I’m having trouble separating fact from faux and whether or not I truly am trapped in a corner, shaking, sitting four feet away from a live cockroach.
Hold on. [check]
Yes, yes I am. That beast is going to eat my entire being, but before he does, I’d like to recall the last 12 hours that got me here. Reminisce with me, before I am slaughtered slowly by his massive brown tentacles.
Last night, I attended a concert a few of my friends were playing at. They were armed with body-rockable guitars, cello and synth. I waited through three hours of some simply terrible bands to get to the packaged prize at the end. Imagine a huge elephant ate your wedding ring, and you had to wait two days and sift through huge piles of elephant dung to find it. That was exactly the ear-raping experience last night.
I killed some time with Shannon and Jeremy, blowing my not-so-hard earned money on frozen coffee drinks and making fun of the asstacular opening bands. And then, the surreal hit. Or rather, it hit hours before when a short dude wearing an army hat took the stage and screamed into a microphone the lyrics he wrote in the ladies room, minutes before taking the stage. But more so, the surreal rolled in like a dark cloud when S. showed up. We sat down, Shannon, S. and myself, and she took slow draws from her keg and that conversation crawled into areas of my mind that I don’t have enough shame to be ashamed of. Somewhere around the third band, I don’t know what the hell happened. She had digressed to conversations about “Bangkok thongs,” and then Shannon wondered whether or not culturally relevant themes in underwear would be a hit. Shan reminded us of the popular “Make Free Trade Legal” underpants. I was curious as to whether terrorist themes would run over big. I’m thinking now that “Terrorists Have Hijacked this Vehicle, Want to Go for a Ride” and “Mustard Gas isn’t the Only Thing I’m Storing Up” probably don’t have much of a market. This was the beginning.
45 minutes later: a conversation about hollowed out leg bongs, designer love handle purses, eating someone elses kidney waste, and S. yelling “what a hideous purse.” Then, our friends took the stage. In the end, it was worth it. The band had a great sound and I got to see K. act like a huge crazed beast as he pranced around the stage dancing with the microphone like his lover.
Then I got home, and I can’t remember how long I stayed at the Subservient Chicken, or really, how I even arrived there. This isn’t one of my prouder moments, since somewhere along the line I typed in, “have sex with couch” and I laughed in boyhood curiosity and anticipation. The chicken just shook his finger at me. I am ashamed.
I shut my computer down, and walked into the kitchen. It was midnight. A huge napkin note loomed over a plastic cup in the kitchen. “Billy is Back.” I knew exactly what this meant, because I had written a note on a napkin only days prior. Late last week, I rolled out of bed at 3am and strolled into the kitchen to get a drink of water. Strolled actually isn’t the best way to describe it. How about – walked in a crusty stupor in my drawers to the kitchen. I flipped the light switch on and a cockroach cruised across the kitchen table. I said “EYA!” or something and jumped backwards, as if the cockroach eight feet away could go-go-gadget his nasty thorax into my mouth. I freaked out a bit, then grabbed a cup and threw it over the new house guest. I put a note on top: “LIFT UP FOR FUN :)” No one did. It took four of us to get the roach out of the house. Mostly because I am freaking scared to death by these bugs. Ryan opened the door, I slid cardboard under the roach cup, and I don’t remember what Sonath did. I don’t think he did anything. Dave ended up grabbing the cardboard/cup cockroach prison, and mumbled, “You guys are ridiculous” and took the roach outside.
And I thought that was the end of the roach problem. But, as Sonath so eloquently wrote, Billy was back. I walked further than usual from the cupped roach, and went to get a drink. And then, I looked on the wall, and there was another roach. An uncupped roach is about 70 times more dangerous than a cupped roach. Roaches are like the Hummers of insects. They can survive almost anything, go anywhere, and they are frickin’ huge. Except for their legs. Small spindly legs supporting a massive off-road body.
An uncupped roach in my house cannot be allowed to survive. I grabbed the broom and beat the wall around the roach with all of my might. Roaches are quick and I am inaccurate. With each swing, that roach crawled closer to my end of the wall. Eventually, he dropped to the ground and scurried towards me. I flipped out and suddenly, I was a Canadian in the Stanley Cup finals. My broom transformed into my hockey stick and I hit that puck out of my zone…right under my favorite tv-watching chair. Now I couldn’t see it. He could be anywhere now. I could be watching “Last Comic Standing,” and he would crawl right into my pants. Or into my sandwich and I would eat him. So I grabbed the bug killer and hosed that room down. A roach infestation perhaps? Certainly possible, since we have enough food sitting in open cereal boxes and encrusted on the countertops.
Here I am, 9 hours later, looking at a roach oh so close to my body. How did it get to this point, this standoff between man and beast? I think it happened this morning, when Ryan left for work. Your guess is as good as mine as for what transpired on Sonath’s computer chair, only a few feet from my desk.