There was only one mosquito in Southern California, and I killed it. If you don't believe me, just visit the noisy suburbs of Los Angeles sometime, and you'll know exactly what I mean. You will return with no swollen bumps on your arms or legs - at least, none that came about by those tiny bloodsuckers.
My feat was accomplished at a young age. I was fourteen, long haired and possibly pretentious, yet quiet and mild mannered. My sisters and I had left our home in Maine to visit our grandparents in California.
I have never been to Northern California, I must admit, but I've seen much of Southern. The air is warm, but not humid, and the trees are palm, but not all of them. It is beautiful, if you haven't been there. It is also terrible. There is far too much to describe, but know this: whatever you've heard about Southern California before, be it good or bad, is probably true.
There is a cultural shock in the transition, yes, but not the type you would imagine. My adjusting to the new and very different state had nothing to do with Los Angeles, platinum blond hair and orange skin, and Mexicans running every fast food station.
My grandparents are Norwegian. You must understand that, while I can't speak much Norse at all, the only word that I will recognize until the end of my days for certain is "Spise," which means, "Eat," for there is no command more common in a Norwegian household than to stuff your face until you are full up to your esophagus. On our first day of the three week trip, my grandma, Evelyn, would bring out a serving plate of what appeared to be little pancakes piled in mountain-like stacks, which is basically what they were, only with hints of spices you wouldn't find in normal flapjacks. They're called lappe. Next to these miniature morsels would be butter and jam spreads. My grandma would look at us with coaxing eyes. She was a sweet lady, with the best of intentions, but I think someone told her the average human stomach is the size of three fists, not just one. "Eat," she would say. And we would eat. If we resisted shoving more than five of these four inch circles into our mouths, then she would break out the Norwegian. "Spise!"
Norwegians insist on large meals, too. Every morning, my grandma would be up before everyone else, making a massive breakfast. Not to say that all of our meals were of Norwegian descent, but they were certainly correct in the proportions. There would be cereal, toast, waffles, bacon, eggs ... and you are required as a guest to have at least two servings of each. The cycle repeats in the same fashion for the next two meals of the day, only to repeat early the next morning.
I assure you, it's impossible to refuse the food you are offered. "Would you like some more?" My grandmother would ask, but it's not a question, it's a command in sheep's clothing. Sooner than you can even begin to object, the food is on your plate. And if you somehow try and hide it away, make up excuses, you are reminded how your lack of appetite will make all that food go to waste. Grandma doesn't believe in leftovers.
I'm sure you're dying to know how my sisters and I didn't arrive back home with twenty pounds of extra baggage lying around our waists like inflatable snow tubes. Well, God has graced Southern California with a most wonderful gift, which is that nearly every house has a pool at least thirty feet long. No backyards exist. Just pools. If I didn't swim in that tub of chlorine every day for at least two hours, I would have fallen into the obese teenager catagory by the time I got back home.
But the trips were always spent well. We would go to Huntington Beach (the only place I've ever seen consecrated with a monument of a surfer), sometimes into the city, and the occasional trip to Sea World or Knotts Berry Farm.
Not many people have heard of the latter. It's Disneyland's rival, as it is full of the standard amusement park rides and thrills, only cheaper, cleaner, and less crowded. It's the perfect place for older kids, the ones who have grown out of their Mickey Mouse ears and prefer to try something a little more tasteful than Mr. Toad's Wild Ride. It was my preference out of the two, anyhow.
I had a bad experience at Disneyland the last time I was there anyhow. I'm sure you know of the Disney characters wandering around the park in those Godforsaken hot costumes, just waiting for someone to scream, "Mommy, look - it's Pluto! He's my favorite, can I have a picture with him?" And sure enough, the snapshot is taken, with Cinderella's castle looming in the background. The marvelous thing about those costumes, too, is that the expression beneath the mask matters not. No one can see them panting beneath the walls of faux fur, and they can blink, squint, and make faces in the camera's flash. It matters not. They will forever be smiling.
