds on the merciful escaping of a repeat palpitation, so like Michael against Sennacherib, I would don my epaulets and prepared for war.
Summoning the spirit of Borges, I create a Chinese Encyclopedia of these minor beasts. Each nesting in one of the following categories: 1. Creepy and having of many legs. 2. Unidentified and flying. 3. Those requiring of a pin through the thorax. 4. Not creepy, tartish and afraid of me. 5. Pollinating and organized. 6. Intimating of an infestation to come. 7. Spiders.
Back to the scene at hand. The centipede rushes from beneath the couch to the dim shadow beneath the coffee table. The deep crevices of my R-complex begin ringing alarms. The neo-cortex involves itself and associates the event with the that last encounter. Their collaboration begets a plan. I hop to the kitchen and select a small printed glass from the cabinet. Back in a dash, I scan the lower regions for my nemesis. In the dim glow from the television, his compound eyes are more adept than mine, adjusted to the interpretation of ultraviolet light. I catch his outline beneath the coffee table and adapt my tactics to the stage. The unforeseen displacement of this oasis will force him to attempt a retreat towards the couch. The rout will blind him to the approaching chamber. My first attempt is poorly aimed and traps his aft, leaving two long and trembling antennae exposed. My options: lift of push. The former permits the contingency of an escape. The latter guarantees a messy stain. I lift, he runs, I pounce. Victorious.
He is displeased with this imprisonment. The interior is nearly frictionless and none among his various tarsi can find a suitable grip. Undeterred, he rebels again and again; flailing his upper regions against the inner wall. I face another crisis. To kill or not to kill. And if to kill, the means of execution. For the time being, the threat is contained so I retire to the porch in contemplation of his fate. It is dark and it is late, so the street is quiet. I’d spent a portion of the afternoon trimming back the Ivy that reaches horizontally from the fence. “Trimming back” is an understatement. My methods were brutal and generations of Ivy yet unborn will recall the fateful pogrom that cut short so many leaves still in their prime. But life has returned to this minor eden. A spider stealts across a newly exposed leaf. An unidentified and flying pauses, mesmerized by the heavenly glow cutting through the sliding glass door. Unseen, hundreds of larvae have begun sawing or bashing or chewing their way through the sticky membrane of recently matured eggs. Emerging into an unfamiliar world of sustained metamorphosis, reproduction and death. Should any among them find a glimmer of consciousness, the transformative stage should seem quite confusing, as demonstrated my the Phylophaga Beetle.
Life began in a simple ovoid. She emerges to find six legs oddly off balance with the lengthly abdomen and hind-section that trails as she crawls. “Ah, some sort of liminal hybrid, like the centaur of legend.” And thusly she grows for a time. Her casing hardens and the aft recedes. These changes come as a shock, but they are mirrored in the reflection of her countless siblings. “Oh, I’m a pupa! Not as cool, but I’ll go with it.” The placement of these legs making quite a bit more sense now. But more change is to come, and she finally emerges as an adult. “And wings? Amazing!” Her back is a slick hard shell, her legs and feet darkened. Ready now, to adorn herself in the latest pheromonal styles and move the species one step forward.
Overwhelmed by this miraculous bounty, I return to the couch. The prisoner has grown accepting his fate. Occasionally gathering energy for one more fitful push against the glass. I try going back to the film, but the scene on the floor gnaws at my conscience. I find a rugged paper, nudge him onto it and flip the glass. I head for the door. Clemency.
