Crickets

Bryan’s dad told me, “My mother said, ‘Never kill a cricket. They’re good luck.’ So don’t kill the crickets, Reyna.”

Sure, I’ve heard that before. A lot of cultures think crickets are good luck. When I was growing up, we had a metal cricket that sat in front of the fire place. A “good luck hearth cricket.” I’m not sure how crickets became associated with fire places, but they are popular decorations. In Asia, crickets are kept as pets, or rudimentary burglar alarms–they are quiet when strangers come and go, but if they recognize you, they just keep chirping. Their sound is also considered healing or soothing.

Okay, so I can’t kill the crickets. Until recently, I never would have considered it. I would go out of my way not to accidentally crush one of the poor bugs. However, circumstances have changed. Either Bryan and I are just REALLY lucky, or we have a cricket infestation.

They aren’t pretty insects. I mean, sure, when there is just one, it is a novelty. The pretty chirruping sound, the way it hops goofily around, reminiscent of Disney movies… Bryan’s cricket farm, on the other hand, is pretty disgusting. He took what his dad said to heart, and has avoided killing any crickets at all. He has this gross, molding floor mat outside, which I have begun calling “the hatchery.” Underneath is where the crickets are born and live until they are old enough move under the garbage bins, or brave enough to make their way on a grand expedition into our house.

When I walk outside at night, crickets flee in all directions. Their tiny bodies and tiny shadows scurry around in the near darkness, their little legs click against the cement. When I open the windows, a cacophony of chirping greets me. If I am barefoot in the house, chances are a cricket will jump on my foot, crawl around with its gross, tickly little feet, and I will be the one hopping.

Bryan is unsympathetic. For whatever reason, he doesn’t find them as disgusting as I do. Maybe he really does think they are lucky. I just don’t have it in me to care about a bug, let alone the hundreds that are currently bouncing around my backyard, bedroom and bathroom.

When I was about ten, I killed a moth. I didn’t think much about it; it was bothering me, flying around my head, zapping into the lamp. I just reached over and squished it. My uncle saw this and exclaimed, “Why would you do that! You just killed it! Now you will be reincarnated into a MOTH!”

I was terrified that he was telling the truth. For years I took great pains to avoid squishing even ants. I didn’t want to be a bug, and if I could be reincarnated into a bug, then bugs must be more important than I had previously thought, and shouldn’t be killed by, say, my shoe.

Of course, as I got older, I got over this fear of retribution for bug murder. I recognized that my uncle was making fun of me, trying to freak me out. Now, I have little patience for Bryan’s superstitions, or his dad’s for that matter, especially when they are causing a pest infestation. It may be time to kill some crickets.