Cockroach Puppets and Other Bug Problems
There’s a couple ways to deal with cockroaches, it’s just a question of how involved you want to be. In the mail arrives a 5 pound box of these foldable card stock traps with very sticky, peanut scented glue on one side. As advertised it can catch everything from roaches to mice, and for a moment me when I tested it with my index finger. Generally effective, although it’s not uncommon to check a trap in the morning and find nothing but a few orphaned legs frozen in position, no bug in sight. Like I always wondered if this was a gnaw my legs off situation, or maybe a Donner party situation—either way it’s proof of just how formidable and determined an opponent I’m up against.
The other way is more human-in-loop. You just have to move really fast and catch them in whatever container you have handy, which for me is usually a drinking cup. By the way this is a horrible idea because every time I get a drink of water I have to ask myself, "now did I remember to put this one through the dishwasher?" After the cup has been flipped over, I can feel the weight of the thing and its little legs tap dancing in my palm. With a gag rising in my throat, I quickly perform the funeral rites, dump the cup into the sink and then run the water on high to drown out their screams as they slip down the drain. A couple flicks of the disposal and it's over.
Now the reason I use the cup/disposal method, instead of something more violent, like a flipflop, is that I figured even if I smashed most of a cockroach and scraped it off the floor with my spatula, it feels too likely that it could still use a couple of it's remaining limbs to extricate itself from the waste bin, climb up the leg of my bed and do any number of horrible, terrible things to me. I mean, seriously, how many cockroaches do you think I’ve eaten by now?
The other day as I meditated, on the toilet, one of the last places of refuge in my life, or so I thought, I wondered if the bowl being full of water would be an effective moat, you know, just in case one were hiding in there. And surely, like, they can't climb up that slick porceline either? I mean, why on earth would they want to? Then again, and this is the kicker, that seems like the exact thing a cockroach would want to do.
I froze, not moving a muscle, except one, which I clenched for dear life. My mind spiraled down a vortex of hypotheticals, a detailed vision of what was likely happening at that very moment. Cockroaches, who, if they could survive an atomic blast could certainly hold their breath underwater for at least a day. One probably dove between the whirring blades of the disposal, swam upstream through the sewage, and followed the light up into the toilet bowl. It would come to the surface before leaping through the air and wriggling up into the next bit of plumbing it saw. How inconvenient that I will never be able to sit on a toilet seat again.
When I discuss this hypothetical in depth with my coworker Stephen, he wisely points out that the problems could actually get much worse. Once inside of you, the cockroach would be able to take control of your body, in much the same way that a puppet master works the arms and mouth a furry hand puppet. Like a reverse Ratatouille, it would scuttle through your life, moving the awkwardly dangling limbs around, wriggling the little fingers over a keyboard like insect legs, and flapping the mouth open and closed when it seemed appropriate. Having been around humans its whole life, the roach-master is a quick study and can pull off a convincing performance, albeit a reclusive, twitchy and quiet one. As Stephen pointed it, they have likely already infiltrated the highest levels of the government.
Suddenly it all makes sense. Cuba, nuclear warheads, the housing and urban development committee, the Space force. Mark Zuckerberg! For the most part, roach puppets stick the shadows, unnoticed, but making up an ever growing mass. They scuttle around Washington, Wall Street, Silicon Valley, making an appearance when expected and trying to look especially animated and sentient when on the news or in important meetings. They generally avoid public places and through an elaborate ruse of appearing busy, they have gobs of time to sit in their darkened offices and eat crumbs out of the carpet. For those rare public appearances they have memorized a few easily insertable lines about "putting our customers first," "commitment to our values," "increasing shareholder value," and, the ultimate hoax, claiming that Washington is full of "puppets of the left or right."
Their ultimate plan? Slowly, imperceptibly work their way into positions of power, then without raising suspicions, piss off the right people to set in motion a nuclear conflict. And when the planet is nothing but a throbbing orb of radioactive detritus, who will be left to assume their throne? Multitudes of cheering, crying, hugging, little insectoids singing the new national anthem: "It's a small world,"
Peace at last! A place where the sun never shines through the green tinged haze and they can roam freely through the network of crumbling restaurants and apartment buildings with no fear of a boot stomp.
Every once in a while I notice an uptick in bugs and it ignites this mental spiral all over again. The difference between me and them is striking. One is powerful, one is weak. One kills, the other graciously tries to leave the room when I enter. One is emotionally fragile, and one is resilient. One of them lives in constant fear, filled with paranoid anxieties about something that probably won't happen, and the other goes about their business, living for the enjoyment of the moment, blissfully oblivious to how their mere presence is wreaking havoc for others. It makes me wonder who’s really winning?