A Cockroach in Brooklyn - A Darkly Amusing Short Story

7. A Cockroach in Brooklyn - Violation

It all started when I saw Sid on the opposite site of the mirror from where he usually sits. But when I approached, he scuttled behind the mirror. This was unusual behavior. Sid rarely reacts to my approach or takes any notice of my presence. Why is he so jumpy tonight? Is it a guilty conscience? What is he up to behind there? The very thing that enamored me to Sid in the first place was that he doesn't scuttle and disappear, leaving me with that creepy-crawly feeling, wondering when and where he'll appear next. Sid just hangs out and goes with the flow, kind of like a stoned surfer roach. I imagine him greeting me with a slight tilt of his tiny chin when I approach the sink. The next second, forgetting I was ever there, back to daydreaming of awesome sewer waves, oblivious to the murderous history between man and roach. Something is definitely wrong.

This current disappearing act made me frown so hideously that my eyebrows began to wrestle (witnessed in the mirror). Note that all my interactions with Sid have been accompanied by a second version of myself reflected in the mirror. There are always two of me, but so far, just one of Sid. Maybe Sid felt overpowered by my duality and that's why he did what he did. But I can't make excuses for his behavior now – it's too late for that.

The next thing I noticed was two long antennae wiggling out from behind the right hand side of the mirror. That's when I discovered what was really going on. Out of the opposite of the mirror, out scuttled the first cockroach I saw, who now I know was not Sid at all. The behaviors were all wrong. I know Sid well enough by now that he might as well have a nose ring and tattoos.

I look back at the twiddling antennae on the right. Still there, twiddling away. That one is Sid. No doubt.

That's when my heart sank and slowly, began to rise again, filling up with vengeful fury along the way. Sid was keeping a woman behind there. That's probably why he was hiding. He probably thought I couldn't see his antennae – just like the child who thinks that if he clasps his chubby hands over his eyes, you'll never find him. I guess Sid was counting on the fact that I think all cockroaches look alike and that, if his little floozy scuttles around while he's hiding behind the mirror, I'll mistake her for him. He underestimates the extent of our relationship.

My reasoning goes like this. Today, he brings in this woman. Tomorrow, he brings in his cousin – a nice guy, he assures me. Then before you know it, they begin having incestuous "rumpy-pumpy" behind my mirror and I've got a wide-scale infestation on my hands. I refuse to let that happen. The contract said that it was going to be just me and Sid. No amendments.

Meanwhile, my fingers had already clasped the fly swatter before I'd thought any of this through. A hateful, murderous fever was now fueling all my actions, swamping any pre-existing compassion. The lime green plastic swooped through the air and, as it splatted flat against the wall, the whole mirror shook. Of course, I completely missed Sid's little companion – as usual.

To my defense, my accuracy as a cockroach killer is increased when armed with a big wad of kitchen paper - but that's just too hands-on for my liking. I've been trying to hone my swatting skills. It's kind of like the knife-versus-gun-homocide scenario. A gun is a far more impersonal homocide, making it far easier to commit - as long as you target practice - just like the fly swatter. It's fast and easy. With a knife, like with the tissue-squash, you must feel the impact to your victim, hear the entrance of the weapon as well as risk getting dirty fingers. Fly-swatting/gun shot: far superior form of killing.

Needless to say, the crawly bitch disappeared behind the mirror in sheer self-preservation. Even Sid himself retracted his antennae in surprise at this sudden violent quake. I wait. But if I know anything about cockroaches, it's that they have little to do in their lives but scavenge and out-wait any lime-green-fly-swat-wielding human. My patience is much shorter.

Then it occured to me, like cream curdling into butter in my brain. Carefully and deliberately, I hung the fly swatter back on its hook beside the sink. My tense eyebrows separated like the Red Sea and a quiet determination set in. I posed my two palms against the mirror, which hangs loosely on the wall by a nail. I sighed. I didn't want to do it. Really, I didn't. Sid and I had become friends. We were buds. Roomies. But I had no choice. He didn't honor the contract.

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