Getting Bugged

The chronicles of Joey Roesdale...mysterious prince of pestilence

*

An orange-red Sunday sun moves just past the tree line across my street, signaling dinner time approaches. There’s enough room in the catch bags on my rider mower to vacuum up the front yard and make it look perfect, and so I steer the big green machine up a hill to take on that final chore.

My mind suddenly remembers it’s burger grilling night. There’s beer in the poolside frig. I smile.

As I steer toward the front yard, a kid on a segway decelerating into my driveway catches my eye. Another teenager working a summer job on commission, probably cold-calling to sell me god knows what. Young people need the work, but I could surely do without the endless sales pitches. Maybe I pretend to not see him and turn back toward the shed?

The dilemma plays out instantly, and as usual with me, politeness wins. I shut down the mower and met his friendly, uber-confident gaze. Dirty blonde shoulder-length hair and a sweet, unthreatening grin made him appear like either the illegitimate son of Matthew McConaghey, or maybe a loveable rescue dog.

“Nice home you have, sir.” His young eyes size me up as he strides towards me, extending his hand. “Joey Rosedale…nice to meet you. And you are?”

Of course he’s Joey. Not Joe, or Joseph, or Josh or Jake. Joey…the adorable rescue mutt your wife simply has to take home.

“Hi Joey.” I shake his hand but am not ready to take the first-name plunge quite yet. Joey’s eyes scan my entire property as he considers his opener.

“Well alright alright…all-right. This is one fine abode. Mighty fine property indeed.” A faux Texas drawl reveals him not as the loveable rescue, but as possibly an actual McConaghey spawn. The kid who probably charmed the pants off every New England school girl.

“Okay Joey, what are you selling today?”

He smiles, having decided on his first move. “Those holes.” He points to a spot over one of my front windows. “Are ya havin’ any wasp activity there, ‘cause…”

I have my answer. Pest control. I stop actively listening as he explains things I know.

“And those garage doors there…” The young prince of pestilence proceeded to enlighten me on how mice and rats squirm under the door gaps. I let him go for a few sentences, but I was getting hungry.

“Joey…look, I already have a bug guy. He’s been with us for…well, maybe as long as you’ve been alive. And his prices are…”

Undeterred, Joey extends to me a tablet, not letting me get a negative head of steam.

“We’re in the neighborhood today lining up tons of new customers. Our services are all on here. Just tap the screen if it goes dark.” I swipe to see pictures of Joey posing in front of a house holding a very long applicator of some kind, presumably applying chemicals, sporting that same charming yellow lab, tail-wagging grin in every one. I suppress a chuckle.

“Look, you got a great pitch here, but…”

“Tell ya what.” Here comes Joey’s markdown move, wait for it.

“Because you’ve got a guy, and I’m sure he’s good. And you’re so loyal….you know, here’s what I can do for you.” As I scroll the list of pest services and prices, I become more resolute in shutting this down.

“Joey, look. It’s a no. Thanks, but I really…”

He was looking at my house and not me, and he started walking toward it. “Okay, but just let me take a look around. Go ahead and finish your mowing fine sir.” My fingers are already gripping the ignition key. “Just wanna see for myself what kinda pest risks you’ve got.” He smiles and (believe it or not) actually winks at me. “Deal?”

“Deal.” My engine revs and I swing the big green machine around and away from what is at this moment, my biggest pest. I dump the grass out in my dumping pile, then steer it into the shed.

Coming out of the shed, I look up. Joey’s standing on my roof, maybe 30 feet off the ground, snapping pictures. He turns toward me, maintaining that grin through a helpful shout. “This’ll curl y’er hair sir. But don’t you worry none. I got you.”

I shook my head. When is this kid gonna beat it? Turning back toward the shed, I remembered I needed to scoop a few piles of doggie doo I spotted while mowing. Grabbing my shovel, I vectored over to the far corner of the backyard. Working the edge of the spade under the nasty piles, I’ve developed the experienced dog owners skill of lifting piles of varying consistency (enough said) without leaving neither a trace nor a divot.

Admiring my talent for this, I stand up straight. And Joey Rosedale is suddenly six inches from my face.

“Ya know, sir, those baits y’er using might not be good for them canines.”

I almost drop the shovel on Joey’s sneakers. “Dude! First of all, how’d you get on my roof like that? And by the way how in the hell did you…”

My teenage daughter suddenly appears behind Joey cutting blooms from a rose bush. “Hey dad, did you tell him about the garden snakes?”

My eyes bulge as this annoying interaction seems determined to continue no matter what.

“Well well well…best I get a look at this snake den right quick.” Joey turns toward my daughter and they exchange smiles, and I cannot express clearly (without the use of profanity) just how deeply this pisses me off.

Yes, there are a few little yellow-striped garden snakes that have taken refuge under my brick pile and yes I have ignored it and yes I worry a little that the dogs will find them and some kind of wild kingdom insane situation will ensure and yes now suddenly i want this bugger to look at it and tell me something and yes I’m now getting very hungry.

“Joey….it’s right over there.” I point. You can check it out, but I’m telling you right now that I am under no circumstances going to sign up for your service. I’m happy with my guy and that’s that.” I eyeball the shovel in my grip, as I struggle with keeping the dog feces clinging to the blade while I forcefully make my point.

He smiles. “I got ya. Thank’s for your time.” He nods as if tipping an imaginary cowboy hat.

I turn and take a few steps to my backwoods and clear my shovel. When I head back toward the house, there’s not a soul in sight. Finally…time for that beer. Following the audible barking, I walk to the front and round up the puppies and bring them in the house, faintly hearing my wife and daughter talking in the kitchen.

“Hey guys, did anyone pull out the burgers? I’m gonna go start the grill.”

My wife’s at the kitchen island scrolling an iPad, which I know to be an electronics device she does not own. As I get closer to her, the identity of this device becomes clearer.

She turns to the open slider door to the back patio. “All set, Joey.” She shouts it out the door, our Discover card lying on the counter next to her. My eyes widen as that screechy horror music races right through me.

“Honey I just love this kid and I really think his service will be better than Mark because…”

In a blind rage I move quickly through the slider onto the patio. My daughter’s curled up on a patio chair, twirling her hair. Then I turn toward the grill and note the familiar scent and sizzle of cooking meat. And then, the all-too familiar young man working a spatula, sipping my favorite bottled beer.

“You know the ants just love this thing. But don’t worry,” Joey Rosedale takes a long final sip from my beer.

“Gotcha.”