Skeeter Feeder

 

It was the proverbial tropical wonderland. The ocean was crystal clear with consistently excellent sets of waves rolling in, one after the other. The temperature was never too hot and was almost always t-shirts, shorts and sandals weather. The place was truly a beauty. Though a long way from idyllic. The job market was not set with career jobs. These were mostly transient jobs that seasonally chased tourists.

 

The young man loved his homeland and wanted to make a go of it. He wanted to be one of the few locals fortunate enough to find professional work, a job that would support him and a future family. Not that he was married, he wasn’t, nor kids, he hadn’t. Not even a girlfriend yet, but he had plans.

 

There was industry on the island that boasted of such jobs. Well, one industry. Research. Permanent well paying work was scarcely available on the island, but what there was went through the research lab and it was constantly flush with work.

 

He was in the local college studying Biology. His grand idea hinged on a job in the research laboratory. That would be a major victory. A job that paid well enough to support a family and maybe even buy a home. A home on the island where his backyard was the ocean. Such a thing would be an anomaly. Those kinds of jobs went to the mainlanders. This one, though, he had a good deal of determination matching up with his action plan.

 

He already had work in the lab, but it was not a salaried position. It was hourly wage work cleaning test tubes, plus other janitorial type laboratory work. This was not the white lab coat-type work he envisioned for his future. But he wanted more. Needed more.

 

He was well liked and thought there was a possibility of attaining his goal. Something more permanent to keep him employed after graduation. That’s when the job posting went up for the mosquito lab that would be starting up soon. Construction had been recently completed and the mosquito-specific research build-out completed. Then the teasing commenced from his professional-grade colleagues, those mainlanders.

 

“Hey, you’ve seen the new job post? You going for it? Could lead to something more, you know.”

 

“I hope you put in for the new mosquito research. We all like you, I’m sure the ‘skeeters will, too.”

 

He didn’t fully understand the job posting. It was short saying only ‘Help needed to feed the mosquitos. Pays well.’ What did mosquitos eat other than blood? What would the labs feed them? With the encouragement of his fellow lab workers he put in for the job. To his eventual delight, with his sights on future permanent employ, he got the job!

 

 

He arrived at his new post and was greeted with an enthusiastic tour of the research lab.

 

“The work we’re doing here is important research. So many of the locals here, plus elsewhere in tropical climates and worldwide, are ravaged every year by mosquitos and the diseases they spread,” explained the lab director never breaking stride.

 

“The research in this lab involves malaria and dengue fever. These have been major problems for tropical islanders and many parts of the world going back as far as documents go. Before then even. And next door they’re researching West Nile virus and Zika.”

 

They entered the next room through double doors into an impressive pristine white room. Containers lined both walls. Each bin about the size of a small refrigerator. Each had a glass front and was adorned with a hole covered with rubber.

 

“And here you’ll see our residents. Each container has 100 or so mosquitos. I may say, bravo to you putting in for the position of feeding the mosquitos. I know this seems unconventional, our feeding process, but I assure you, all these mosquitos are tested and they are disease free. They are bred under the highest standards. You are not at risk of contracting any illness at this post,” pausing to let that sink in as the new lab technician wondered what exactly he’d been employed to do. Then the lab director continued. 

 

“OK, so with that preamble, if you’ll please roll up your sleeve and stick your arm through, all the way to your torso, your armpit, if you will. That’ll seal the hole flush and prevent any escapees. Stick your arm in, leave it for ten minutes. When the bell dings, you’ll carefully and very slowly retract your arm. The movement should encourage the mosquitos to detach. Else, some minor flexing or wiggling of your forearm will also help, if needed. Then, move on the next container of which there are twenty. You may choose to alternate arms with each feeding. So, if you will, please,” motioning for the young man to step toward the containers and begin the feeding process.

 

The young man did not step up. He stood fast with a quizzically raised eyebrow. “I anticipated the feeding process to be more regimented, not so immersive as this.”

 

“Yes, well, I assure you, you are at no risk of illness. You may feel a minor sting, very minor, but they don’t drink much blood. You won’t experience any wooziness, if that’s the cause of your hesitation. And afterwards, we have a salve to apply to your arms,” advised the director matter of factly. “Plus you can help yourself to an orange juice in the community refrigerator afterwards.”

 

“This was not explained in the job post, the details of the feeding process.”

 

“Right, you’re entirely correct. The one-page flyer allowed for only so much space negating the opportunity to be verbose. In fact, I’m glad you’re here now. I wanted to be present the first time to make sure this is done correctly. Each container receives one feeding in the morning, then again in the afternoon. We have a back up feeder for weekends or if you are ill.”

 

The young man continued to hold his ground. Uncertainty swirled in his head.

 

“They’re ready for you. They’re hungry. And if you’re good here, I understand an upcoming research project opening in a month is going to need a spider feeder. I’ll gladly put in a good word for you. So, if you will, please,” again motioning for the young man to step forward to the first mosquito container.

 

He stared blankly at the black rubber cover where he was expected to insert his bare arm all the way in. He stared at it with the precautionary concern as if it were the gaping entry hole of a tree trimmer’s stump grinder.

 

The clock ticked. Talk behind them from the researchers started to rise.

 

“What’s going on?”

 

“He’s the ‘skeeter feeder.”