I had never been invited to an insect banquet quite like this.
Red spots were crammed around both ankles, spreading up my shins and almost to my knees.
They itched like crazy.
I couldn’t focus.
I couldn’t think.
I couldn’t sleep.
Where did I get these bites?
My first suspect was my office in Del Mar.
We have some pretty old furniture there from eons ago.
Bed bugs!
It had to be bed bugs.
But there was one problem.
My business partner Mark spends 16 hours a day in that office.
He never gets bitten.
Mark is ten years older than I am.
Obviously, his blood isn’t as fresh as mine.
Mark, being a very good business partner, immediately took action.
He bombed the entire office with bed bug poison.
I wish I had been there to witness this deeply satisfying revenge.
In my imagination, thousands of bed bugs exploded in every direction, their guts splattering everywhere, while Mark made his escape before the bombing began.
He was very proud of himself.
He invited me back to the office and declared it officially bed-bug-free.
But I kept getting bites.
Then suddenly, I remembered something.
A few days earlier, I had visited a multi-unit building my client had recently purchased.
The building was about 50 years old and had never been remodeled.
The previous owner, a 94-year-old woman, had lived upstairs by herself. About ten years earlier, her son and daughter-in-law had moved into the downstairs unit to take care of her.
When she passed away, they sold the building to my client.
The first time I walked into their unit, the smell hit me like a brick.
Cigarette smoke.
Dogs.
Ten years of both.
Then I looked at the carpet.
The area where their bed had been was black.
It was packed with hair, dirt and whatever else had accumulated over the years.
They had a couple of large dogs.
I didn’t want to imagine what those dogs might have contributed to that carpet.
Then I remembered what I had been wearing that day.
Leather slip-ons.
Ankle-height socks.
My ankles had been completely exposed.
I looked down at the constellation of red bites covering my legs.
Maybe my office wasn’t the bed bug banquet after all.
Maybe I had walked straight into a flea banquet.
And apparently, I was the main course.
After many tubes of cream and many sleepless nights, the red spots finally subsided.
I was whole again.
Today, I went back.
This time, I was meeting the architect and contractor to talk about the remodel.
I stopped just outside the unit.
There it was.
The carpet.
I eyed it suspiciously.
Then I noticed the architect’s feet.
Ankle-height socks.
Just like mine.
I warned him about the fleas.
“They should be dead by now,” he joked.
Then he stepped right onto the carpet.
I held my breath.
We started talking about the remodel.
The new entry door could be moved to the side of the building, creating more bedroom space.
The kitchen could be reoriented to make room for a large countertop.
Walls would move.
Rooms would open up.
And that filthy carpet—with whatever dead flea bodies might still be hiding in it—would finally be ripped out and replaced with laminate flooring.
As I stood there listening, something happened.
I stopped thinking about the fleas, and dark filthy carpets.
I started seeing what this old building could become.
A bright new kitchen opens into the living room, with gleaming pendant lights hanging over a long quartz countertop lined with bar stools.
Sunlight pours through the windows and washes across the new wood floors.
Beyond the living room, the backyard is surrounded by lush green trees and bushes, with soothing sound from the water fountain.
I started to get excited.
“You like the plan?” the architect asked.
I nodded.
Then he smiled mischievously.
“I guess the flea bites were worth it.”
I looked at him.
Then I looked at the building.
I thought about the sleepless nights.
The itching.
The tubes of cream.
Bed bugs bombing in my office.
“Kind of…”
I grinned back.
