Roaches
I moved into an apartment full of roaches. Not intentionally, of course. They weren’t in the lease, a document invariably true to its word. Personally, I would’ve liked to have known that there were hundreds of bugs fucking in my walls; though to give them credit, they were very discreet about it. German Roaches, presumably from the old country, are great at sex. I’m not sure when they do it, besides “all the time.” They can mature from egg to sex-haver in just two months, and a can of Raid can end them in seconds. It won’t fix anything, though. We ordered a “mega kill kit” instead.
A woman around the block showed me her bucket of diatomaceous earth. It’s a fine powder that has an abrasive and dehydrating effect on the roaches. It tears them open and dries them out until they die. The gel bait I used is a toxicant which they ingest before returning to the nest and dying, killing the other roaches when they feed on its corpse. Raid, which I used when I caught a roach alone in the open, contains insecticides which disrupt the roaches’ nervous systems by blocking their nerve impulses. The woman was selling furniture left behind by her old roommates. I bought a chair from her, carried it home, and sat down with enough ease to immediately realize it was broken.
There’s a community for this— r/GermanRoaches— which advises a “hunter’s mentality” over a “victim’s mentality.” Heeding this advice, I cornered a roach in the bathroom and warned: “You have no idea how afraid of me you should be.” This is not how you solve an infestation. Here’s what we did in the end: Gel bait along every crack and seam (we later learned it’s only meant to be dotted every few yards, but poison control said we’d be fine as long as we didn’t eat it), traps behind the fridge, repeat every day until the bodies on the floor get smaller— the adults are the breeding population— and once they’re “gone,” reapply every other week because you’ll never feel safe again. Now and again, one will reappear and tell you to kill yourself.
I was perpetually haunted, not by the idea of their return, but by the strange relationship I’d struck with them. In no explicit terms did I identify with the roach— I’m a beautiful woman— but I did see in them this thing that would only live at night, creep under stoves, and snack on unsuspecting sandwiches by their lonesome. I don’t even do that; I’ve never been fond of sandwiches. How could we hide in the same space, unless I was to be just as small? Being 6’1” is a talent, honestly. It’s unfortunate that what happens in my walls is my business, because I really don’t know what’s going on in there. But if I could fit in there too, I’d have a lot of fun. I’m not sure if I would blame you for killing me.
As far as I know, the roaches never reached my room. On the surface, I was confident that they never would. This didn’t stop me from obsessively layering it in poison— you tell me if I was afraid. I’m not offended. It’s not like I don’t have any good hiding spots in there. You could live under my bed frame for at least a month before I noticed. In the gaps of every whirr and click through ACs and stereos, you could live a whole life. I’ve peeked around in there for sure, and it isn’t so bad if you have nothing else going on. If you look into my room from the laundromat across the street, you can see my clock tick through the window. You can probably see me, but I’m usually the one looking. Don’t ever spray me with a can of Raid. I will freak the fuck out. If you talk to me, I’ll talk back. I’m normal in this way; I have nothing to hide that isn’t reasonable (hopes, dreams, desires). Here’s a promise: I will never nest in your walls. I will never creep under your stove. I will never find a home in your dishwasher. I have my own room, thanks.
