So it's hot, and the crickets in the front yard are chirping so loudly and so rapidly, a few seem to be in danger of igniting and bursting into flame.

Chirpchirpchirpchirpchirpchirpchirpchirpchirpchirp.

Crickets have started to creep me out. I opened the garage door last week and the floor came to life, all antenna-waving, hopping, crawling life.

Chirpchirpchirpchirpchirpchirpchirpchirpchirpchirp.

But tonight I'm safe inside. I'm about to head off to bed, and I'm in the foyer and I'm turning off the porch light. As soon as the switch flips, the crickets outside -- all of them -- fall instantly, eerily, deathly silent.

Chirpchirpchi--

A dog barks in the distance. After a second or two, a few hesitant crickets start up again.

Chirp. Chirp. Chirpchirpchirp.

And in thirty seconds, they're all back, and the whole bunch of 'em is going gangbusters again.

Chirpchirpchirpchirpchirpchirpchirpchirpchirpchirp.

I turn the light back on.

Chirpchirpchi--

"Hee," I think. "I'm playing with their tiny minds."

And I spend the next five minutes flipping the switch on and off, until I realize that the neighbors might be watching.

So I'm in Subway for lunch.

"Can I help you, sir?"

"Yeah. I'd like a foot-long Subway Club, on wheat, please."

"White?"

"Wheat."

He pulls out a short bun and cuts it open.

"I'm sorry," I say, "I said foot-long."

"Foot-long?"

"Foot-long."

He gets a new bun and cuts it open. He scoops up a meatball.

"I wanted the club," I say.

"What?"

"The club."

"Oh," he says and puts the meatball down. He picks up the deli slices and slaps them into the bun.

"Cheese?"

"Everything, please."

"So no cheese?"

"Yes cheese. Everything, please."

"Mayo, mustard?"

"Everything."

"Lettuce and onions?"

"Everything."

"Pickles?"

"Ev-ree-thing."

"Oil and vin--"

"Everything."

He wraps up the sandwich. "Would you like anything else with that?"

"Yeah. A small drink and some Nacho Doritos, please."

"What kind of Doritos?"

"Nacho."

"Ranch?"

"Why, yes," I say. "That would be fine."