An Over Dose of Bug Spray Kills His Night

When the malathion started falling over North Orange County last week, nearly everyone in the vicinity had taken shelter--except for a handful of unfortunates, including me and fellow staff writer Mary Lou Fulton.

We had been assigned to cover local community reaction to the aerial spraying against a Mediterranean fruit fly invasion. Although state officials assured the public that malathion is only harmful to flies, many residents remained skeptical.

We talked to the residents in Brea, La Habra and La Habra Heights, until most everyone sought refuge behind closed doors. Then we were left alone on the streets--us and the state and county workers assigned to guide the two helicopters that dumped 550 gallons of the sticky, semisweet stuff Thursday night and early Friday morning.

I was in Brea at the corner of Imperial Highway and Brea Boulevard when the helicopters, flying in tandem, could be seen approaching. I’d been talking with a man who was selling protective car tarps to people who, at the last minute, were heeding advice to cover their vehicles. Malathion, officials said, can discolor paint. Seeing the helicopters, the man’s eyes grew wide with concern and he packed up all his merchandise and drove away.

Alone, I jumped into my own car and sped toward another intersection to interview Frank Parsons, Orange County’s deputy agricultural commissioner. Fulton, meanwhile, was cruising neighborhoods, looking for anyone who had remained outside during the malathion spraying. She drove around for an hour and a half and found only four people.

I had my own troubles tracking down Parsons, who was reported to be driving an orange-colored truck on Palm Street just north of Imperial Highway in La Habra. While I was cruising Palm, the helicopters buzzed overhead. Within seconds, my windshield was coated with a very fine mist and a slight smell of insecticide hung in the air.

Finally, I spotted Parsons’ truck and cornered him for a brief interview. I was standing outside his truck and scribbling notes when the helicopters zoomed past again, dropping more malathion spray over me and my poor car, a rusted gray 1976 Monte Carlo that has seen better days but didn’t deserve this.

On deadline to call my notes in, I rushed around the corner to a pay phone and dialed the office. I was no more than a minute into my dictation when the familiar roar of the helicopter engines drowned out my conversation and, for the third time, I was doused with malathion.

Doused is not really the right word. The chemical is dropped in such a fine mist that it could hardly be seen on a sheet of white plastic used by Parsons to monitor the amount. On scrutiny, with a flashlight, a few cinnamon-colored flecks could be seen against the white. It is these flecks, Parsons explained, that Medflies love to eat. The poison within, he added with a grin, drops ‘em dead.

After three coatings, though, the malathion was becoming more noticeable--both on me and my car. Wiping my hand across the windshield, for instance, left a sticky, greasy trail.

By this point, my mind started playing “what if” tricks. What if there is some nightmarish consequence that scientists have not even discovered?

I shook those thoughts away and continued north on Palm to talk with some more state and county workers and make a final phone call to the desk with my information. As bad luck would have it, the helicopters appeared overhead again while I was dialing the phone. I covered my head, but all I succeeded in doing was getting my arms doused more than my hair.

After I finished my call, a snazzy little sports car rolled up and, lo and behold, Fulton stepped out with notebook in hand. We laughed about the coincidence of meeting at a pay phone in the middle of the spray area and exchanged war stories about having been sprayed with malathion. Our clothing, by this time, reeked of insecticide and our cars were covered with those cinnamon-like flecks.

It was 10:30 p.m. by now and the helicopters finally left the area for refueling. Their ground guides then converged on the same convenience store parking lot where Fulton and I were standing.

Finally, I went home, too tired to stop at a car wash or even take a shower. At home, however, my wife confronted me at the door, wrinkled her nose in disgust and pointed toward the garage. “Off!” she said. All the malathion-contaminated clothing had to be bundled up in a plastic sack and left in the garage. Then, “Upstairs!” she ordered, pointing to the shower.

I showered for a long time in steaming water, but I could still smell the malathion.