Praying Mantis

Part One

Translucent wings. Long, spindly bodies, nubby-looking legs. These parts, these Insects had been my only friends growing up. The endless number of hours I spent staring at the National Geographic Chanel on our T.V. should have been alarming to my parents. But they were workaholics, so the thought that their son could be a relatively stable psychopath never crossed their minds.

I didn’t socialize or trade lunches with the other kids. I sought solace in nature, and in Christine Roberts who was, in all retrospect, my adoptive mother and the town’s feared librarian. When I was first introduced to the Praying Mantis species on T.V., I fell in love.

“Say, child, where’s your parents?” Mrs. Roberts said through foggy spectacles the first time I adventured to our small-town library. I was a mighty ten-year old who had outwitted the babysitter. I asked her why that mattered, which was enough sass to earn me respect, I guess. She just gave a smile that tipped to one side and gave me a library card.

She had legs that were as round as Swiss cakes, so she waddled to the insect section and pulled out a few pertinent books. I said thank you and sat at the nearest table, flipping through picture books and journals. They were all baby babble, so I had to search for new ones soon enough. I was a smart kid.

It was affirmed that the Praying Mantis’ were a particular beauty, especially when I learned the females often consumed their mates. Animal cannibalism. And they had to deal with so little – often living to only a year! To be a Praying Mantis …

Fast forward twenty years, and now, I kept about fifty Praying Mantis’s in my basement. Since they lived for about a year, I rotated through quite a lot. I kept them entertained too, by placing a projector and playing An Ant’s Life, Kung Fu Panda, Where the Red Fern Grows–to keep them honest about their death, you know–and other National Geographic Documentaries.

I never told anyone about my Praying Mantis’s. I mean, who would even believe me? I was an average joe, working as an IT guy, ordering Chinese takeout on weekdays and going out on the occasional “drinks on me” run with my co-workers. I never talked, though, just sat there and listened to their mouths go up and down, sometimes in a drunken way that would make anyone laugh if you just started at the lower half of their face.

If my whole life was a charade, at least my Praying Mantis’s were real.

Part Two

Ok, so maybe I lied. I did have one friend. Jimmy. I thought he was cool enough to understand my love of Praying Mantis’.

It was on our way out of work, after leaving the stifling elevator that played instrumental music from the film Rocky, that I asked if he wanted to see the coolest collection on planet earth. He asked if it was like a Star War’s Lego set collection. Something like that, I repeated, and that was enough for Jimmy to nod his head.

Jimmy had a wife and two little boys, and he asked if he could bring the children over if it was worth seeing, and I said yes, even though I detested children. But Jimmy seemed cool enough to handle his offspring. As long as they didn’t crush my Praying Mantis’ or tear into my stash of tea. My cousin’s children did that once, and it took all of me to not throw them out.

I let Jimmy ride with me, and we made small talk. What’s your favorite sitcom? Have you seen The Office? Do you think our company is going to come out on top with this new deal? I felt I was close enough to ask him about how he always wore cartoon characters on his ties, and he said he only wore them because he knew it made his kids happy. It was the sordid personal details I usually avoided, but I felt bolstered by the fact he wore cartoon animals – it might make him appreciate my Praying Mantis’s even more.

My parents died early; the doctor said they partly “worked themselves to death” but in reality, it was because my mom choose to die naturally from cancer and my dad died of a heart attack shortly after. They had been nice enough to leave me the house, and I’ve never had the heart to remodel it. I explained the situation to Jimmy, and he shrugged with some understanding and avoided eye contact. Maybe the shag carpet and dated oak paneling were too much for anyone else but me to look at with admiration.

I led him down the steps, told him he wasn’t ready for it. In a good way, of course. I could never undermine my Praying Mantis’s. Jimmy told me that the basement was an interesting place for a collection. He seemed kind of nervous. I flipped on the lights and turned back to Jimmy.

He was shocked, too awestruck to form any words. It’s cool, isn’t it, I said. I mistook his disbelief as a good thing and felt a prick of pride as Jimmy got out his phone and took a picture. These are thousands of insects, he said, taking small steps back. Stating the obvious wasn’t really the reaction I thought was merited, so in my irritation, I snapped.

Do you even know anything about Praying Mantis’s? They’re actually a really cool species, I said. Jimmy told me he had to go, needed to get back home for dinner and that he would just take an Uber. I told him that it was ridiculous, I could give me a lift back to his car, but he seemed really upset. I let it slide, since like I stated before, I didn’t have any other friends.

He went back upstairs with his phone ringing loudly and his voice coming out all rushed. I picked up Betty, the largest Praying Mantis I had currently, and probably in all honest my favorite. She housed with Sam, Linda, and Jessica. I only housed three per habitat. The habitats were just old aquarium boxes sent on wooden tables, all facing the cement brick wall, where An Ant’s Life was currently playing. It was probably time to switch that out for National Geographic’s Animal Planet.

