The Butcherer of Bugs by Paul Greco

Guilty as charged. It's true, I confess. I've killed Bugs. Lots of them. So many, I can't remember. Please forgive me. Wouldn't be so bad, but then I cut them up! Aaaah, if confession is good for the soul, with mercy hear my plea. It all began a long time ago, a mere child with a little too much time on his hands. I remember well the turning point that changed my life: I was introduced to tools. My father and older brother used these funny little appendages to do all kinds of things that fascinated my developing mind. Cold, heavy, and hard utensils whose purpose was completely beyond my imagination, but felt good in my hand. My attention increased when they decided to hang all the tools on some plywood nailed to the wall and drew their outline behind each one. I made a conscious decision to study each and every one of them. This attraction lasted for years. I took every opportunity to be a spectator any time something was being done. My mother always knew where to look for me. If there was some construction in the area, I would stay there for hours tracking every aspect of the job. Of course, their tools were really big! But it wasn't until about the age of ten before the fixation to tinker took hold. The uncontrollable urge to take things apart began to invade my life. Never mind about re-assembly, that was yet to come. The first difficult lesson was threads. Those funny looking spirals defied all the reasoning a youngster could muster. Oh, they came off easily, once one figured which way to turn (Righty-tighty, lefty-loosey), but to put them back together was a completely different affair. Needless to say, many a bolt was ruined before the secrets were revealed. The most important lesson I learned from this was to look very closely and carefully. The eyeglasses I refused to wear would have facilitated these discoveries. Such was the beginning of a lifetime of examination. Never satisfied with owning the latest and greatest toy or using some appliance for it's designed purpose, I seemed to always give in to that pervading curiosity and took it apart. Then tried to put it back together, usually with varying degrees of lack of success. I would even try to persuade my friends to take their stuff apart but that was met with much resistance. Over time, my ability to put things back together increased. Times changed though, and manufacturers made it more of a challenge with the invention of the sealed assembly. Just what this would mean to me was the twisted turn my life would take. I began to utilize a before unexplored tool; the hacksaw (ultimately to be supplanted by the reciprocating power saw). Without the luxury of a service manual or an x-ray machine, there was just no way of knowing how to disassemble the targeted object of my obsession. The only way I could figure was to cut it up! Never mind that this would destroy it, this was not clear and rational thinking here, only a very strong desire to explore. As my skills increased, mechanical designers everywhere tried their best to challenge me with ever more sophisticated methods of assembly. The game continues to this day. Not to use as an excuse that I came from a dysfunctional family, but my father encouraged me by buying me tools. He had hoped that maybe I would do some work around the house! My mother set her sights higher and said I would be an engineer. I started to collect real tools and I remember the excitement of those trips to Sears! I bought my first car with a broken and disassembled transmission sitting in the trunk, having complete confidence that I could put it back together. The process of learning brought me to undertake more complicated projects. Later I bought my first Volkswagen and made a wonderful discovery: Just about everything came apart! I even took the horn apart, cleaned the contacts, and adjusted it back to it's classic toot. But the obsession never dies. I started hanging around junk yards and abandoned cars with the aim of removing some new items to study. What I now know, is the depth of understanding never really ends; there is always something new. Nothing was sacred to me: I started to cut up the bodies. It wasn't really pre-meditated or anything. Started out as an exploratory and culminated with an autopsy. Sacrifices had to be made! Dead men don't talk. Much was learned from these endeavors, especially that which could be learned from failure. Through years of therapy and diagnosis of mental disorder, I have come to accept me as I am. I must remain ever vigilant to the possibility that my affliction can strike at any time! This is the gift of self-awareness but carries the responsibility as well. I keep my trusty Sawzall at the ready, chucked with the best Milwaukee bimetal blade, patiently awaiting the next opportunity to.... Ooooooh - please, please forgive me.