An Open Letter to Stanley the Stinkbug, the only Stinkbug in America. Sorry for Flushing You Down the Toilet, but You Stink

Dear Stanley the Stinkbug,

Minutes before sitting down to write this, my wife screamed like an unknown man was in the apartment, which could only mean one thing: you had somehow breached the defenses of my home and were dangling your brown-six-legged stinkbug self from one of the light fixtures.

I grabbed a napkin from the dinner table and wrapped you lightly in it, just tight enough so you couldn’t escape, but light enough to avoid crushing you. That last part is important. They don’t call you guys stinkbugs for nothing. Crush a stinkbug and there is a righteous overpowering odor, or so I’ve heard; I don’t have the heart to do it myself.  After wrapping you up, I made my way to the toilet bowl where I dropped you and flushed. I was planning to not think about you for the rest of the night as I do most nights after flushing you, but for some reason, tonight, the pathetic nature of your constant return keeps bugging me, so to speak.

Every day, save for a day here, the stretch of a few days there, over two apartments, this has been a constant; you announce your presence, I flush you. I look at my wall or to the window or the light fixture above my dining room table and there you are, whispering, trying to tell me something—though I imagine to you it’s not whispering. Stinkbugs, heck all bugs, are always mumbling so we humans often can’t hear you guys when you speak. I get it, you’re bugs, you lack self-esteem because you are disgusting creatures, but man have some pride. No one respects a mumbler. Put some bass in your voice. Act like a mammal and get a backbone. Speak up and tell me what is it that you want or leave me and my family alone.

I have a confession to make. I once thought there were many of you. It always confounded me that yet another one was showing up to bother me. Just as I sit down to watch the television or have dinner, there’s my wife screaming, calling me to do something about your presence.

Why here, I wondered. Where are all these stinkbugs coming from? Then one day I examined you before the flushing; you looked just like all the other 100 stinkbugs who came before you. Then it occurred to me, I had never seen two stinkbugs together. Never three teenage stinkbug girls wandering the mall, flirting with teen stinkbug guys. No stinkbug stoners loitering in front of my apartment building smoking joints and condescendingly mocking the stinkbug junkies as they stick heroin needles in their veins. Not even a stinkbug conference to argue over the Contract with Stinkbug America and to discuss issues in the stinkbug community. That’s when I realized it, there aren’t hundreds of thousands of you. There aren’t even 10 of you in this country. Just one. One very lonely stinkbug, showing up at my house repeatedly in the hopes of fellowship and good conversation.

Stanley, I’m not interested in watching the game with you, going to the club with you, talking about music with you or even spending another second in your presence. This is probably devastating to you. I tried to be subtle about it. I thought flushing you down the toilet was a big hint, but now I see that it’s a pretty passive-aggressive thing to do. I know I need to work on being assertive. And this is all the more crushing because you are completely alone in this country. Stanley, the only Stinkbug in America. It says on the internet that you came over from Asia. Accidently hitched a ride. Kind of a stupid thing to do, but I’m not judging. You’re stuck in a foreign land with no way to get back home. I know what it’s like being in a strange place without anyone like you.

True story: I was once the only black guy in Binghamton, New York. I didn’t climb through people’s window in misguided attempts to befriend them. Well, I did once. I’d like to tell you more about it, but discussing that incident publicly in too much detail is a probation violation.

Yes, I ‘m aware that it’s a racist thought: “All stinkbugs look alike.” I’m embarrassed to even admit I held that belief at one point. Judge me if you will. I mean, I have nothing against Insect-Americans. Me and Sparky, the only lightening bug in America have been friends since I was a kid.  That, I know, kind of sounds like, “I have black friends,” but it’s true. I like butterflies a lot. They are sort of nasty when they are caterpillars. And cocoons? Disgusting.  I guess the scientific name for “cocoon” is “chrysalis.” The plural is “chrysalides.” Just some bullshit the butterfly community came up with to make cocoons sound beautiful and poetic. And ants, I like them when they are not in my house. When they get into the house, I’m reaching for the Raid, best believe that.

Stanley, I have to admit that I admire you. You possess many traits other people will like. There is something noble, triumphant and itsy-bitsy-spiderish in your constant return from the depths of my toilet bowl. I wish I had your determination. You’re a tough guy!

All the times I scooped you up in a torn piece of paper towel or napkin or toilet paper I imagined hordes of stinkbugs forming a new plague like the one God had set upon Egypt so long ago. Were these stinkbugs by the window the scouts who were to report back to Stinkbug headquarters that humanity would be unprepared for a raid? I imagined waking up to see every car in my apartment complex parking lot covered with your brethren and sistren. Then there would be no way to avoid crushing stinkbugs; they’d be beneath our feet at every single step. The stench would be overpowering. Stanley, I see you so much sometimes I’m generally scared that’s what’s going on. I’m glad there is only one of you and I’m sorry I confused you for an invading horde.

Excuse me Larry, I mean, Stanley (sorry, I had to write a similar letter to Larry the Ladybug), but my wife informs me that I’m not being forceful enough. I know we all like to talk about the oneness of all things, but to be honest, I feel a kinship with all things except for you and maybe the Black Eyed Peas (I’m sorry, but Fergie creeps me out and don’t get me started on those two other guys.). You stink. It’s in your name. That’s not a trait anyone wants in a friend. I could see if we had been longtime friends and then you suddenly developed this hygiene problem. Then it’d be fine to pull you aside and discuss it with you, but it seems that you are totally committed to this lifestyle. And that’s fine. All I’m saying is that it’s probably better you go find some people who appreciate smelly insects, entomologists, 10-year-olds and such. There are people around who won’t flush you down the toilet the way I do.

I’m sure you’re tired of the insect kingdom shunning you because of your scent. I know you probably feel some kinship with me. I get it. After a bike ride or a couple rounds with my new punching bag, I’m known to work up what I call a manly smell. When I’m like that my family doesn’t often want to be around me. I sometimes wonder, as you probably do, if I am so rank that all my wonderful traits—my humor, my smile, my girly-yet-still-totally-masculine eyelashes—just don’t matter anymore? Sometimes after exercise, you don’t just want to rush to the shower. Sometimes after riding your bike you want to hug your wife and son, sit down and read the newspaper, surf the web, eat a good meal and you want to be able to do those things without people cracking rude jokes, feigning blackouts, fanning you or spraying air freshener in your direction while holding their nose.

Sorry. None of this is making you feel better, I imagine, and I’m rambling, Stanley.

I guess it comes down to this: Yes, I acknowledge the pain of your isolation, but no I don’t want to be your friend. And yes, I will continue to flush you down the toilet. Sorry.

Sincerely,

Rion Amilcar Scott

Rion Amilcar Scott writes fiction all over the damn place, tweets @reeamilcarscott and blogs at datsun flambe.