I see a tiny black bug crawling along the edge of my blanket. I pull back the covers and scream. A colony of tiny, ugly bugs are crawling along the sheets, blankets, wall, and the edge of the bed.
The next morning, a man from Orkin ExtermInators renders a verdict. “Bedbugs,” sighs a tall Indian man thin as Gumby.
The nightmare begins. My bed, sofa, curtains, bookcases, chairs, curtains, most of my personal things, are wrapped in plastic and brought to the city dump.
For the next two nights I stay at a cheesy motel. All I have is my computer and a clean set of clothing.
The Orkin exterminator spends two days inserting hoses into my apartment windows, overheating the apartment and burning out the bugs.
When I return, my once cozy apartment looks like a war zone. I sleep in the bathtub until, at my book signing the following week, a lovely lady who lives up the street and heard from a mutual friend about my bugs invites me to stay with her. “You’ll have a private room and bath,” says Beatrice. She’s 80 — tall, lanky and beautiful.
There goes my vacation to Europe. Instead, I spend days wandering around IKEA, my feet swelling up and choosing furniture. Next, I hire a contractor and a painter to paint my apartment, sand and stain the hardwood floors, and remodel the kitchen.
I’m excited about my renovation, as this is the first time in 24 years I can afford to do so. It’s going great until one of the painters paints the wrong color in the wrong room. And there are more delays.
So every day, I set up office at Starbucks, at a table in the back. I feel like a vagabond, shlepping my computer and a bag of laundry, a couple of tangerines. But all this is for a reason: The bugs did you good, I assure myself. Every trauma segment of one’s life brings you to a new beginning.
“The bugs are an omen. Time for a new life,” insists my Aunt Zoe. “Time for love. I have a man for you. Oy, he’s a mensch.’’
I decide to go for it.
Jacques Millstein calls. He sounds nice. He’s a scientist. Divorced. He’s in Aunt Zoe’s book club.
We agree to meet at the Tonga Room in the Fairmont Hotel. Since the bug situation, I have hardly any clothes. So I rush to an Eileen Fisher sale and buy a black top, pants, really splurge. I have my hair blown out, and take a taxi to the Fairmont. The moon is golden and I can almost see through it. I’m on a new adventure.
Jacque is 64. He has a puff of wavy, gray-streaked auburn hair and green intelligent eyes.
We’re sitting on these huge wicker thrones, munching on spareribs and sipping vodka from a bowl-shaped glass. A fake storm rumbles over the mile-long gorgeous pool with aqua-colored water and a mist of rainfalls. Two Hawaiian musicians sit inside a rubber boat floating along the pool, singing the “Hawaiian Wedding Song.” Wowie, this is romantic.
“Nice to meet you,” he repeats. “I love what you’re wearing. Most women your age don’t wear silk flowers on hats and ankle-strap heels. Love it.”’
“Your age? What does that mean?”
He shrugs. “It means that you look — good.’
“So your work? What kind of work do you do?”
“I design robots,” he replies.
‘What kinds of robots?”
“Robots that eventually will replace humans beings,” he continues. “So we won’t have to go through all this fake relationship stuff.’’
“Fake? You mean this is fake? We’re fake?”
He nods. He proceeds to discourse in great detail that he has had it with his two ex-wives, that he is working on a super-robot named Nao and that Nao can feel, think, love and do anything you want. “He’s going to take the world by storm.”
The fake rain turns to a fake storm. The musicians are playing more love songs and couples are dancing. This guy is a no-show. A robot himself.
“So why did you agree to meet me?” I ask.
He shrugs. “I’ve read your books. You have some ideas that might fit in with the female robot I’m working on. I want to get an idea of the boomer-plus woman. My robots have no age but they’re mature.”
“I’m not a robot, I’m a person.’’
He smiles. “Do you want to dance?”
I nod and follow him to the dance floor.
We slow dance and he sings along with the music. Oh well, this is a new beginning. So the bugs brought me to another path.
He whispers: “Do you want to meet Nao my robot?”
To be continued …
BarbaraRoseBrooker is a native S.F. author. A new edition of her novel “The Viagra Diaries” was published April 30 by Simon & Schuster. HBO is in the process of casting a TV series based on her book. www.barbararosebrooker.com