Bloodcandy [Part 3]
Once school began I took an interest in parasites, specifically those that drank blood. Internal parasites, of which I learned there were many, were of no interest to me. No, external ones that could be repurposed into treats was my goal. Over my time in the library I learned of a few possible candidates from books in the library.
Mosquitos were a common one, but even I knew mosquitoes would never work. Leeches interested me, and I made a note of them as there were lakes nearby. I assumed they would also be poor, and confirmed this the following summer when I found their texture was horrible and they came with their own flavor that wasn't appealing to me at all. Still, candy tastes differ between people and I kept in mind that those may be an eventual offering should I ever accomplish having a facility that produced my treats. No, I needed something that mirrored the tick’s strengths. I found what could be a suitable alternative.
Imagine my shock when I learned there was another insect that was, in the ways I needed, a better tick than a tick. Possibly smaller, yes, but superior in almost every other way. This candidate filled much faster, came in larger numbers and worked year around because they didn't live in the trees and grass. I found out about bedbugs.
My tick treats were about a quarter of an inch in length, maybe more if I let them ripen perfectly. An engorged bedbug would top out at about almost the same at maximum size for the excellent specimens. I expected they would probably be smaller on average to keep my expectations grounded. They filled as quick as minutes in some cases, much quicker than a tick, while retaining many of the undetectable qualities. The best feature was that the farm would be self-sustaining once established, not requiring jaunts to the forest to find. The only issue was where to find them for initial testing.
“Where are bed bugs?” I asked my father the night after I found out about them, eating another bland meal only wishing for my private nightly desert.
“Bad motels. Dirty apartments in the city. Urban problem,” he took a bite looking disinterested in my strange line of questioning.
“Don't need to worry about those honey,” my mother immediately said to sooth my sister, knowing her phobia of such creatures was already well developed by this point.
“Yeah, we don't have them,” my father added, chewing.
“How do people get them?” I asked.
“Nelson, eat your food. You know your sister doesn't need this!” My mother snapped. My sister sat there in discomfort, no longer eating with tears in her eyes.
My father, ignoring my mother’s objection, answered, “Neighbors. Once you’ve got them you’ve got them. Clothes, furniture, bed, walls,” he didn't look up, “spread through the building. People throw their belongings outside, someone else takes ‘em,” he chewed a bit and with a mouth full of food added, “best to burn everything.”
If anything, my candy operation was a rollercoaster of excitement and temporary defeat at this point. The nearest city was forty minutes from our homestead, and I was not old enough to head there to find my specimens nor did I have any excuse to visit random apartments to gather them. I might as well have wanted to grow bananas in the Midwest.
I continued for a couple years periodically enjoying my tick berries, while also experimenting with my sister with ones I could spare, for my own studies and mild entertainment. I would still find myself bloodying my nose and even pricking my own finger. On a few occasions I almost got caught with ticks on me, each time it was due to me being mysteriously ill. I now know that the ticks were probably the cause, and it is a good reason that - much like most situations with livestock - a steady supply of antibiotics should be administered.
For a while I had made no friends, nor acquaintances, at school. While many of my desires were selfless, I had bigger plans than just rewarding myself, I felt no kinship to any of the young boys or girls around me. They obviously had different tastes. The sweet children and the savory brats wanted little to do with me. That was, until I met Maxwell.
Maxwell was a transfer from another school, a city school. He had been born with a minor case of fetal alcohol syndrome that barely affected him intellectually, and a permanent curvature of his spine that left him hunched over and to the left in a noticeable fashion. These traits kept other children away, as they did me at first. The repeated cases of lice were also a deterrent.
I feel shame in admitting that I used the poor boy in hindsight. I had no interest in being friends with anyone, including him, but the knowledge that he lived in the city and in less than ideal conditions seemed as a possible window to achieve greater things. So I, for the betterment of palettes everywhere, decided to mingle with him.
