Castle Doctrine

This morning I went to examine our balcony door to see about fixing it. The door is crooked and there's a space that looks like a possible entryway for little critters, and I wondered if it was as easy a solution as tightening the upper hinges. Opening the door, I discovered that we had squatters. Buzzing, stinging squatters.

We've found a couple of them around the apartment before. The first one I thought was a dead roach, but it turned out to just be a soon-to-be dead wasp. The second Sam thought was a spider in the corner of our bathroom. Upon close inspection, it turned out to be a dead wasp. I long wondered where they came from. Did they have their own doorway? Did they have an embassy we didn't know about? Whatever the case, I wanted to keep them--and any other unwanted guests--out.

The nest sat in the doorway just under the threshold in front of the door. Nothing flew out but I saw a couple of them crawling around. I slammed the door. My breathing went shallow. My heart rate tripled. I don't think I have a phobia--that's an irrational fear, right? I got stung by a yellow jacket when I was ten years old at my sister's wedding reception, and cried like a rivet went through my wrist. I went inside--the reception was in our backyard--and watched TV while I kept ice on the sting. My cousin Adam came in and made fun of me.

So I didn't want to get stung. It hurt like hell the first time, and I didn't want to see the sequel. I needed a solution quickly. YouTube served me well in the past in terms of instructing me on how to dice onions and make egg salad, so I figured I could find a recipe for serving up a main course of wasp annihilation.  One video showed using this incredible death foam on a large nest above a garage. The uploader suggested doing it at night so the wasps would be asleep and you could cut their throats in bed, but I didn't have that kind of time. It was going to hang over me forever, or at least until winter when I could pull the nest down by hand and punt the bastards into the snow. He also suggested wearing protective covering, but I don't have any jeans.

Then I considered a professional. Let them get stung to hell. They get paid for that. Orkin. Or a local guy. Then I saw something about a special for $50 off on a visit and figured they were well out of my budget.

My breathing was still heavy, and my heart hadn't slowed. I didn't even want to stay in the apartment. I left. I saw our neighbor Mark as I came down the stairs, likely on lunch. I just met him last night on our balcony. He asked me how it was going. I didn't know how to explain to him that we had home invaders and I was going to buy a big gun--maybe a .357, maybe, a 12-gauge shotgun--to cleanse my dominion of winged stinging filth. But I just told him, "Good."

I was seething with rage, in response to my own fear of things no bigger than my little toe and to the idea that there could be just a couple of the little shits or a well-connected network of miniature pain-bringers and I had no clue. Immediate threats first.

The Ace Hardware isn't far, so I ran by there. I wondered if I needed that industrial strength foam that may have been weaponized Barbasol. I then wondered if, should there be more, do I buy some sort of beekeeper outfit? Would they even have that at Ace?

Entering Ace, I was greeted by an employee. He walked with a slight limp and spoke with the southern drawl I'm still getting used to. He asked me what I was looking for, and I told him: "Wasp spray." I was headed in the right direction anyway but he escorted me there, suggested the Ace-brand stuff because that's what they used on "the farm" and it seemed to work good. Then he saw the price for Raid-brand was practically identical. I went with Raid out of some twisted brand loyalty.

I return home. No sign that they had breached. I debated waiting until later. It was a short debate. I grabbed a broom, the very broom I used to smack the roach-turned-wasp only weeks before. I readied it by the doorway. I grasped the can of Raid Wasp & Hornet that I had already removed the safety plastic piece outside. Opened the door. Two of them crawled about. Let off a burst, squeezing the trigger as I had learned to for the rifle shooting merit badge. Dead wasps fell lifeless. I slammed the door shut.

I spray a heavy dose on the cracks around the door like I'm laying down a barrier. None shall pass. I sat in a chair near the door and waited. Seconds passed as I expected some to break through like buzzing berzerkers. But none did pass. I opened the door again, doorknob slick with Raid Wasp & Hornet formula. I sprayed another volley, seeing no dead wasps fall. Was it empty?

Taking the broom, I gently prodded the small nest. Then I speared it like a Spartan. It came down easy enough, falling square in the center of the balcony. I shut the door, unsure if there would be retaliation. I thought back to things I'd heard about wasps returning to help fallen comrades because of some pheromone released in death. Thought back to me dropping their home so effortlessly and ungracefully. I needed to get rid of the nest. I batted it off the balcony into the woods using the broom. The wasps on the balcony remained still, no signs of life. Or further conflict.