Part Three

Jimmy is a pretentious jerk. He uploaded the photo on social media and labeled me as a “Autistic Insect Man” which meant I got shoved and insulted by my coworkers as if I was in Third Grade again. Funny, they never paid that much attention to me before, and now because of my beloved Praying Mantis’s, I was famous. Famous in a bad away. I coped by spending my lunch break with my bologna sandwich in my car and avoiding the water fountain for work gossip. It helped that I wasn’t invited to “Beer Runs” anymore, either.

The extra time gave me a new devotion to my collection, especially in the interest of keeping my collection healthy. And scouting for new applicants, of course. I usually went to Rosander Park and searched in the early morning, when there wasn’t a crowd. You couldn’t help but see interesting things at the crack of dawn, either. One time, I saw a group of policemen bending over a disintegrated corpse. Another time, a young couple, startling pale, skinny dipping in the pond.

“What are you doing?” I stopped one inch within the breeding ground, horrified to find a young woman in an orange jumpsuit and a gray woolen scarf examining a ladybug. She was standing amidst holy ground. “You could be crushing other insects you know, not just ladybugs.”

“This is a public park,” she retorted. She whipped out a big mason jar, carefully wiggled her finger in the lid opening and watched the ladybug crawl inside. She screwed the lid too tight for my liking.

I let out a sigh of relief when upon further observation, I saw a dozen or so small holes punched on the top.

“What insects are you even looking for?” She demanded. She shuffled a few steps to the right, her focus still rigidly set on the ground.

“Praying Mantis’s.”

She nodded, her curly black hair bouncing up and down with her head. “Did you know the females often consume the males?”

I was wasting time talking to her but felt pleased to know another human shared an infinity for random bug facts. “I’m surprised you know that.”

“I work in a conservatory,” she said. “I just discovered this park. It’s an excellent breeding ground for a variety of bug species.”

“I’ve been here for many years.” I loosened my grip around the plastic box I was carrying. I had intended to find five new ones, but with this lady stomping about, I knew she had scared most of them away.

“Good for you. You know, I must keep looking.” She gestured to the area around her. “It’s nice to meet you. Maybe I’ll see you again.”

I could see no other option but to turn around and walk away. I hoped I wouldn’t see her again, so she wouldn’t disrupt my Praying Mantis’s. But would that really be the worst thing?

Part Four

The lady I met in the park works at the Alexandrian Conservatory. It was the only conservatory remotely close to the park, and I even found her glowing face on the website. She seemed quite decorated and liked by many, which confused me because her abrupt manner at the park painted her as rather a selfish and self-entitled woman. I sighed, because I knew I shouldn’t be spending time researching about one random person, when there wasn’t much time to spare; after work was the only time I could drink my Chamomile Tea and observe my Praying Mantis’s behavior in peace.

I recorded all interesting interactions, sometimes even catching a female in the act of cannibalism. Tonight, it made me forget the horrible memes circulating on the internet and the smirks by strangers on the street. I’m not a violent man, so bashing in their heads was not an option.

I think, if I could, that having the conservatory women take a whack at them both physically and verbally would be a more effective method.

Part Five

“You’re back,” I said the next morning at the same exact time. I was just praying that yesterday had been a phenomenon.

The lady-bug women looked up. She was in the same area, a couple of yards away from her previous spot, but still, too much of a crowd. “You know, I thought I recognized you the other day.” She shook her head. “People are nasty.”

Five of my Praying Mantis’s died the other day, which really meant I needed to pick out my new candidates. “I really need to get to work.” This time, I was the gesturing one.

She didn’t get the hint though, just staring at me with three ladybugs crawling around on her index thumb. “I’d like to see your collection in person. I think it’s fascinating.”

“I don’t show anyone anymore.”

“Nonsense. I work at a conservatory, remember? I’m obsessed with bugs.”

She was pushy, which most people would label as bad. For her, though it worked. It was a positive thing and probably the main attribute to her accolades. I couldn’t fault her for that. “Fine.”

“Meet here at 6:00?”

I nodded. I’ve never had a women walk away from me with the intention of returning, so I didn’t know what to think. Or what to feel. Still, she disrupts my Praying Mantis’s.

Part Six

I learned her name was Delia. She had been working at the Conservatory for ten years. She oversaw species I’d never even heard of. The scientific names rolled off her tongue like butter.

“What do you do for work?” She asked.

“I. well .. nothing that interesting.” I didn’t want to tell her. She should have some idea from the inside of my dingy car. She probably rode a shiny Subaru with four-wheel drive, heated seats, and a leather interior.

“Oh, come on. I asked you, didn’t I?”

