Safe Zone

I walked past something terribly frightening on the sidewalk on the East Side yesterday.  I stopped mid-stride as feelings of panic flooded my body.  There's only one thing in New York City that could cause such an immediate reaction... bedbugs.

I approached a pile of trash that included a mattress covered in plastic with the words "NYC Bedbugs" scrawled across the front in black sharpie.  I froze.  Then, I freaked out as I imagined little bedbugs leaping from the plastic wrap onto my coat.  I imagined them scurrying across the concrete and up my legs.  I imagined baby bedbugs parachuting down from the scaffolding and landing in my hair.  I imagined an entire colony of bedbugs celebrating the fall of their new victim.

I turned to run back, but knew I had to press forward (a real trooper).  I frantically tiptoed across the pavement in an attempt to decrease my surface area in a potentially contaminated space.  I sighed with relief when I made it to a self-declared "safe zone."  I finally looked up and, for the first time, saw a bystander and his dog watching me.

I started to feel slightly embarrassed until he half-smiled and nodded.  Oh, yeah.  He understood.