Space Invaders

I came across this the other day. It's from a writing class I took from 02 to early 04. I should really take that class again.

Space Invaders

It is 1978 and the Japanese Beetles are everywhere. They come to our neighborhood from above, from the endless recesses of summer sky, of pure blue -- from somewhere out there. They swirl like television static across the sloping lawns and through the low, painted fences that demarcate property lines. They drop into the elastic pockets of hanging bed sheets, sink into slime coated kiddie pools and fall onto picnic tables like dry, scrabbling rain. They keep coming and coming until all of the trees are studded with their ceramic green and copper shells and the leaves sag under their pennyweight. And even after they strip the foliage away, tearing and chewing, leaving only gossamer veins, they still keep coming.

“They’re ruining my whole yard,” Mrs. Merante says as she plucks the beetles off of the hedges that separate her lawn from ours. I watch her squash one between her thumb and forefinger -- squinting beneath her floppy bonnet -- and drop it into a plastic bag.

It’s early afternoon. High above my house a silver jet draws white across the blue sky as I sit baking on the driveway, shirtless in my cutoffs. Chucky sits across from me, also shirtless, a copper arrowhead necklace resting on his chest. We smile at each other grittily, each pretending the heat from the driveway that is melting into our legs doesn’t hurt, but actually feels really nice. I grin to let him know that I’m just getting started. Ah, I could do this all day. He closes his eyes, stretches, like he’s ready to drop off to sleep. I know he’s faking. But it doesn’t matter because all at once the heat penetrates me, rubbing under my skin like sandpaper, and I jump up and run over to the cool grass. “Ah ha!” Chucky raises his hands in victory.

I brush off my legs and walk over to the Japanese Beetle trap that is set up in the center of our lawn. It’s a weird-looking contraption -- a yellow, hourglass shaped-plastic bag resting atop slender plastic legs. Every lawn has one, and together they look like a fleet of tiny alien craft that had landed during the night. The traps emit an awful smell that is inescapable: At once sweet and rank, grassy and chemical, the scent hangs low across the neighborhood, seeping through the soft window screens into our kitchens and bedrooms and filling our senses as humidity fills a locked room. Chucky comes over to help inspect the trap. In the bottom of the bag a few beetles convulse, moving their pointed heads in busy circles. I flick the bag with my finger and immediately hear my mother’s voice calling out from her bedroom window. “Michael! What did I tell you about touching those traps? Get in here now and wash your hands. Now!”

Chucky’s on the front porch when I come back. “What do you want to do now?” I ask.

“I don’t know.” He spits on our cement walk. “Wanna pretend we’re the strongest men in the world?”

“OK.

“But I’m just a little stronger than you are.”

“No, we’re exactly as strong as each other.”

“OK, but I’m just a teeny, eeny-weeny bit stronger than you.” He holds up two fingers to show me how small the difference is.

“I don’t want to play.”