'Conversations with the Bug Man'
A lady named Karen with a very pleasant phone voice calls me once a quarter to schedule my pest control treatment. 

A few days later my bug man, James, shows up, usually early, to spray my house for creepy-crawlies.

Now, James is quite chatty.  The first few times he’d come, I almost dreaded it.

 I mean, the man likes to talk. He gets his work done, but not without telling me at least one really good yet mildly horrifying story. The truth is, though, that he really grew on me.

 I swore to myself about a year ago that I was going to write these stories down and compile a book called Conversations with the Bug Man because they were just that interesting.

Not only is James an exterminator, but he and his brother also run their own painting and pressure-washing business. So he really gets around and therefore has a lot of material.

I’ve heard about his neighbor who dropped dead in the driveway from a heart attack on his way to Wednesday night church. Another tale involved a local preacher “at one of those made-up churches,” according to James, who left what was supposed to be James’s cash payment for house painting in an envelope on top of the garbage can on his way to the beach for a week.

When James finished up and went over to get the envelope, he noticed it contained a check. It bounced.

He’s even good for a scoop or two. Apparently one famous local hotel had to close off a block of 10 rooms on one floor a couple of years ago because of a bedbug infestation. After hearing that story I now compulsively unmake the bed the minute I walk into any hotel room.

His best story described the time he went under his elderly neighbor lady’s house because she thought she heard a possum or skunk down there. James inched along on his belly and, about halfway across the crawlspace, heard something behind him.

He turned his light around expecting to see it reflected in a couple of rodent eyes. Instead, he heard a distinctive rattle between him and the access door.

That noise turned out to be a big, fat rattlesnake that had coiled up against one of the cinder block pilings. The only thing James could think to do was shine his flashlight against the opposite wall to distract the snake as he scrambled out of there.

But you know what’s even more frightening? James has seen every nook and cranny of every room in my house. Bless his heart. I never clean up for him; he just faces it on his own, without complaint.

One day as I apologized for the state of my kitchen floor, James looked up from writing out my receipt and said, “Shoot, this is nothing. Yesterday morning I tried to convince this woman in the Governors Club that the reason those little ants kept coming into her kitchen was because she had little pieces of cheese and cookie crumbs all over her floors!”

His outrage grew as he set the pen down and gestured wildly. “I mean, she was ready to sue her builder because she thought her windows had leaks or the doors had cracks where ants were coming in. She wouldn’t believe me that she could help herself out by sweeping up ever’ once in a while!”

Early on in our bug-busting partnership, James’s forthrightness made me nervous. He makes a big deal out of my boys if they’re home when he comes to spray. If they’re not, he always asks about them.

One day he asked my youngest if he’d been good. Owen acted like he’d forgotten English and just stood smiling, like, “Why is this loud, old man asking me this?” He finally nodded. James handed him a folded-up dollar bill.

I then heard myself forcing Owen to thank this stranger who had just handed him money, for Pete’s sake. Why was I breaking my own parenting rules?

After James left, I explained to the boys about people like James who you “kinda” know and how it’s OK to cut up with them when Mom’s around.

But over the past three years, James has proved to be nothing but helpful and concerned about others. The last time he came to spray, he could not turn his head one bit. He told me something about a disc or a vertebra with a number that was messed up and how he might need surgery.

I genuinely felt bad for him because I wasn’t sure how he was even going to drive his route the rest of the day.

Then last week Karen called again to schedule my pest treatment. “This time your tech will be named David. James is out for a few weeks after back surgery.”

I was a little sad at that news. David arrived and only took about 15 minutes to do his thing. He even told me a story about being charged by a Rottweiler on a call the day before.

He was perfectly pleasant and polite. But he wasn't James.

Brentwood resident Jill Burgin calls her column “Joyride” because you never know where she’ll end up. E-mail her at tjburgin@comcast.net.