The Short and Miserable Life of Randy the Tibicen Cicada, an interpreted true story with photos

Tibicen auletes, the Northern dusk singing cicada (possibly), photographed in Lowndes county, Georgia (20 June 2013).

Do you have a minute? A few minutes, perhaps? I hope so. I’d like to share a story with you. It’s not necessarily a happy story. Hell, it’s not really even a well-developed story. It’s really just the end of a story. And it’s a sad ending at that. It’s sort of like going to see Titanic, only this version of Titanic is simply two hours of Jack freezing to death in the North Atlantic. Only Jack’s a cicada. A cicada named Randy.

So, let me introduce you to our Jack. This is Randy:

Randy and his cracked ego, 12:52 am

Randy is a Northern dusk singing cicada, Tibicen auletes. Well, he may be a Northern dusk singing cicada. Or he could be another species of Tibicen cicada. I’m not entirely positive. For the sake of this post, we’ll tag him as both T. auletes and as T. sp. Regardless, after having spent a few years underground drinking from the roots of oak trees, Randy has emerged topside to say goodbye to his childish youth. It’s time to molt! It’s time to grow up! Time to shed that nymphal exoskeleton and emerge as a newly-formed, genuinely-awesome, and totally-kickass adult cicada! Time to make some noise, make some babies, and live out of what little time is left in this here mortal coil! Randy is fired up. Randy is ready to go. But there’s a problem: Randy can’t seem to get his head out of his exoskeleton during the molting process. That’s a major problem if you’re a cicada trying to molt.

We continue to watch Randy with a growing sense of doom, perhaps similar to how you felt about Jack’s fate in Titanic, as he continues to utterly fail at getting his head out of his nymphal exoskeleton. Maybe you’ve heard that this sometimes happens with Tibicen cicadas. I heard that somewhere, from somebody, at some time. I’ve also heard that a cicada that can’t get its head out of its nymphal shell is pretty much doomed.

Go, Randy! You can do it!

This is why we’ve named him Randy, by the way. Go, you Northern dusk singing cicada you! just doesn’t sound quite right. We needed to name him so we can properly root for him. Go, Randy, we shout! You can pull your ever-lovin’ massive head out of that shell, Randy. Emerge and flourish! You jump, I jump!

For a moment, it looks like Randy might actually make it. We are hopeful. And then we notice a Gray rat snake (Pantherophis spiloides) slink over the fenceline. It spots Randy and immediately moves in to check Randy out:

Randy and gray rat snake, 01:14 am

The gray rat snake ponders whether or not this is something worth eating. We watch, amazed, as the rat snake pokes at Randy. For his part, Randy isn’t moving a single incapacitated and utterly worthless muscle. He’s just sits there, absolutely still, while the rat snake pokes and prods. A moment passes and the rat snake decides to skip this potential meal. Randy the cicada, who is stuck in his nymphal shell, isn’t even good enough to be eaten by a rat snake. Poor Randy.

Randy and gray rat snake, 01:15 am

As Randy sits entirely still (as if he has much of a choice), we can’t help but be distracted by the rat snake. I mean, shit! It’s a rat snake! How awesome is that? We watch the snake climb above us, threading its way through a dense tangle of Spanish moss (Tillandsia usneoides), which is neither Spanish nor a moss; it’s an airplant. Also: Gray rat snakes aren’t always gray and they don’t only eat rats. They are, however, snakes. So that part’s on the money. 

Gray rat snake, 01:26 am

Anyhow, the rat snake is having a field day hunting about here, there, and everywhere — all around us. It climbs above us, passes over us, and then descends once again right next to us. This is either one obliviously stupid rat snake or one who’s seemingly not phased by the large mammal standing with a flashlight strapped to its head. Still, we don’t make any move to catch the snake. No, no, no. This night is Randy’s and Randy’s alone. Go, Randy! And, hey! That snake is awesome! Wait. Ah shit… Randy! We forgot about Randy! We’ve been watching the damn snake for thirty minutes and we forgot about Randy!

Turning our attention back to Randy, we see he has another visitor. As Randy continues his lockdown-of-shame, a tiny Venusta planthopper (Ormenoides venusta) lands on him and starts dancing a figure-eight.

Randy and planthopper, 01:56 am

That’s right: Randy’s sitting there on lockdown and a tiny little planthopper is literally dancing figure-eights on his incapacitated body. Is there no shame? Is there no mercy? When will the torment end?

—– ONE HOUR LATER:

Randy, 02:55 am

The planthopper has hopped off to more, you know, actual plant-like surfaces to hop on. Randy, meanwhile, is still locked in place. He’s split his shell about as far as he can and he’s now entirely incapacitated. It’s a miserable sight. A painful sight to behold. Like Jack with his incapacitated hands locked in place over the depths of his own demise, Randy continues to suffer each passing moment with mounting failure followed by even more mounting failure.

Meanwhile, just down the row of wooden fence, another Northern dusk singing cicada has successfully cleared its nymphal exoskeleton. The proud, happy, and chipper cicada perches vertically, everything having worked out just fine. We’ll call this one Rose:

Rose, 03:09 am

Rose is pleased as punch. She’s gonna be just fine. Life is awesome.

Randy, on the other hand, isn’t. He’s still locked in place, stuck. Doomed. Though we can’t  make out every word, we think we hear Randy whisper to Rose, “Listen, Rose. You’re gonna get out of here, you’re gonna go on and you’re gonna make lots of babies, and you’re gonna watch them grow. You’re gonna die an old… an old cicada, warm in her tree. Not here, not this night. Not like this, not like me. Do you understand me?” We’re not positive, but we don’t think Rose heard Randy. She was too happy being alive:

Rose, 03:09 am

EPILOGUE: The next morning, I immediately headed out to Randy’s spot. My hope was he’d be gone and I’d find the exoskeleton. He wasn’t. He was still there, locked in place. Stuck. After watching Randy give one gentle and rather miserable push against his exoskeleton prison, I decided to grab the camera, get a couple quick shots, and then see if I could find a way to help him out, knowing it would be difficult if not impossible or already too late. Coming back outside with the camera, I discovered that Randy was gone. He was simply… gone. Not gone as in “Hey, Randy made it out!” gone. No, he was just gone. Exoskeleton and all. Vanished. Not on the fence, not on the bush, and not on the ground. Randy, it seems, done got himself eaten, probably by a damn bird.

So, Randy, I salute you brother. You didn’t make it very far into adulthood, but dude… you gave it a shot. It wasn’t a very good shot, but it was a shot nonetheless. You will be remembered, dude. Your tiny little cicada heart will go on.

Next on Dust Tracks: Yet another cicada, but this one looks like a freakin’ angel. I’m not kidding. It’s like a friggin’ cicada angel.

~ janson