Doctor Mosquito

3 - Roach Bomb

Peter Birch knocked on the door of apartment 211, but Mrs. Orr didn't answer so he pulled out the large ring of keys that hung on his belt, found the key to her apartment and let himself in. Mrs. Orr, a stump of a woman whose brown face was framed by white curly hair and glasses as round as owl's eyes, was standing in the entry to the kitchen drying her hands on a dish towel.

"You think that just because you have keys to everyone's apartment that you can just waltz in whenever you want?" she asked.

"I knocked," said Pete. "For several minutes, in fact."

"I was standing right here the whole time. Don't you think I would have heard you knocking?" But Mrs. Orr was seventy-nine and her ears were even older. She wouldn't have heard him if he had kicked down the door with steel-toed boots. She waved him inside.

The first thing he noticed was that Mrs. Orr's apartment didn't smell like the rest of the building. As the maintenance man, Pete had been in every apartment and though they shared the same layout it was striking how different each one smelled. Mr. Tejeda's apartment was spare and cold and smelled like Band-Aids and model airplane glue. The Cadena's were a young couple with a baby and their apartment smelled of baby wipes, bleach and crushed peas. Pete's own apartment smelled of stale coffee and magic markers. His daughter Sadie hated ballpoint pens and used magic markers on everything from the grocery list to math homework. But every apartment had a faint urine smell that couldn't be fully masked. It was part of the building's DNA. The tenants had become nose blind and didn't notice anymore, but sometimes the smell was mysteriously stronger and it was like living downwind from a homeless man in a cardboard box. Yet somehow, magically, Mrs. Orr's apartment smelled simply of cough drops and something Pete could only describe as bitterness.

"You were supposed to be here yesterday," she said.

"Sorry," said Pete. "Things are a little backed up."

Mrs. Orr sneered and shook her head. She scrutinized Pete like a TSA agent at the airport on Thanksgiving weekend. He towered over her at six-foot-two. He was forty-seven with a full head of dark hair and just a touch of gray at the temples. He kept fit by running races — marathons in his early thirties, but only half marathons later. His knees were the only part of his body that was failing him as he got older. His chiseled face and blue eyes still got attention from women when he entered a room. It all added up to a man who looked ten years younger than his real age, but he hadn't laced up his running shoes in three years and the hard living was catching up to him. He had bags under his red, swollen eyes and his pants were getting tighter around the belt line.

"You seem sober today," she said. "Liquor cabinet empty?" Pete held his tongue so she poked at him again. "That poor girl of yours deserves a real parent. She is such an angel. Hard to imagine she came from one of your miserable sperm." Even at seventy-nine Mrs. Orr's wit was as sharp as a fillet knife, but her perception was a little off. Pete was not sober, but he wasn't stumbling drunk either.

The apartment was identical to his but in reverse. She kept a clean and tidy home. Embroidered pillows covered the pale blue couch and an antique desk stood open by the entry door, bills in one slot, letters in another. The room was freshly painted in ivory, but it was like trying to polish a turd. The building was a low-rent hellhole held together by spackling paste and plumber's putty. The main residents were cockroaches the size of rats. There was no keeping them out. They owned the building free and clear.

"Are they mostly in the kitchen?" Pete asked. He held a plastic bag with three roach bombs.

"Until after dinner," she said. "Then they samba into the family room to watch Jeopardy."

Pete and his daughter moved into this run-down roach hotel when the bank took back their house. When he was sober enough to stand, he helped his neighbors with small repairs. He was a gifted fixer-of-things. When the building repairman was found dead in a dumpster, Pete got the job.

He put his cheek on the floor and looked for droppings. His head spun violently and the nausea hit him like a wave of foul sewage. He needed a drink. His hands were shaking and his head throbbed. He was trying hard to keep it together. This wasn't exactly a dream job, but it put food on the table. Mrs. Orr was just the type to cause a stink and get him fired.

"I suggest you go out for dinner tonight," Pete said. "Everything is going to be covered with pesticide." But his slightly-drunk mouth said "pastacide" instead of "pesticide." He stumbled and caught himself on the desk chair.

"Where do you suggest I go?" said Mrs. Orr. Pete had a suggestion, but he knew it wasn't wise to kick a bee hive so he kept his cool and suggested the laundromat across the street. Mrs. Orr made a snorting sound, pulled on her thin overcoat and walked out.

Where were the little bastards hiding? He crawled on his hands and knees into the kitchen and shined a flashlight under the refrigerator. The floor was thick with droppings. He opened the upper cabinets then the lower ones and found spices, cereal, canned soup, dishes, pans and rat shit. He lifted up a bag of rice and found that something had nibbled a hole in the corner. As he returned the rice he saw a green bottle pushed to the back of the pantry — cooking sherry. Hallelujah. He popped the cork and took a whiff. It smelled like vinegar. He took a small sip and returned the cork. The bitter taste burned his throat and made his nose tingle. Had he really sunk this low?

As he put the bottle back he was careful to place it exactly where he found it with the label facing in the same direction. Then he grabbed it again and took another quick swig. Then another. He left an inch of sherry on the bottom. Don't be greedy, he thought. She'll notice an empty bottle. He put it back once again and splashed sherry around in the cabinet. Damn it. Forgot the cork. He grabbed a paper towel from the counter and dabbed up the mess, then turned to the plastic bag on the kitchen table with the roach bombs. He had no idea how to use them. He squinted at the instructions. His eyes were aging too, he guessed. Knees and eyes — first things to go.

Let's see. Raid Concentrated Deep Reach Fogger. Close doors and windows. Check. Extinguish all flames and turn off your fan, air conditioner and pilot light. He pushed the stove away from the wall and shut off the gas. Open cabinet or cupboard doors, drawers and closets. He looked around the kitchen. Most of the cabinets were open. Close enough. Let's see. Blah, blah, blah. He scanned the rest of the instructions, broke off the tab on the cap, aimed it away from his face, pressed the button and placed it on the kitchen table. As the toxic fog shot from the top of the can he turned, stumbled and cracked his head on the counter. His knees buckled and he crumpled to the floor.

When the lights came up in the dark theater of his mind he saw his daughter Sadie sitting next to him dabbing at a gash on his forehead with a wet cloth. It was soaked in blood. His head pounded, his eyes burned, and his stomach churned. His chest was so tight that he struggled to draw a deep breath. She could see the panic in his face.

"Chillax, Kemosabe," she said.

He smiled and coughed. "I'm not sure what that means, but it sounded hip and old school at the same time."

"What can I say — I'm an old soul in new shoes."

After a few minutes of wheezing, his lungs cleared and the breaths came easier. "What happened?" he asked.

"You're lucky, is what. When I couldn't find you I stopped by Mrs. O's. The door was open and fog was coming into the hallway. You were out cold on the kitchen floor," she said. "You're heavy," she added. Pete reached up and touched her on the cheek.

"I've been a little clumsy lately," he said.

"Clumsy is what toddlers are. Or fat people carrying take-out. You scared me," she said.

He could see the fear in her eyes. And something else. Anger? Distrust? He wasn't sure. But there was another question gnawing at the back of Sadie's mind. Did he do this on purpose?