Tales of Roaches

            My very first apartment in New York City was an over-priced, leaky-ceilinged, five-floor walk up, nestled above a raucous bar, which, as many bars in Murray Hill often do, blasted repetitive music Wednesday night through the early mornings of Sunday in an effort to attract those drunk, exploitable, post-college crowds looking to party.  I thought it was a gem.  

            At the time, I was living with a stranger who I found on Craig’s List.  He turned out to be a fantastic roommate and to this day remains a good friend.  But in the few months before our lease ended, my fondness for him waned, not because he left dishes in the sink, or neglected to refill our toilet paper supply, but rather because he is the only person I know who is more afraid of cockroaches than I am.  

            Prior to moving in, I had never encountered a cockroach in the flesh.  Sure, I had heard that the vile creatures lived in the bowels of every city, and even though my apartment – old, dank, full of holes – was prime real estate for a cockroach infestation, I never imagined I would see one.  And then, one quiet evening, I saw my first sighting.  I had walked out of my bedroom to get a glass of water from the kitchen, and when I returned, saw a massive black roach lying on its back on the floor, next to the radiator.  It was the biggest bug I had ever seen, and I reacted accordingly.  I won’t go into the details, but let’s just say that between my screams and the sounds of overturned furniture – overturned in my attempt to flee the scene as quickly as possible – I may have drowned out the thumping of the bass from the bar below.

            I ran into my roommate’s room, begging him to handle the situation as I had by now, deemed that this was not a normal reaction to a probably deceased bug, and that therefore, I must have a phobia.

            His response was a very pleasant, “Absolutely not.”  At first I thought he was joking, but upon further wheedling and whining I understood that he was serious and that the reason behind his refusal was because he too had a phobia, perhaps more serious than mine.  To my horror, I realized I would have to face the lurking beast in the next room on my own.

            After breathing into a paper bag in an attempt to regain a somewhat normal breathing pattern, I peaked into the bedroom, ready to retreat in the event that the cockroach had somehow flipped its swollen convex body over and organized an attack in the five minutes I had left it unsupervised.  But no, the beast was exactly where I left it.  I took a few steps closer to assess.  It looked very dead.  In fact one of its legs had fallen off and lay beside it.  I poked the overturned body with a ruler.  Another leg fell off.  Another round of screams and overturned furniture resulted as I scrambled away and back to my roommate’s room.  I pleaded for help.  The answer was still no.  I then resorted to negotiation tactics.

            “What if I cheered you on while you got rid of it?”

            “No.”  

            “What if we both picked it up together- I’d have the head (clearly the worse side to have) and you’d get the butt?”

            “No.”

            I was quickly becoming more and more desperate.  “Can you at least come into my room and emotionally support me while I do it then?” Another no.   Negotiating was obviously not working, which lead me toward slightly less mature and less diplomatic strategies.  “If you don’t help me I’ll throw the stupid cockroach into your room!”

            He responded in seconds with an equally debasing retort.  “If you do that I’ll crush it and spread its body parts all over your bed.”

            I called my mom. In tears I explained the situation.  And step-by-step, she walked me through the process of removing the carcass.  It went something like this:

Mom: Walk to the kitchen.

Me: What, why? What if it runs away and I can’t find it!? And then it comes out again!?

Mom: It’s dead.  The legs are falling off.  It’s not going to go anywhere.

Me: [to my roommate] Matt can you watch it to make sure it doesn’t go anywhere?

Matt: Nope
Me: MATT!!!
[Matt shuts his bedroom door]

Mom: Maddie, just get the paper towel you can do it, its dead, it’s not going to hurt you.

Me: [sobbing] Okay, okay I have the paper towel, now what?

Mom: Pick it up

Me: What?? I have to touch it??? Maattttttttt can you please come here???

Matt: [muffled from behind closed door] NO.

Me: I HATE YOU!

Mom: Maddie, stop it, pick it up and throw it into the toilet.

Me: I can’t.

Mom: Yes you can, just pick it up.

Me: Oh God, I just touched it, ughhhhh.
Mom: Okay now pick it up.

Me: Ughhhhhhh.

Mom: You can do it.

Matt: [muffled from behind closed door] You better flush that thing down the toilet.

Me: YOU ARE THE WORST ROOMMATE EVER!

Mom: Pick up the roach Maddie and throw it down the toilet.

Me: OHMYGODOHMYGODOHMYGOD, okay, I have it. Ewwww this is so disgusting, I can feel it through the paper towel! UGGHHHH. Okay it’s in the toilet. I’m going to flush it. What if there are more? I’m freaking out!

[Toilet flushing]

Mom: Good night Maddie.

[Call ends]

Matt: [muffled from behind closed door] Good night Maddie.