Violated.
LSD has long been tattooed on my list of “Just Say No” and the events of the last hour have proved to be a veritable touch up. My skin is sheathed in goose-bumps, I’m riding waves of nausea, and still longing for the ability to hoover a few inches further from the ground.
“Good God,” my neighbors must have thought. “What has so horrified that boy?” “Wolves,” might have inspired murmurs of consent. “BANSHEE!” Could have been suggested. “Murder,” one might have said. Probably that bitch downstairs who refuses to say hello. I’ll bet even that hypothesis couldn’t illicit a glimpse of humanity. Thanks for nothing, lady.
Alright, so I might be exaggerating a bit. In fact, it’s likely no one but me heard the shrill, uninhibited scream I let loose. Regardless, I can attest that to be the sheerest terror I’ve felt in a long while. Clarice couldn’t shake the screams of the lambs. It’s the skittering I’ll never forget. The ski – the ski – the skittering. The resounding shuffle of an indestructible, prehistoric design against one of today’s modern amenities – faux-wood cabinetry. Yes. You fear correctly. Roaches.
Well, a roach. Just one. But these dramatics are the main reasoning behind my anti-psychotic pledge. I’ve let my feet touch the floor a few times. I’m thinking about putting the drawer back. You can bet I’m still going to wash each and every piece of silver and cookware that calls that space home; but I’m no longer waiting for an army of exoskeletons to pour out from beneath the fridge and the stove and the furniture. I’ve stopped contemplating tearing the cabinets from the wall, searching for the pests brethren. My sense of reality has returned.
I imagine my dad would reply to this with some reference to my status as a “city boy.” The sentiment is there, even though I’d say roaches are most decidedly a problem native to city living. I suppose “nancy boy” would be a more appropriate old-fashioned assessment. “Suburbanite” might be more inclusive and less homophobic. No matter how big your balls, though, I don’t care to meet the person who enjoys the feel of a dead insect’s body heat. BODY HEAT. I slipped on a dishwashing glove and grabbed two napkins; yet I could still feel the warmth of the little monster as he faded away.
A quick Wikipedia search, an effort to ascertain whether or not cockroaches do produce heat – yes, yes they do – has brought my feet back up to my chin. Just as I was allowing myself to forget about it, to think that maybe it wasn’t a roach after all, just a really big beetle, I had to get all investigative and mar my memory with irrefutable photographic proof of that entomological cretin.
Oh, here we go with the goose-bumps, again. Let’s just hope that ditching all of the unsealed food in our kitchen will be as cathartic as Catherine Martin’s rescue, that I won’t even begin to “wake up in the dark…to that awful” skittering of the roaches.
Ugh…I had this problem while living in New York. I like to think it made me a stronger person
I didn't think roaches even lived in California…all my dreams are dashed. Thanks JJ.
once you see one you already have many more in the walls of your apt. gross i know but they are feasting down here in fl and have WINGS!!!!