I know this because I read about it in the newspaper on my way to work while scratching at a particularly irksome welt through the ugly blouse I had thrown on in my haste to flee my apartment.

I was still new to San Francisco, having moved west after college. At 23, I had no boyfriend, no serious romantic attachments, and was fine with that, proud to be making my own way in the world. Then the welts appeared.

“You should have it checked out, but I’m sure it’s something else,” my mother said. “Like gnats. Your cousin had those and she was convinced it was bedbugs.”

In hushed tones, so that my colleagues in the adjacent cubicles wouldn’t hear, I scheduled an appointment for that afternoon with the handler of a bedbug-sniffing dog. I tried to relax, but soon my entire body felt as if it was breaking out in a rash. By the time I left work at 4 p.m., I was in full-fledged panic. As my anxiety heightened, my skin only grew hotter and itchier.

On the 10-minute ride to my transfer point, I ran through the possible non-bedbug scenarios my Google research had turned up: gnats, fleas, bird mites and scabies. Please, let it be scabies!

A voice jolted me back to reality, and for the first time in eight and a half years I was staring into the face of the only boy I have ever loved.

“Is it you?” I asked, though it wasn’t really a question. Aside from the hair and wardrobe befitting a Northern California techie, he looked exactly as he had at 15: tall and handsome, with penetrating, intelligent eyes.

“How are you?” he said. “Do you live around here now?” Our train had stopped, and he gestured for me to step onto the platform ahead of him. I told him yes, I lived in San Francisco but commuted to my publishing job on the peninsula. He lived in Mountain View but was heading to Millbrae to tutor a student. Did I want to get a beer?

I wanted to blurt out everything, not just about the bedbugs but also about the many frustrations I had with this new city that didn’t yet feel mine. And I wanted him to still love me, if he had ever loved me, so that he could listen to my complaints, take me into his arms and assure me that everything was going to be O.K.

Instead I told him that I had to get back for a dentist appointment and clenched my fists to keep from scratching a fresh itch that had surfaced on my forehead. “Another time, though,” I said.

He nodded. “I like your sweater, by the way,” he said. “It looks a little like a grandma sweater, but I like it.”

I caught my reflection in the train window: in addition to the ugly blouse, I was indeed sporting a natty puce cardigan. He hadn’t meant to be hurtful, but I was mortified and instantly went into an ill-advised monologue about the arctic climate of my office — “If I die there, I won’t even have to pay for my own cryogenic freezing chamber,” I said, stumbling on “cryogenic.”

I waved my hand in front of my face to get relief from a sudden bout of flop sweat until, mercifully, the closing doors cut me off. What had happened, I wondered, to the cool, confident woman I’d supposedly become in the last decade?

Thirty minutes later, as a small terrier sniffed around my walk-in closet, I felt the same sense of helplessness. “He’s trained especially to detect bedbugs,” said his handler, a kind man named Kevin. “Seek, Pete. Seek.”

Pete was unresponsive to my clothes, luggage and furniture, and I felt my spirits rise — maybe it was bird mites after all — but he started looking excited as he circled my bed. Sure enough, when he reached the area beneath my pillows, he jumped into the air three times, and Kevin explained that this constituted a “strong alert” and that I should have my building management send exterminators as soon as possible.

I wrote him a check for $175, and he told me I could call him with any questions: that even though he was leaving, he wasn’t walking out on me.

After Kevin left, I followed his advice and began to put everything in sealed garbage bags. I knew I had to keep a clear head.

Tess Russell lives in San Francisco.

View the original article here

I know this because I read about it in the newspaper on my way to work while scratching at a particularly irksome welt through the ugly blouse I had thrown on in my haste to flee my apartment.

I was still new to San Francisco, having moved west after college. At 23, I had no boyfriend, no serious romantic attachments, and was fine with that, proud to be making my own way in the world. Then the welts appeared.

“You should have it checked out, but I’m sure it’s something else,” my mother said. “Like gnats. Your cousin had those and she was convinced it was bedbugs.”

In hushed tones, so that my colleagues in the adjacent cubicles wouldn’t hear, I scheduled an appointment for that afternoon with the handler of a bedbug-sniffing dog. I tried to relax, but soon my entire body felt as if it was breaking out in a rash. By the time I left work at 4 p.m., I was in full-fledged panic. As my anxiety heightened, my skin only grew hotter and itchier.

On the 10-minute ride to my transfer point, I ran through the possible non-bedbug scenarios my Google research had turned up: gnats, fleas, bird mites and scabies. Please, let it be scabies!

A voice jolted me back to reality, and for the first time in eight and a half years I was staring into the face of the only boy I have ever loved.

“Is it you?” I asked, though it wasn’t really a question. Aside from the hair and wardrobe befitting a Northern California techie, he looked exactly as he had at 15: tall and handsome, with penetrating, intelligent eyes.

“How are you?” he said. “Do you live around here now?” Our train had stopped, and he gestured for me to step onto the platform ahead of him. I told him yes, I lived in San Francisco but commuted to my publishing job on the peninsula. He lived in Mountain View but was heading to Millbrae to tutor a student. Did I want to get a beer?

I wanted to blurt out everything, not just about the bedbugs but also about the many frustrations I had with this new city that didn’t yet feel mine. And I wanted him to still love me, if he had ever loved me, so that he could listen to my complaints, take me into his arms and assure me that everything was going to be O.K.

Instead I told him that I had to get back for a dentist appointment and clenched my fists to keep from scratching a fresh itch that had surfaced on my forehead. “Another time, though,” I said.

He nodded. “I like your sweater, by the way,” he said. “It looks a little like a grandma sweater, but I like it.”

I caught my reflection in the train window: in addition to the ugly blouse, I was indeed sporting a natty puce cardigan. He hadn’t meant to be hurtful, but I was mortified and instantly went into an ill-advised monologue about the arctic climate of my office — “If I die there, I won’t even have to pay for my own cryogenic freezing chamber,” I said, stumbling on “cryogenic.”

I waved my hand in front of my face to get relief from a sudden bout of flop sweat until, mercifully, the closing doors cut me off. What had happened, I wondered, to the cool, confident woman I’d supposedly become in the last decade?

Thirty minutes later, as a small terrier sniffed around my walk-in closet, I felt the same sense of helplessness. “He’s trained especially to detect bedbugs,” said his handler, a kind man named Kevin. “Seek, Pete. Seek.”

Pete was unresponsive to my clothes, luggage and furniture, and I felt my spirits rise — maybe it was bird mites after all — but he started looking excited as he circled my bed. Sure enough, when he reached the area beneath my pillows, he jumped into the air three times, and Kevin explained that this constituted a “strong alert” and that I should have my building management send exterminators as soon as possible.

I wrote him a check for $175, and he told me I could call him with any questions: that even though he was leaving, he wasn’t walking out on me.

After Kevin left, I followed his advice and began to put everything in sealed garbage bags. I knew I had to keep a clear head.

Tess Russell lives in San Francisco.

View the original article here