I posed myself with Goofey one time. I recall getting pictures taken with other characters when I was younger, and the only sound I remember being emitted from under the grandesque costume would be kiss sounds, since they didn't have any lips that would actually move and do the job.
But that's not what I got when I posed with Goofey at the age of thirteen. Instead, since I had lost my little kid sweetness, I heard an aggravated groan from within. Unacceptable? Yes. Just because my nose is no longer button-cute and I am no longer shorter than the legs of most full grown adults doesn't mean I don't have feelings.
But I digress.
California would tire me out. Normally I have trouble sleeping, but not when I stayed within its state boundary lines. It wouldn't matter if my bed was a rock or a floor or a garbage bag, I passed out quickly and resembled a corpse for the next eight hours.
Except one fateful night, which was not the case.
Slumber never came to me. It passed into the other rooms, certainly, but not mine. I tossed back and forth. You've had one of those nights, I'm sure. It's the one when there are no thoughts rattling through your mind, and yet, your eyelids refuse to close. I tried everything to conjure up the Sandman. Reading and writing didn't help, and neither did different sleep positions. Walking around the darkened house didn't do much good. I'd always end up retreating back under the covers, lights off, and moaning audibly about this discomfort. The bed creaked under my shuffling.
Then, something miraculous happened. Things in my head began to fade to ebony, much like an adjusting light switch. I was beginning to feel sleep crawl over my entire body, like mist over a lake. It was so beautiful; I had never appreciated the coming so much. It was nearing early morning, and finally, I could sleep...
"Think again," whispered a tiny voice. Only, if you heard the voice, you wouldn't understand it. It was spoken in a language known as Annoying Buzzing, and this foreign tongue swarmed around my head.
My eyelids whipped back into my head. Foolish that I was, I couldn't see a thing. Black was all around me. But I could hear - oh, could I hear. My ears must be deceiving me, I thought, for there was no way that the noise could be produced by a mosquito. I was in California, for heaven's sake. But it was. The only mosquito in Southern California had made its way into my bedroom and around my head, all for the sake of ruining my precious hours of sleep. But my beloved dormancy, so close and yet so far away, was not about to be taken over by a pest one million times smaller than me. One of us would have to die in the end.
Fatigue had won me over enough so that I had no strength nor desire to turn on the lamp. It was too far of a reach. But swatting the air around me required only moving my arms from the elbow up, and it was a task I was willing to do. My arms flogged the space around me much like windshield wipers on a rainy day, following the sound of the buzzing. I'd take a swipe, and the drone would cease. I'd be persuaded by the silence that the battle had been won, and only moments later I would be ambushed yet again by the hateful humming.
The assault continued for probably twenty minutes, but you could have told me it was twenty hours and I would have believed you. The score was still tied: I had not killed him, yet he had not taken any of my blood. I was physically and mentally drained and frustrated, and I wanted nothing more than to rest my head in peace. The nuisance of the mosquito became like a chant - an evil, twisted tribal chant with the intentions to drive me into madness. It nearly worked. I realized this as my eyes began to give way to tears.
I felt defeated - and by what? By a simple-minded tormentor. Slowly, I laid my arms to my sides and rested them on the bed. The wretched mosquito continued his harrowing song, but never landed. He was waiting, I knew it, waiting until the right moment to land, so that he could slowly sip his victory, savoring every last drop.
And then it came. Suddenly, the buzzing stopped. I knew mosquitos were most likely incapable of having sudden heart attacks, so ruling that out, he must have landed. Where, I didn't know for sure. But something in me built up, like the parting of the red sea. All the boldness that resided in me gathered, and I raised my left hand to swat my right arm, in a last, final attempt to kill the enemy. I hit with such force that my own arm stung with tenderness.
I waited for the return of the sound, the noise, the language known as Annoying Buzz. Nothing. I thought I was imagining things. But nothing. Silence enwrapped me. I had killed the only mosquito in Southern California.
Did I feel like a murderer? Not at all. Did I feel triumphant? Of course. How did I celebrate? I couldn't tell you. Because, in all honesty, I don't remember many moments that proceeded after killing that mosquito. I was indulging in sleep.

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