My boss Gordon told me for years not to sweat the tiny stuff. I wish he were here tonight.
My bedroom and bathroom are being invaded by the tiny stuff – little, black ants who are parading around in their straight lines, marching as if no one can conquer them.
I don’t know where they came from. They suddenly appeared – not many of them at once, maybe 25 little soldiers marching along. I can wipe out a whole column of them with a damp cloth. They don’t mind. Many more columns are starting to appear as if out of nowhere.
Someplace, I’m uncertain of where, there is a general of the tiny black ants, the brains behind this attack. I can imagine her pep talk. “Get in line. I will order you when it’s your time to appear. Oscar, you take this battalion and head to his dresser drawers. Mildred, you start climbing toward Don’s sink and toothbrush. Freddie the Great, try to get to his ankle and climb north from there. He is one. We are 372,000 strong. He is old. We are young. He has two legs. We have six. Onward to victory.”
On the other side of the war front, I can barely see them, they are so tiny. It’s as if someone has been drawing lines with a sharpened pencil. My first thought is to fight back with chemical warfare, perhaps some type of vinegar solution.
Then I think deeper. What would Henry David Thoreau do?
I rush down to the kitchen and fill a picnic basket with peanut butter sandwiches and potato salad.
You can finish this story.