“I work at an IT company.”

“So you’re smart.”

“Well, not really.”

“Do you like your job? You talk as if you detest it.”

“I do like it. I just like my collection more.”

When we pulled up to my house, Delia let out a slow whistle. “How does a middle-aged man get such an interesting place? Most people your age go for a bachelor pad.” She had the guts to be blunt; it was refreshing.

“My parents died and gifted the house to me. Never saw a reason to move.”

“Smart and financially responsible.” Delia gave an approving nod as she got out of the car, trailing behind me to the front patio. “Most people aren’t wired that way anymore. I admire that.”

“The space is why I stay here.” We went to the kitchen first, a sort of boxy room set to the far right of the house. “Do you want tea? I have Chamomile and Chai.”

“That sounds wonderful.” Delia wandered into the living room, running her hands over the corduroy upholstery on the couch. “Have you switched out anything in this house?” She shouted even though she didn’t need too. Sound traveled well in this house.

“Never saw the point. Do you want any cream?”

“No.”

I stirred the teabags slightly in the mugs, the hot water becoming a mirky vortex. I’d saved my favorite mug for Delia, because she was a guest.

Part Seven

“Wow!” Delia bent eye-level for the first cage, where now it was just Betty, Linda, and Jessica. Sam had sadly passed away. “Can I pick one up?”

“Sure. I would recommend Linda. She’s the tamest.”

Delia curled her hands inward, delicately lifting Jessica on her index finger. It wasn’t her fault; she wasn’t as familiar as I was with my Praying Mantis’s. “You’ve accounted for the temperature and humidity in here?”

“Yes. Here-” I grabbed a bundle of notepads and journals beside the projector and walked over to Delia. She had already laid Jessica down and walked to another habitat. “These are my notes and sketches.”

Delia gingerly grabbed the pages from me, thumbing through them only to snap it shut and hug it to her chest. “These are amazing, Ben. You know, I’m putting together a journal for the conservatory; it’ll consist of work from my coworkers as well as my own personal findings. I’d be honored to include some of your notes and sketches as well.”

“Me?” I thought I’d only be known as the autistic bug guy. “I need to drink some more tea.” Going over to a side table where our abandoned beverages lay, I sat on one of the rickety stools accompanying it.

Delia sat on the other side, putting my work on her lap. “Yes, Ben, this is amazing stuff! You’re not just an IT guy, from what you’ve shown me. We can hash out more details at Road Street Café. Are you in?”

I’ve always been the guy sitting in front of the television or watching important people say important stuff. It was perplexing to think I could reverse the roles.

I reached out to shake Delia’s hands. “I’m in.”

She laughed. Spit on her hands. “Proper way, ok?”

Proper way it was.

Part Eight

Turned out Road Street Café had the best homemade Chai I’ve ever sipped. I regretted I hadn’t come here sooner.

“That’s why I picked it,” Delia said over the rim of her latte. “I knew you would appreciate their tea.”

“Do I seem very serious about my tea?”

Delia smirked. “Very.” She licked her lips, setting her cup down. “But, let’s talk business. You brought the sketches?”

I pulled out my two notebooks and the loose leafed paper I kept in a neat binder. “How do I know that this isn’t a scam? The world is full of scams, you know.”

Delia crossed her arms. “Ben. Look into my eyes. Do I seem like the scamming type?”

Maybe it was the fact that her eyes were so rich I couldn’t see anything except my own reflection, or the stern and pouty look that made me smile. “I mean … I guess not. But I don’t really know you.”

Delia slipped up, a casual goofiness taking over. “Gotta take a leap of faith, am I right? Here.” She pulled out a slim manuscript. “Take a look over what I have so far. The Conservatory is going to publish it, if that’s any credit to you.”

I took it with some reverence, skimming over complex words that were a little beyond me. It was real, fascinating. It was the best book I’ve ever laid eyes on. “Who did the sketches?” I asked.

“We have someone at work who doubles as an artist. She drew them.”

“They’re amazing.”

“But she doesn’t have anything like yours.” Delia reached over to take my notebooks again, the wide sleeve of her dark green cardigan sweeping across the sticky table. I liked the approving gleam in her eyes. “Say you agree, now. I can even take you on a tour at the Conservatory.”

Maybe I could trust Delia with that leap of faith she so claimed. I tried it with Jimmy, and that didn’t work out. But Delia was different. She was like me, in a way. “Sure. But only if you let me tour that Conservatory.”

Delia’s thin, wide lips stretched impressively from across her face, her freckles accompanying the beautiful smile. It was then that I decided I could study her face forever. “Get ready for an educational ride, Ben. You’re going to be famous, again. Just in a good way.”

“I think I like the sound of that.” This isn’t a bad thing. And perhaps, I could be visible.