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Dazed and confused

Lee Dresselhaus / L’Observateur / March 24, 1999

So….we have survived another major trauma in my household. My wifeLinda was in the kitchen just the other day and I was in another room in the house when I heard a sudden, panicked explosion of “Oh, My God,” and “Oh, no!” and some other words that I would prefer she didn’t use while it’s still daylight. From the tone of voice and the desperate sound of theexpletives I assumed that we had either been invaded by a street gang, or had received a letter from an attorney notifying us of a little problem we didn’t know we had. I ran to her side like a good husband and man of thehouse to see how I could assist in this crisis. It turned out that it wasn’ta home invasion by either a street gang or lawyers. For her, it wasinfinitely worse. Well, worse than the street gang thing, anyway.She had seen a roach.

My wife had pulled open a cabinet drawer and a cockroach, caught in the act of being a cockroach, had scurried for cover. When I arrived in thekitchen, Linda was pulling things from that drawer and growling curses to herself. With blood-lust in her eye she turned to me and demanded to knowjust how that cockroach came to be inhabiting our cabinets, like I had planted it there. I assured her that I had done no such thing, all of myroaches were accounted for. My explanation that this was South Louisiana,and that it is mandatory that all houses have at least one of the little critters, was not satisfactory to her. I tried to tell her that if you don’thave a roach for your house, one is issued by the state. This is strictlyenforced by the Roach Police. (“Good afternoon, sir. We understand thatyou don’t have a roach. You’ll have to take this one. Have a nice day.”)She didn’t buy it.

I then told her that, since we had been having all of these recent, heavy rains, that it had probably floated up on a little roach raft and had been stranded, like Robinson Crusoe, or Gilligan. She stated in no uncertainterms that she didn’t care how his career turned out, Gilligan must DIE! I should explain that my wife keeps a clean house. A very clean house. Ifyou can’t do open heart surgery in our kitchen without fear of contamination, she isn’t happy. She makes me take off my shoes before Iopen the door. Frankly, I don’t see why any group of roaches would chooseto live in our house. They would end up being the cockroach equivalent ofthe Donner Party, starving pathetically one by one while waiting for the Roach Rangers to come rescue them.

I’ve tried telling my wife that this is the Deep South. The Really DeepSouth. You have to go North to get to Mississippi from where we live. Andthese things are as natural as hot summers and crooked politicians, and you can’t avoid contact with any of the above. She will not accept thatexplanation either. She thinks that any roach, even a lonely castaway likelittle Gilligan, means you have a dirty house. Which is not true, they justhave larger populations in dirty houses.

They live everywhere. In your house, at the store, in your local bar. Everseen the kitchen of a Chinese restaurant at 2 a.m.? Trust me, you don’twant to. What you don’t know won’t revolt you. Oh, yeah, and they can eatanything, even soap and paint chips, like teenagers.

During the summer the Huge Mutant Roaches come in from outside. Youknow, the giant roaches with the wings? The ones that could pull a dog sled? One night a couple of years ago I was up late reading on the couch without any television or music on, and it was serenely quiet. I could heara tiny, whispery, curious sound coming from the kitchen. I got up to golook and was astonished when I realized what I had been hearing was one of the Huge Mutant Roaches walking across my kitchen tiles. I wasimpressed. Still am. My wife, needless to say, is much less impressed than I am, and much more horrified. Whenever she sees one of these beasts she gets thatCharles Manson / Ma Barker look on her face and grabs a can of whatever type of roach spray we have handy, then she drowns them with it. No, shedoes not just spray them and let them wander off and die in some hidden Huge Mutant Roach graveyard. She sprays them until they drown whiletrying to breast stroke through the stuff. The toxins never get a chance towork. Then I have to pick the thing up. Don’t get me wrong. I have no great love for this particular FellowCreature, and the only space I care to share with it is the space I can’t reach with my shoe. I endeavor to keep their population to a minimum. Thiskeeps my wife happy and less likely to slip into her Toxic Avenger role like she did the day she saw little Gilligan in our cabinet, and keeps the language she uses at a PG rating. She never did find him that day, despitetaking everything out of the cabinet and searching thoroughly. Repeatedly.He somehow successfully avoided his fate at the hands of the Toxic Avenger, and we never saw him again.

I wonder if he was rescued? Lee Dresselhaus is a regular columnist for L’Observateur

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