Jiminy ‘Effing’ Cricket

Chasing the intermittent sound of a cricket chirping in the middle of the night has to rank high on the list of life’s most maddening frustrations. 

When I was young, I’d often be woken in the dead of night by the shrill rub of wings. My bedroom was small, but finding the exact spot the noise came from was impossible. It made me want to punch a wall.

Hours of searching under the bed, the dresser, the closet—pointless. The sound would shift mid-chirp, as if the little bug had ventriloquist training. Some nights I’d pull every last box, scrapbook, and oversized art project out from under the bed, convinced I was closing in on him. But each time I thought I’d pinpointed his location, the chirping would stop, as if he knew I had him.

So I’d freeze. Sometimes on hands and knees, sometimes mid-stride, until a leg muscle or a toe threatened to spasm from its sudden and prolonged contraction. I held my breath like a sniper, certain the tiniest inhale would tip him off. I was willing to risk CO₂ poisoning just to outlast a bug the size of a paperclip.

If desperation set in, I’d stomp down the hall and wake my sister, pleading for her ears in the hunt. She knew my pain. She had spent many a night in the same insanity-inducing hunt inside her own room. She always came to help—not only because she sympathized, but because if one of us lost sleep to a cricket, both of us did, we both were.

Here’s the thing about crickets: they’re like ticks. They love tight, hidden places. They never serenade from the middle of the room like a polite musician. No, they wedge themselves in the space between your box spring and frame. Or worse, inside the binding of a scrapbook perched high on a desk hutch, making you believe you’ll need to tear down the ceiling tiles in blind rage.

Two days last week, I was woken to the bane of my childhood slumber. My childhood tormentor had returned. Two nights in a row, I woke to Mr. Jiminy Effing Cricket. He was loud, but strategic—chirping only in three-beat bursts, then silence. He had matured into being a master at the pause.

One night, bleary-eyed and half-crazed, I realized the sound was coming from behind 300 vinyl albums. The thought of pulling them all out nearly broke me. And then, as if on cue, coyotes started yelping in the woods outside my window. I gave up, jammed earplugs deep into my skull, added a pillow over my head, and finally slept.

The next morning I texted my sister: “He’s back. Craftier than ever.” His mature rhythm was cruel—three chirps, then long silence. Just enough to jolt me awake and leave me wondering if I’d dreamed it, until the next three shrieks confirmed otherwise.

Normally, I wake each day with a cheerful “Thank you, God!” or “Good morning, world!” But the past two days? The queen mother of cuss words has been my alarm clock prayer.

So listen up, Jiminy. My wish upon a star is that you find adventure outside these condo walls. It’s a big, beautiful world out there. Grab your top hat and tiny umbrella and have at it. Because if you return, fate won’t be so kind.