Mosquitoes love me. No, they adore me. I become the center of mosquito world during any outdoor event. They'll bite me twenty times while everybody near me gets bitten maybe once or twice. Years ago, a good friend— a legendary flyfisher— thought that I was exaggerating. But then I conducted a science experiment where I stood five feet from him on creekside, opened my arms wide, and welcomed my little winged worshippers. "Goddamn," my friend said later. "You could see them arriving like a mass bombing raid on a city." Scientists don't quite know why mosquitoes are more attracted to some people than others. They theorize about body scent and body temperature. I do radiate heat— I'm a human hot water bottle for my wife on cold nights, which is lovely during winter and just humid during summer. I also fog up car windows. Half of the windshield will go condensation-opaque whether I'm the driver or passenger. So maybe, probably, my body heat is why I'm the mosquito buffet. And, here, I must kneel inside this poem's church and confess that I fondly remember the 1980 volcanic eruption of Mount St. Helens here in Washington. Yes, I remember a natural disaster with fondness because the fallen ash suffocated the still water on the rez and killed a generation of mosquito eggs. So, that summer, we Indian kids played outside without being swarmed by skeeters. Most pointedly, I played in the moonlight for hours and didn't end up looking like a smallpox victim when I returned home. Now, one of the reasons why I love living in Seattle is because of the low mosquito population. Our colder summers and lack of swamps and bogs seriously slow down the mosquito birthrate. In our city, the water moves and moves and moves. I don't recall the last time that a mosquito bit me in Seattle. This is an eccentric luxury. But, hey, if the apocalypse does happen— if civilization is irreversibly mutated by disease, wars, or climate change—then I'll be of good use for the overlords. You see, after the flood recedes and leaves behind all the breeding ponds and puddles for mosquitoes, I'll be the servant who stands sweating on the perimeter of the nightly bacchanals and gives my blood so the rich don't have to. I'll be the donor and bank. I'll be the sin eater. The hog on the spit. I'll be more Indian at the end of the world than we Indians are now.
Sherman, I have always loved the way you mingle levity and debacle. I’m grinning along then all of a sudden, Wham!
I’m from Wisconsin, and migrated to Port Angeles. I couldn’t stand going on a hike or picnic back there. I’d have huge welts from mosquitoes. 🦟 I can enjoy being outdoors now, what a blessing.
I heard that mosquitoes prefer people with type O blood, and I have type O blood.
What do you think about this theory?