The kid with the paper bag couldn’t have come at a worse time.

It was exactly 8:52 p.m. on a Friday. There were three of us, myself and two copy editors, standing in the dark behind the newspaper building. I know the time to the minute because this was the exact moment the International Space Station was to appear overhead in the star-filled sky.

And there it was! As punctual as the tides, a bright light, brighter than any star or planet, appeared from the west. It moved at an impressive clip over us, headed toward the northeast, just as that NASA website had claimed it would.

For four minutes, we watched it go, an object that could have been mistaken for a firefly on performance enhancement drugs. The awe wasn’t in the sight of it but in the knowledge of what we were seeing – one of the most advanced pieces of machinery ever built by mankind as it traveled across the heavens.

Wow. The glory of it. The feeling of both humility and pride at the marvel of human ingenuity. What could a mere mortal say about the high joy of the moment?

Nothing, as it turned out. Because in the middle of this potentially life-changing experience, the kid appeared with his paper bag.

I don’t know where he came from. In Lewiston on a Friday night, everyone seems to skulk around the downtown. They emerge like phantoms out of shadows cast by streetlights. Perhaps they wait until no one is looking and rise out of the sewers. No idea.

No idea where this skinny kid with the baseball cap came from, but there he was. He sidled up next to us without even bothering to ask why two men and a woman were standing in the dark and staring up at the sky like birds waiting for food to fall into their mouths.

“I got something you want to see,” the skulking kid said.

I tried to concentrate on the space station. It cost more than $60 billion to build, you know, and it’s not done yet. It consists of 70 major components and circles the Earth every 90 minutes. That’s 43,000 cubic feet whizzing by at 18,000 mph. You’d think this gorgeous hunk of metal could hold my attention for four damn minutes.

But no. There was the guy with the paper bag, just a plain, brown sack he cradled like a newborn puppy.

“OK,” I said, weakening like the muscles of spacemen in near zero gravity. “What do you got in the bag?”

“Bedbugs,” he said.

Oh yes, bedbugs! What a stupid question. What else would a 20-something be hauling around in a bag on a Friday night when he should be out looking for a girlfriend? Why else would a lad wander into the back lot of a newspaper unless he had something big and important like pestilence to share with the world?

He held the bag out like I could see it. You know the gesture. It’s the gesture of a buddy offering you popcorn in a theater. But I declined to dig inside for some of that tentacled, buttery goodness.

“OK,” I said again, because I never learn. “Why are you carrying a bunch of dead bugs around on a Friday night?”

“They’re not dead,” he said with a measure of glee. “They’re alive.”

Overhead, the astronauts aboard the space station saw what was going on below. They stepped on the gas and sped right out of sight. I bet they don’t come back.

Bedbugs. Also known as the wall louse. The males have knife-like genitalia used to slash open its mate in order to reproduce. They suck the blood of a host by piercing the skin with two hollow tubes, one to draw blood out, one to inject saliva.

Bedbugs. And here they were, being hauled around the city in a bag like circus animals. Perhaps the young man had taught them tricks. Maybe they could jump through hoops or balance tiny balls on their probosci.

Bedbugs. Stars of the news lately after an infestation was found, not only in Lewiston, but in places like New York City’s Victoria’s Secret and Abercrombie & Fitch. Millions of years old and for a few days over the summer, the creatures dominated the headlines. They’ve still got it. And in downtown Lewiston, people were paying attention.

There are people here who will never work a real job because it’s just too much trouble. Call them lazy if you want, but these people are ready to launch into action if an opportunity arises to capitalize on an emerging scandal. How many hours do you suppose it takes to hunt, track and capture a bedbug with its sword-like junk? How long will a guy have to haul his catch around to prospective buyers before he finds someone interested.

There’s some talent there. It’s a real marketable skill if you replace the household critters with something like, say, mink or tuna.

The people who visit the newspaper in the middle of the night, often during astronomical phenomena (they say when Haley’s Comet passed overhead, legions of people stopped by with river rats on leashes) are ready to roll up their sleeves and get involved. They’re looking for fame or profit a lot of the time, but hey. Who isn’t?

I have no doubt that if we had requested it of him, the fellow with the bag of bugs would have gone back home to capture a hundred more of them, working through the night with a flashlight and a really tiny lasso. He might have hired a crew and filled the order with time to spare.

Alas, the time of the bedbug has passed. Like ’80’s rock stars, their fame was fleeting and most of us prefer to pretend we were never interested in them at all. The fellow with the bag was just off a little with his timing. He or someone like him will be back when the next big news rocks the city, possibly during the Leonids meteor shower in November.

We passed on the chance to take possession of that rare bag of bedbugs, but there’s no reason you have to. If you see an opportunity there, buddy, say the word. I’ll get that dude back here with his bag of blood suckers and get them for you cheap.