Chemical Warfare and the Common Cockroach

Australian cockroaches may not be as infamous as their cousins in New York, nor as impressive as the mammoth breeds in South America that can hold their own against a tribe of pygmies, but I dare say the cockroaches I grew up with might be worth a small footnote in the annals of insect ingenuity and indestructibility.

Before I elaborate, let me just say that my mother kept a neat and clean house, but after a couple of mild winters we did find ourselves with a bit of a roach infestation. We tried going after them with shoes and rolled up newspapers, and we tried leaving out traps coated in a sweet, sticky substance that did nothing but prove a cockroach's desire to live outweighed it's desire to keep all of its legs.

Finally, we tried a "bug bomb", which promised to deliver the cockroach equivalent of napalm to every nook and cranny of our house. Upon arriving home, six hours after setting off the first bug bomb, we were welcomed by the upturned carcasses of at least two dozen cockroaches. We vacuumed their remains and washed all of the sheets and went to bed that night believing that we had managed a feat that not even nuclear fallout could guarantee - we had triumphed over the common household cockroach.

The next morning we were shocked to discover more cockroaches littered over the floor, but these roaches were not turned onto their backs. They were on their bellies, crawling slowly across the carpet in a beeline from the vacuum cleaner toward the bedrooms. We realized that these were the same cockroaches we had assumed were dead the day before. It was unnerving enough that they had survived (perhaps revived?) and escaped the vacuum cleaner bag, but it was truly disturbing that in the throes of their death struggle they were coming for us, in our beds, as we slept... to do what? What do cockroaches do when you engage them in battle? We didn't want to find out, so we scooped up the bodies and flushed them this time, down the toilet and out to sea. We must have flushed that toilet twenty times before we could bring ourselves to sit on it again, and even then we wouldn't linger.

Bug bombs of various brands never did completely eradicate our cockroach problem, and I think the combination of chemicals and poisons we used over the years were conducive to the evolution of a master race of cunning, aggressive mutant roaches. These super-roaches appeared larger than they were because their wings stuck out at awkward angles and they had extra legs growing out of their backs (hence the awkward angle of the wings). The super-roaches did not scuttle under the refrigerator when the kitchen light turned on. They would run to the middle of the room, clicking their feet on the linoleum, shaking their wings in a Maori Haka dance. We learned not to make eye contact with them.

I never realized that cockroaches could fly until I tried to sneak up on one of the super-roaches with a can of bug spray in one hand and a tennis racquet in the other. I hovered for almost a minute, working up the courage to take a swipe at it, and the cockroach launched its own offensive, leaping off the curtain and flying straight at me. I will never forget the harrowing sound of my own scream, nor the hissing of the cockroach's wings as they beat against the strings in the tennis racquet.

I moved out of home less than a month later, and recently heard from my mother that a family of geckos have made short work of our mutant super-roaches. At least, she says, the cockroaches don't show themselves anymore, and the geckos have grown unusually large eating something. Our cat did go missing last May, but we can't prove the geckos had anything to do with that.

Loneliness on the Corner of Hopkins and Sioux

I felt ridiculous, crouching behind a holly bush with my feet in two inches of cold mud at the corner of Hopkins and Sioux. The longer I stayed there, the

darker it grew. I wanted to go home and take a hot bath, but I knew deep down I would only come back some other night. Winter winds were already mixing with the autumn breezes and if I didn’t get it over with soon I would find myself crouching behind a holly bush in six inches of snow.

I held my breath as I heard a car approaching. The headlights beams slanted through the leaves and I ducked my head down, waiting for it to pass. When the car turned onto Hopkins Road I chanced a quick peek. It was the one I’d been waiting for, and I watched the midnight-blue convertible pull into the drive-way of the small brick house across the street from where I waited.

Number 207 Hopkins Road.

The driver of the convertible got out, and walked toward the white mailbox at the curb. Even from my hiding place I could see her face clearly. She was young, and pretty enough, although I thought her makeup was a touch heavy for the kind of job that would require a standard-issue pantsuit like the one she wore. There was no mail in the box, and after reaching her hand inside to feel the walls and double check there was not a card or piece of junk mail hidden at the very back, the woman slung her purse over her shoulder and headed into the house.

So, that was her. I had gotten a look at the competition. After she let herself in the house and I saw the lights flicker on in the front room I felt myself relax a little. Maybe that was all I needed, maybe my curiosity was satisfied. Perhaps it was time to head home and have that long bath, then watch T.V. and try to put it out of my mind.

