A man knocked on the door. His camel-colored company shirt had many, possibly too many, pockets. How many matchbox cars could fit into those pockets? I wondered in my toddler-boy-brain conditioned state.

The name “Brad” was stitched on his shirt, right over his heart. Shaggy, brown hair was pulled back from his face with a grungy bandana. In one hand, he held a black nozzle which was connected to a round, silver container on the ground.

“I’m Brad, bug guy. You want me to start on the inside?” he asked.    

Here was a man who needed no introduction, yet he gave one.  

And while the contents of his container were to remain a mystery, his mission was clear.  

He was there for the bugs. No dilly. No dally. And certainly, no small talk.

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