The Cockroach

In September, a thick-shelled brown cockroach sauntered into my house behind my feet. It just walked right in and made itself at home. I freaked out when I saw it even as Beberly was saying, “Aiiii, no lo lastimes! Don’t hurt it!” I looked at her funny and thought, why the heck is she sympathizing for a nasty, dirty, infectious, multiplying, disgusting roach?! Eaaaaaeeech. Promptly, I tried to squash the nasty bugger but it speeded away out of site into the kitchen. My dreams that night were full of cockroach populations crawling all over my kitchen and bedroom, emerging from drains, squeezing under doorways, and hissing loudly at me. That’s it, I thought, this roach is going down.

Months past as every night I tried to smash its exoskeleton into oblivion. We had a tournament going on: who would win “survival of the fittest?” Finally, in October, I got it! I smashed it against the wall and watched it fall into the dark abyss behind the stove. Had I killed it? Could it be? But alas, as I stared into the darkness, I noted that its shiny body was missing. The bugger survived!

Reluctant to buy chemicals to kill it, I kept up the David and Goliath contest with the cockroach. It seemed that the roach, David, was winning, as I, the bumbling giant, had to learn to live with its filthy presence. Entomologists exclaimed about the benefits of roaches. “New York City would be a giant mound of trash if cockroaches didn’t eat the garbage. They come in so many colors and sizes. They’re so useful,” they explained. But I didn’t care, to me, they would always be the terror of my middle school life, the haunting of their speedy frames dead on the stairwells and scuttling in the boiler room. I hated them.

I tried many tactics. I would keep all lights off and approach the wall by the stove silently prepared to bean it with a shoe. I would wake at various hours of the night and fly at it like a ghost to smash its ugly body. I went away for weeks at a time, hopeful that it would die from lack of food. I sprayed it with cleaning supplies. But, alas, no, it continued to live despite my many attempts. It did, however, become wary of me.

Finally, I resigned defeat. It would survive longer than my lease on the apartment. Fine, whatever, see if I care, I thought to myself as I packed my bags and headed to Honduras. Whatever, roach.

Ten days later I returned. All was still in the house. I went to the sink to fill up a glass of water and looked down at the drain. “Oh my goodness,” I exclaimed. “Oh my gosh!” For there, lying with its 5 legs prostrate (apparently I had smashed off one leg) and antenna askew, was David, the cockroach. Its one-inch frame glistened menacingly even in its final moments. I ran water in the sink, not wanting it to escape if it were merely playing dead. It spiraled and circled in the flow of water, a sole leg twitching. I dumped in cleaning fluids with a, “take that! Hah!” and finally, I squashed off its little head to make sure it was really dead as a doornail.

As it turns out, the cockroach did not outlast the lease. Goliath has won.