I screamed like a little girl. Mainly because I am a little girl. Kind of. I’m 34, 5’8”, and I vacillate between 135 and 155 lbs. Regardless, I screamed like a little girl. It was embarrassing to produce such a shriek. My only defense was that it was completely involuntary.
What incited this response? Was it shock? Happy news or a surprise? No, it was a roach. The diminutive cause made my elevated reaction even worse. I’ve lived alone off and on since I graduated college, and I consider myself self-reliant, independent and strong. But a single roach running across my foot will elicit an ungodly series of screeches from my mouth.
I jumped up and down, from foot to foot, and escaped immediately into a different room. Just in case this wasn’t far enough, I proceeded another room away. As I stood in my closet, I knew I was the only person in my apartment, yet I still pretended I was only in there to find a weapon. I steeled myself to return to the kitchen. It would be even worse if I didn’t somehow find and kill it, because then it could be anywhere. Even when I slept. I immediately considered moving to a different apartment, but put that thought aside as plainly too expensive.
I ventured back into the kitchen armed with a single running shoe. I’d stepped in dog poop with this shoe a year before, so I figured it was christened and up to the task. I didn’t see the roach. I crept closer to the offensive part of the kitchen, the sink area. As I stalked toward the sink, my mind fluttered to the foolish choice to remain barefoot, but such thoughts were forgotten when the rug next to the counter’s edge moved slightly. I instantly froze, with the taste of bile rising in my throat. The sensation of antennae and furry legs scrambling across my foot was burned into my skin. Was I afraid? Not really. I was grossed out. Hardcore.
I shifted the rug by extending a single cautious toe, and the little bastard made a break for it. My aim was terrible, but I swung that running shoe into the laminate flooring and compressed wood cabinets with the fury of a wronged woman. Additional high-pitched yalps accompanied my haphazard hammering. It was shoe against intruder. I battled wicked speed and resiliency caused by a multitude of legs, a light shell of a body, and survivalist instinct. I persisted, drawing closer to the kill. Several glancing blows had hindered, but not stopped the offensive creature. However, the intensity and desperation of the hunt had left me panting and slightly sweaty. I held my breath as it scrambled onto the formica countertop. A crucial pause by the small-brained bug, and I landed the fatal blow.
I gloated as I bundled layers of toilet paper to avoid touching the remains and resulting goo. As the roach swirled into an early, wet grave, I had 2 thoughts: (1) disinfectant, and (2) poison traps. Victory was mine!
– Your huckleberry