it was not, anyways, this beetle but forgive, the details now escape me. But here is what I remember: the humidity, a tram across the tarmac out to the turbo-prop, this was Toronto couldn't tell you much about it, a puddle jumper across to Cleveland, this is August, the whine of jets, the whine of tree crickets and cicadas somewhere beyond which I surely couldn't hear, and beetles massing, landing on clothes and carry-ons dragged across the sticky concrete, this is the evening, twilight maybe, and the passengers trudging up the fold-down stairway and the beetles swarming about us, clouds express boarding straight into a cabin above our head, back of the line, front of the plane, beetles hurtling against reading lights circling in lazy loops to alight on window shades, many passengers are not amused, one woman particularly is upset, a cabin full of insects, the cabin doors are closing, whines from the engines and taxiing across the runway and the beetles are still restless, knocking, swarming, settling, the attendant struggles to calm the passengers, dole out snacks, we're in the air already I suppose, half-way there, a cart down the aisle and the irate woman is more irate about something, and more and more, I can't remember, a misplaced order? hurling abuse at the attendent, angry, evil, treating this poor young woman like crap, and she explains, whatever, I can't remember, patiently, ever angrier the passenger, griping, sniping, moving, the attendant asks her to take her seat, we are about to land, the angry woman refusing, and then, an army of beetles sets upon her, she's shrieking, now back in her seat but they keep coming, the attendant buckles in for the final approach, she turns to me and confides:
"they are my pets."
