Danger in the Men’s Room: A Mosquito Stares Me Down

I have “much love,” as they say in the hood, for most of the creatures that walk, crawl, fly, flip, flop, march, sleep, eat, and mate on God’s great earth.

The mosquito, however, does not show up anywhere on that “nature love” radar. But their tenacity I do respect. Think about this:

I saw a mosquito…in the urinal…in the men’s bathroom…on the 27th floor…of a building…in Penn Plaza. Midtown-freakin’-Manhattan!

Now, I’m not that stupid. I know there are mosquitoes on Manhattan island, but I can seriously say I don’t remember ever encountering one there.

I don’t have to spell out the potential ramifications of a mosquito being in a urinal, do I? Good. Let’s just that there was some panic involved.

My first thought was to try to figure out how to kill it by flushing the water. But thankfully, it just flew away.

As I left the bathroom, though, I began thinking about how it got there, the possible journey which this insect had gone on.

Somehow, it had escaped the frogs, bats, sparrows, and other predators out there in the big city. It made its way into the building, without an ID card, got into the elevator, exited at 27, waited for someone with an ID card to open the door, zipped through, flew around a bit looking for something to eat, found its way into the bathroom, and settled in that urinal until I shooed it away. Before he bit me, for the record.

Where did it come from? Long Island, Staten Island, Jersey? Or was it a native New Yorker? Did he hitch a ride in the pocket of some fine Italian silk suit? Who knows? Who cares? I still hate mosquitoes, and you should too.