THE term "to put a bug in one's ear" means to get someone thinking about something, but I never truly appreciated what an exquisite focusing mechanism having a bug in your ear can be. Just an eerie story
...gnat’s all folksUnfortunately, your entire focus is on the bug in your ear, which I discovered the other day while helping my wife on the computer.
I was just standing there, giving some sage computer advice when I heard a high-pitched buzzing and then felt something hit my ear canal.
"Hey, a bug just flew in my ear," I said.
"Which one?"
"I don't know, seen one bug seen 'em all."
"No, which ear?"
"The left one. And it's still in there."
She didn't believe me. But I started getting excited.
"I'm telling you," I said, "a bug flew in my ear. I felt it burrow inside. It's still in there."
"Can you feel it?" she asked.
"No, but I know he's in there."
God, I thought. What are you supposed to do when a bug flies in your ear. I was focusing like a madman.
"Try a Q-tip," she suggested.
"Are you crazy? That would just squish him up in there or jam him in even deeper. I'd have to wait for him to decay."
I began to realize how serious the matter was. A foreign flying object was in my head. I
didn't know what it was. It could be harmless or it could be something dangerous, like a Brazilian Brain-Boring Beetle. What was I supposed to do? Was he sitting in there licking at the sticky insides of my ear canal? Was he already gnawing on my brain's protective membrane? Or was he just shivering in there, scared after accidentally flying into a human head cave?
It's times like these when you realize how poor your knowledge of the human body is. I tried to remember what the inner ear looked like. I knew that somewhere in there was a hammer, anvil and stirrup. Maybe they would block the bug from going in deeper. Was there a clear path to the brain stem?
My daughter came over and asked me to help her with her homework.
"Give me an eight-word sentence using the word 'Inuit,' " she said.
Aha. Hearing damage already. Inuit? What the heck's an Inuit?
"Someone who lives in the Arctic," she said.
I imagined the bug chomping on the delicate nerves inside the ear.
"Honey," I said, "I can't help you now. I've got a bug in my ear."
"Which one?"
"The left one."
No, she said, which bug? A roach? Or a termite?
I shooed her away. Maybe I should pour peroxide in there.
"We don't have any," my wife said.
Maybe some beer would do it. Beer in the ear. The alcohol would kill it , maybe float it out.
"Quit worrying about it," she said. "It will probably come out on its own, if there's one in there at all."
Hah. Big words from someone without a bug in her ear.
I took the dog out to do his business. Standing on the porch, I felt a tingling by the ear opening. I sprinted back in.
"It's coming out! I feel it!"
I tipped my head sideways and my wife probed gently with a Q-tip.
"There it is," she said. "I see it. Hold on. There."
The bug lay on the counter top. It was nothing more than a comma with wings. A mere speck. Something along the gnat line.
"It felt a lot bigger when it was in there," I said, a bit too defensively.
She rolled her eyes and went back to work. I bet Inuits get more respect than this, I thought. Exactly eight words.