Probing his home life I found out that he lived with his grandmother, who was incapable of fully caring for him, in an apartment in a low income area of the city. He did not share the same interests as me; did not appreciate books, preferred savory treats on the very rare occasion he could procure one and had a detestable taste in music that matched that. He also did not have bed bugs, but was acutely aware of their existence due to the environment he lived in. While not guaranteed, this friendship could be promising if it opened up exploration.
After some time Maxwell and I became close enough for me to convince him, and my parents, to allow me to ride the bus with him to his apartment. Due to lies I told my parents to convince them to allow me these opportunities, the trips would have to be during week days where I could spend the night and return to school with him in the morning. I did not want my parents to know the living conditions of this boy, nor easily make connections should I succeed in procuring samples. My time at Maxwell's was spent casing the apartments, the complex and the surrounding buildings when I could convince him to leave.
As summer neared I was no closer to finding specimens to farm, and I my hair was now very short from being shaved multiple times due to lice. More lies needed to be told in order to convince my parents that the source was school and not Maxwell specifically. It helped that they had called Maxwell’s grandmother, Ms. Fincher, who assured them that Maxwell had never had lice. I can only imagine she passed back out in a pill and drink induced stupor immediately after that call. Her negligence may not have been a gift to the crooked boy, but was a boon to me and my mission.
I was also becoming less sure of this plan or the costs I had paid to enact it. I had found no bed bugs, had to dedicate my time to a person I did not care for, missed reading and had an itchy scalp numerous times. Most importantly, I questioned if it would be for nothing once summer came. I would no longer be able to visit Maxwell once school was out and was unsure if I would be able to pick up where I left off after summer or if Maxwell would have moved on.
I wish I could say that right before summer came I found my bed bugs, returned home with pockets full with a breeding hungry colony of potential snacks. I wish I could, but I couldn't and had to remain hopeful while I went back to my tick gathering for the summer. It passed rather uneventfully outside of interesting books and the further decline of my sister’s mental state.
By this point it was obvious that repeated exposure to ticks, and once lice, was leaving her neurotic. I knew I was mildly to blame for the teenage girl that would weep for hours if a spider was on the wall, even after it was killed. Some people are prone to overreaction and emotional outbursts, however, and there is an appropriate amount of sacrifice we must make to cater to them. Even house flies would send her into a state. This also put pressure on my mother, who was beginning to drink, and my father who became more distant. This bothered me little because, much like the man I idolized, my family was not to be found here but instead in the children I would eventually please. For once in my life, I was the happiest person in my household. I had a dream, and a dream is enough to keep the mild inconveniences at bay.
Summer passed uneventfully outside of my sister’s outbursts and my parent’s marital decline. School started once more and Maxwell and I continued where we left off. My worries that our friendship would be fractured were for nothing, I was still the only one willing to even acknowledge his existence outside of snickers.
My sister attended school for the first week then stopped. Her phobias were exponentially increasing and she ended up with a touch of agoraphobia after a classmate of hers had brought his pet tarantula to school, in a small secure container of course. I am, to this day, still surprised by how fast mental states can decline.
I will stop for a moment to speak in my defense. One may think I am fully responsible for her numerous breakdowns. I find that assumption to be wrong and an ignorant one. For one, the way she treated me as a child was less than ideal as well. She would make fun of me occasionally, which was unwarranted and was far from the pathfinding I was doing. Second, if it only requires a small nudge to send someone over the edge we must acknowledge they were precariously close to it in the first place. In my years since childhood I have seen people blame the actions of others for their issues, mild and severe, and I refuse to be a victim of such nonsense. I have farmed ticks for many years now and have suffered no ill mental effects. Normal people do not end up like her.
Regardless, my parents had to put more focus towards my sister, attempting to find a solution to her issues and devoting their precious little time to therapy and maximizing her comfort. This allowed me to spend more time at Maxwell's with less objection or questioning. Knowing the risk, I kept my head shaved almost bare for this round of searching. Add ‘looking like a fool’ to the list of costs paid for you, dear reader.
