Centipedes
Scott Bolendz
It came crawling out of the night. I was sitting with my grandfather on his back porch when I saw the long brown centipede moving toward us. It scuttled across the floorboards with an ugly, alarming speed. My ten-year-old body reacted without thinking. I jumped up, got ready to stomp on it.
“No!” my grandfather shouted, grabbing my arm.
I froze, taken aback by his outburst. I had never seen him act like that before. He was normally a quiet, remote man. He lived by himself in a lonely house in the woods outside of town. My parents and I didn’t see him much. He liked it that way.
But it was Memorial Day, an important holiday for him. We had brought over a beef brisket for dinner—his favorite. After a quiet meal, I went to the back porch with him while my parents cleaned up in the kitchen. He was sipping a glass of bourbon, listening to sixties music on a small portable radio. And then the centipede appeared.
“Don’t touch it!”
“How come, Gramps? It’s only a bug.”
He hesitated. “A centipede saved my life.”
I gave him a perplexed look.
“It was a long time ago.” He put his bourbon down next to a half-empty bottle on a white plastic table. He lifted a trouser leg to show me a purple welt on his ankle. It still looked fresh, like it hadn’t healed.
He got up from the sofa, pushed on the screen door and latched it open. “You see, I got bit by a centipede when I was in Vietnam. They had to medevac me out of the jungle. Next day, my whole platoon got wiped out. All my buddies. Nobody survived—except me.”
It was the only time I heard him speak about the war.
“Wow…” I struggled for words. “You were lucky.”
“You bet your little ass I was lucky! But I feel cursed, too.”
“Why?”
“I dunno… Because I wasn’t with them. Maybe I coulda done something? Maybe saved a few?” He shrugged. “Anyway, me and centipedes have an understanding. We look out for each other now.”
He went over to the wiggling thing. With his bare foot, he gently nudged it toward the open door. This took some time, as he tried with great patience and care not to injure it. He eventually got it outside, shut the door. Then kept a vigilant watch over it as it disappeared into the darkness.
I don’t know how long he stood there like that. It seemed like forever. I thought maybe he was listening to the peaceful sounds of the spring night. The crickets. The windchimes. The rustling trees. But I realized he was somewhere far away from that porch. Somewhere I could never go.
Scott Bolendz
It came crawling out of the night. I was sitting with my grandfather on his back porch when I saw the long brown centipede moving toward us. It scuttled across the floorboards with an ugly, alarming speed. My ten-year-old body reacted without thinking. I jumped up, got ready to stomp on it.
“No!” my grandfather shouted, grabbing my arm.
I froze, taken aback by his outburst. I had never seen him act like that before. He was normally a quiet, remote man. He lived by himself in a lonely house in the woods outside of town. My parents and I didn’t see him much. He liked it that way.
But it was Memorial Day, an important holiday for him. We had brought over a beef brisket for dinner—his favorite. After a quiet meal, I went to the back porch with him while my parents cleaned up in the kitchen. He was sipping a glass of bourbon, listening to sixties music on a small portable radio. And then the centipede appeared.
“Don’t touch it!”
“How come, Gramps? It’s only a bug.”
He hesitated. “A centipede saved my life.”
I gave him a perplexed look.
“It was a long time ago.” He put his bourbon down next to a half-empty bottle on a white plastic table. He lifted a trouser leg to show me a purple welt on his ankle. It still looked fresh, like it hadn’t healed.
He got up from the sofa, pushed on the screen door and latched it open. “You see, I got bit by a centipede when I was in Vietnam. They had to medevac me out of the jungle. Next day, my whole platoon got wiped out. All my buddies. Nobody survived—except me.”
It was the only time I heard him speak about the war.
“Wow…” I struggled for words. “You were lucky.”
“You bet your little ass I was lucky! But I feel cursed, too.”
“Why?”
“I dunno… Because I wasn’t with them. Maybe I coulda done something? Maybe saved a few?” He shrugged. “Anyway, me and centipedes have an understanding. We look out for each other now.”
He went over to the wiggling thing. With his bare foot, he gently nudged it toward the open door. This took some time, as he tried with great patience and care not to injure it. He eventually got it outside, shut the door. Then kept a vigilant watch over it as it disappeared into the darkness.
I don’t know how long he stood there like that. It seemed like forever. I thought maybe he was listening to the peaceful sounds of the spring night. The crickets. The windchimes. The rustling trees. But I realized he was somewhere far away from that porch. Somewhere I could never go.