I stood slowly, leaning against the prickly holly bush for support. My joints ached and my muscles complained, and I felt like my feet were stuck in drying cement rather than plain, ordinary mud. My bones cracked loudly as I straightened, and the noise set a neighbor’s dog barking a little ways down the street.

Another car turned the corner and I waited for it to pass before I started walking down the sidewalk toward my house. It was two blocks away - very convenient for him, I thought with sudden disdain. He probably wouldn’t be bothering with her if he had to travel any distance. None of us were getting any younger.

I stopped at the intersection and looked for more cars before crossing. I didn’t want anyone to see me, to guess what I’d been doing. I had just stepped off the curb when I saw him. He was earlier than usual, crossing the street on the other side of the road, apparently oblivious that I was even there. As he passed under the street light I could tell with no doubt that it was him. Bo. I smiled despite myself. He was a little out of shape and had grown rough around the edges now, but he still handsome. No wonder she had fallen for him. They had probably met on this very street some day when I was at work. He had always been very forward, and the ladies had always loved him.

I watched Bo walk up the street toward her house. He was keeping close to the fences and off the sidewalk as though he didn’t want to be seen either. I told myself to keep walking, but a morbid curiosity took over. He was in a hurry, moving faster than I’d seen him move in a long time. He all but ran up the driveway to her front door, climbing the front steps two at a time. I hung back as she let him inside. She had already changed into a white robe, and the pleasure was evident on her face as she opened the door to him.

It was that expression of gratitude and joy that affected me the most. After being with Bo for almost ten years I didn’t think I could muster anything beyond mild appreciation when he came into the room. Perhaps that was what she had to offer, that was the thing she had that I had lost long ago to familiarity.

I turned and began walking in the direction of my house for the second time that night. I didn’t even look back. After all, what was the point in fighting it? I couldn’t stop him doing what he wanted to do. In the time we’d been together I’d learned that there was no point in expecting Bo to do anything that wasn't already in his mind to do.

From the first day he’d moved in, he had always kept part of his life detached from mine; coming and going at all hours of the day and night. I had thought he was just being independent; only God knew what he got up to when I was at wasn’t home. It was in his nature, I suppose, but I couldn’t help feeling jealous. Sometimes I thought his presence, and sometimes the expectation of his presence, was the only thing that kept me from being completely alone. Perhaps he had come to mean the same to her. I knew he had been seeing her for at least a week, but I wondered how long it had really been going on.

When I got home I kicked my muddy boots into a corner of the laundry room and got ready for bed. I couldn’t bring myself to run a bath. Sitting in the tub, with only the sound of the dripping tap to distract me, I would no doubt let myself get carried away with things in my head. I turned the shower water down to cold, which took my mind off matters for a while.

In bed, I lay on one side, staring at the open bedroom door. I had been tempted to close it - when he came home he would know that he was not welcome to join me. Perhaps then he would know how much he’d hurt me. Perhaps then he would learn and think twice next time. I chuckled to myself at that idea. He was more likely to go back to her house and spend the night. If it happened too many times he might never come back, and then what?

So, I had left the door open for Bo. When he did come home he would be warm in bed beside me, and I knew that would have to be enough.

I was almost asleep when I heard him come into the room. He was back earlier than usual. The mattress sank a little as he climbed in beside me and I instinctively reached out my hand to him. He pushed his face up against it, his nose cold, his whiskers tickling.

“Good evening, Bo,” I said softly to him, “Are you ready for bed, Mr. Bojangles?”

He circled a few times, a satisfied purr rumbling in his throat as he flopped down beside me. I smiled as I stroked his soft fur, and I was happy to feel that he was still wearing the new collar I had bought him. He hadn't worn one in almost ten years, but when the woman down at number 207 had put one around his neck and hung from it a silver tag bearing her address, I had been moved to replace it with a collar and tag of my own. I imagined her confusion as she first noticed the switch, and I sympathized with her disappointment as she realized what it meant.

Suddenly, she seemed very lonely to me; arriving at her little brick house all alone at the end of the day, hoping for mail, even a bill to distract her. I knew what that was like, and I wondered if Bo had sensed it as well. He had let me love him for almost ten years, since the day he showed up on my front door step after my husband had died. Perhaps this woman needed him now as much as I had needed him then.

I decided not to try and stop him from visiting her, and I told myself I should not be jealous. Fumbling in the dark, I unfastened the collar I had given him. If he could make her happy, even for a moment every day then I would not resent it, and when he did decide to visit me at my little brick house at 374 Hopkins Road, I would always greet him with a smile that was warmed by gratitude and joy.