She pulled up both of her fleece sweater sleeves, twisting her arms 180° degree several times. I was astonished with an “O”-shaped mouth once I saw hundreds of red needle marks scattered all over her finger tips up to the bottom of her chin. I stammered, “Wow!” She sputtered, “Told you! I am going to kill all these bastards! Not a single one will live after tonight. They have to be annihilated or at least be expelled from my house. No more haunting and annoyance!” Her left arm was scratching her right arm and her right arm was holding an ATM card, swiping through the machine ruthlessly. The transaction completed. She had paid another $15.80 for two cans of insecticide spray. As soon as the cash register spat out the receipt, she nabbed it, sprinted out and disappeared in the dark momentarily like a Japanese Ninja jumping up the roofs to slaughter all her enemies. I, then, scrutinized the cashier counter to inspect carefully if she shrugged off some of her foes, fleas, without my realization.
This story began at 1 p.m. Friday, December 16, 2011. A ruffled hair lady, wearing a pink fleece blouse, used her elbows to pinch two cans of insecticide spray and laid them on the counter. I said, “How’s going?” She flatted her lips and reluctantly replied, “Alright!” I scanned the items; the total came up to $15.80. She grabbed the plastic bag with one hand, stringed her falling pants upward with another hand and armed out the door in a quick instant that she didn’t even give me a chance to say, “Have a good day!” She disappeared in the mist.
I pondered, “The Raid (insecticide) is not on sale. What is the heck of reason for someone to purchase two cans at the same time? There must be many cockroaches or ants crawling in which she lives.” I hate cockroaches and they love coming out at night to scavenge for food in the kitchen area. I remember when I was very little, around 8-10 years old. I would tiptoe at midnight toward the kitchen with my older sister. She hissed and signaled me, “Are you ready, Cotton Boy?” I nodded and sprang open my 10 stout fingers. She switched on the light. We ran into the kitchen and declared a genocide to the cockroaches by using our thumbs or palms crushing and tweaking their bodies. A minute was the time limit for each stampede, we competed and counted. Approximately, 20-30 smashed dead bodies would be left behind. My sister always excelled me; she probably had bigger fingers at that time.
At 4 p.m., this unkempt lady returned and appeared in front of me. She looked very impatient and rushed me to help her check out another can of insecticide spray. I did it promptly; she snatched the receipt with one hand. Meanwhile, she was scraping her neck harshly, leaving lengthy red marks and vanished again. I was stunned and flummoxed.
Another 4 hours had gone right before I was closing my cash register. The Lady Ninja whom I addressed emerged once again. She looked desperate, but infuriated. She placed another two cans of Raid. This time I could not shut off my curiosity. I courageously inquired, “You just bought three cans of Raid. Now, you are buying another two. They are expensive! What is going on?” “Son, I know. There are too many fleas in my house. The premise was bigger than I thought. Tonight, I am having a dead or alive battle with the fleas.” She swept away some hair from her mouth and lifted up her sleeves. The bug bite marks were numerous. I was horrified. She looked like the demon in the 1987 renowned movie, Hellraiser.
Once she left, I senselessly scratched my neck as well. “Fleas! Shouldn’t they only exist in the Third World countries? Many Americans are living in substandard living condition now due to this bad economy time. I am blessed I have a cozy warm bed with no fleas waiting me at home.