Cockroach Chronicles

I love living in South Florida. I love the weather, I love the beach, I love the tropical flora, and I love being half-naked in the sun for most of the year. But So Fla has a few cons, a few of which include: alligators, old people, and cockroaches.

But I’d take a grinning alligator or the odd little octogenarian in my room over the third option any day.

Cockroaches are vile creatures. I don’t trust anything that scuttles around in the dark and feasts on filth. Frankly, the sight of one fills me with such revulsion that I can’t bring myself to taint my blog with an image. If you’re fortunate enough to be unfamiliar with the American cockroach and must satisfy your morbid curiosity, do it.

The earliest cockroaches are believed to have walked the earth something like 300 million years ago. The fucking things just will not die. And I’m convinced their remarkably tenacious grasp on life is fueled by a master plan to exact revenge on humans for populating a planet the roaches believe is rightfully theirs.

This intricate and insidious cockroach subtext is playing out while most people are blithely unaware. But it’s been estimated that cockroaches outnumber humans by something atrocious like 10,000 to 1. They’re the filthy, evil ninjas of the insect world.

And we can’t let them win.

Roaches chew on anything and everything from rotting flesh to paper–they will literally eat your books right off your bookshelves. They’ve even been known to [gag/shudder/gag] crawl upon human faces and drink their tears as they sleep. The mere existence of the cockroach is an insult.

For some reason, roaches tend to like living near the ocean; marinas, piers and other beach-side structures are typically crawling with the things. And sadly, because I live in a house near the beach that’s as lovely as it is old, I encounter the little beasts more often than I’d like.

Like this morning, when I was attacked.

…

I have my mother’s eyes: dark brown, almond-shaped, and effectively useless without the aid of glasses or contact lenses.

So, this morning, as I stumble out of bed into my bathroom, I’m mostly blind.

Said bathroom is roughly the size of a small broom closet. And upon entering and partially shutting the door to this confined space behind me, I notice a large and mysterious brown spot on the door frame. Lurking.

My blood turns cold. My hear sinks and my stomach churns.

Picture, if you will, an insect with six hairy legs on the wall beside you. Envision it with the demonic head of the most evil ex-lover you can think of, rotating like the chick from The Exorcist and gulping down a hunk of human feces with a greedy smile, leering at you through bloodshot eyes. You’ve now begun to understand my revulsion for this creature (and every last one of its brethren).

And I’m trapped. There’s no way out, of course, without risking a more intimate encounter with the vermin just inches from my face. And I’m alone.

I can’t possibly touch the thing with my bare hands, toilet paper is dangerously close to that, and the Costco-sized bottle of mouthwash on the sink, though sturdier, seems a little unwieldy. A dark blue bath towel hangs over the bathroom door, preventing it from closing completely. It’s my best hope: I will smash the roach with the towel.

With a trembling hand, I grasp the nearest end and slowly move it toward my target. I jerk forward the last few inches, but as I close in, the roach makes a sharp turn and drops down out of sight.

I scream like the victim in a horror movie and run like a banshee out of the bathroom, whipping off my shirt and tossing it to the ground, madly flipping my hair about in case of the almost unthinkable prospect that it had landed on me.

Now, eyes wide and panting, I’m topless and blind, standing in nothing but black leggings in the middle of my bedroom, skeeved to a level bordering on hysteria. But I cling to my wits and re-assess my situation.

I walk around the bed to retrieve my glasses from the nightstand and regain my eyesight. By now, I know I must go back into the bathroom. I need to brush my teeth and get ready for work and I will not be stopped by that filthy insect. I take a step forward, then another, gaining strength as I plot my attack.

Then I feel something on my leg. I shriek, jump, and shake my right leg more violently than even the most ardent hokey-pokey player. Then something scuttles down my calf and drops onto the floor.

IT WAS ON ME THE WHOLE TIME.

I watch as it scurries under the shirt I’d tossed down moments before. Incensed and disgusted, I pause briefly, then whip the shirt aside and smash the evil creature with my Birkenstock clog.

I smashed that thing with an intense, indignant hatred. I watched with glee as its little body crunched under my shoe, satisfied as its beady little head separated from its filthy little thorax.

Mission accomplished.

I left it there briefly and reveled in the successful kill as I went back to getting ready for work, unwilling to let the intruder interfere further with my morning routine.

As I approached minutes later, broom in hand, aiming to sweep the varmint’s corpse out the door, I noticed a slight movement. No, I thought. It couldn’t be. No way. And suddenly, it was like the final scene of Freddy vs. Jason where Freddy’s decapitated head winks through the screen at the audience. I bent closer and saw its legs wiggle as if to say “I’ll be back.”

Right before I smashed it again. Team Human: 1, Roaches: 0, goddammit.

And then I remember–those motherfuckers can fly [1. They don't fly often. In fact, it happens so seldom that you've just about convinced yourself they don't fly, until suddenly one takes to the air and your reality is shattered with that horrifying sound of their krinkly, madly-flapping wings, like angry static in a phone call placed from hell.].

[Cue foreboding music. Fade to black.]