One day, as winter was so near that it was caressing my bald head with its cold fingers in the form of an evening nip, I was outside Maxwell's complex and glanced down an alley across the street. Resting in it was a couch. The couch was old, cheap and of no interest to anyone, even someone who wished to furnish the remnants of a trail wreck. However, my eye spied a large chunk of cardboard with block letters written on it. From across the street I could barely make out the first letter, a bold B. A few letters down a very similar B was written. As an avid reader it took me too long to actually put the letters together, even from a distance. ‘Bedbugs’.
Crooked Maxwell didn't help. I feared that he would run in and tell the neglectful old lady that would occasionally call him Paul - a name Maxwell did not know as his father’s name was Andrew - about what I was doing. Not that she would probably wake for the taddling, but there was always a chance. He didn't, but he also didn't help.
With my backpack near, I threw the cushions off looking for any signs. The signs were obvious from what I had read and the limited pictures I had seen, but a cluster of them skittering about was not to be found. It was hard to differentiate between the possible bedbugs and the crumbs of dirt and mystery debris. I grabbed all I could, specks of someone’s lifestyle stuck to my palms and fingers, and rubbed my hand in my backpack. I did this repeatedly until the underside of the cushion looked much cleaner. I had some hope, but doubt as well, as I was about to turn away. I then remembered a photo in a book I had read that stopped me.
This was the part I really wish Maxwell had helped with. It was strenuous to tip the couch onto its back. Just the act of crawling about the couch trying to find a way was probably more effective at securing my precious specimens than my theft of the disgust left under the cushions. After a while of running, jumping and pushing with all of my might I was able to tip the couch enough for gravity to pull it bottom forward.
Underneath, in a corner where two old splintering wood pieces met, with a triangle wedge of wood between them, was a gathering spot. The hungry little colony began to move as they were exposed to the light. Not like roaches, not bolting away before I could reach out, but they obviously did not like the exposure and were planning a retreat to everywhere but that spot. I took the opportunity and swiped the small swarm off of their hidden ledge and into my palm.
I could faintly feel them, but at the same time it felt much like holding nothing at all. Ticks and bedbugs are exceptionally light when unfed, even in numbers. Evolutionarily developed to be hardly detectable to the nerves on their host’s skin. I didn't have time to analyze them, even though I believed the warmth of my palm had calmed them and they knew a cornucopia of blood was close by. I palmed the bedbugs into my backpack and zipped it tight.
Maxwell was unhappy that I had a backpack full of bedbugs sitting in his room that night. I assured him that they couldn't make it past the zipper, something I didn't even remotely believe. It made me nervous. Not that this kid would end up paying some sort of cost for my actions, but that the bedbugs would leave the backpack and it would be Maxwell that got to keep them. Throughout the night I would get up and quietly check it to see if any had escaped over and over, getting little sleep if any.
In the morning I opened my backpack and looked inside, even though finding the entirety of the small cluster was near impossible in the dark bag. I was relatively sure enough had remained after I gently stuck my hand inside and pulled it out a few times, seeing one or two in the process. I knew I couldn't keep an eye on them at school, so I made a plan to induce vomiting shortly after arrival and convince my mother to pick me up.
I rode the bus, Maxwell by my side with neither of us saying anything to each other. I knew, regardless if this worked or not, this would be the last time I would force myself to acknowledge him. Our interests and goals in life were much too different, and if this did not succeed I would rather be patient and wait until adulthood rather than spend any more time with him. In my excitement I looked at him smiling and said, “We aren't friends anymore.”
My plan worked and my mother came to pick me up. She didn't like to leave my sister at home alone for too long. They didn't know her anymore in some respects. She was no longer the little baby girl they had raised, no longer the happy girl that brushed her hair and talked about pretty things, the worry was there that she may harm herself. Moments away needed to be quick. This suited me. Despite the little sleep the night before and the vomiting in the corner of the gym that morning, I was still riding my wave of excitement and was impatient to release them from my backpack.