There were long dark tubes on the floor I’d just swept. I toed one curiously with my work boot as the nice woman at British Airways processed my credit card. It flinched.
“Worms! Oh Jesus Christ!”
” I’m sorry?” said the nice woman at British Airways.
Worms on the kitchen floor. _Lumbricus terrestris_, last seen this closely when I dissected one in Fifth Year biology. I’ve always been fond of earthworms, with their groovy mating habits and fine work ethic. I just didn’t understand why they were now crawling out of the fridge and across the floor. While she tapped away I opened the fridge, so ancient that a springclip holds it shut. A mystery tub had lost its top. Earth and worms spilled out. The worms were jolted out of hibernation and were now making confused bids for freedom: through the vegetables, beneath the fridge, under my boots.
“So that’s D for Delta, F for Freddy…” said Ms. Airways. I kicked open the back door. Tim was oiling his chainsaw on the porch, as usual. I stabbed my finger at the worms, and pantomimed outrage. They seemed to be panicking sluggishly now that I had injured one of their number.
“Oops,” said Tim, “Bait.”
“Can you repeat the confirmation number please?” said Ms. Airways.
_This_ is why I hate the phone.
One thought on “Bait”
Well, there you go. If Ms. Airways had been able to witness your ample nonverbal communication, she would have known this was not the moment to ask you a question like that.
Very funny, you told the story well. Thanks for making me laugh!
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