Unwanted Houseguest

By Glenn Lawrie

The smaller your apartment is, the neater it must be ― a place for everything, and everything in its place. Everything needs to be cleaned up right away. Any crumb gracing the counter or pizza crust in the box is an open invitation.

And if you have the misfortune of living on the ground floor, well, that's also an open invitation to all sorts of vermin. The epitome of vile insects has to be the roach, the cockroach.

Its names are almost as diverse as its global dispersal. Regardless of what it is called, no insect packs more negative connotations.

While other animals are greater and more efficient vectors of disease, it is the roach that most easily exploits any lapses in sanitation. Just as idle young men are drawn to video games, fiends to their dope, and drunkards to their wine, roaches are attracted to filth, food, darkness, and warmth ― or the promise thereof.

Infestation-free accommodation requires more than due diligence to keep these pests at bay. Your home might be spotless enough to qualify as an alternate site for NASA's clean-room scientists, but if you rent an older apartment, chances are that you will be fighting a losing battle.

If your neighbors suffer from ``spic-and-spano-phobia,'' a hereditary neurological disorder in which unsanitary habits are passed down from generation to generation, probability says that their roaches will try to colonize your apartment as well.

My neighbors have this unfortunate affliction. The vile stench that emanates from their apartment would make the Devil himself vomit. I imagine them wallowing in the filth of their home, eating pizza, scratching their buttocks, and, at most, massaging the television's remote control when a surge of energy hits.

To boot, their dog, an incessantly barking rat of a poodle, leaves a present in the stairwell at least once a day. So, it is no great surprise when I see the granddaddy of all roaches march across my floor.

The options weigh in front of me. Although I am no Buddhist, I could adopt a ``live and let live'' policy. I consider the time I could save by relaxing my high personal standards. Also, the merits of a totally natural and environmentally friendly means of waste disposal appeal to me ― quite in harmony with Mother Nature.

The other option is to rid my home of any and all six-legged guests. Having just watched a Bruce Willis movie, I feel strong, confident and aggressive even. I flick on the lights and say, ``Time to die, Six Legs!''

There it is, clearly visible on the floor, and I quickly realize that this is no job for a single swat of my slipper. Time to bring in the big guns. I race to another room and return with a whiskbroom. With an ash handle, it is the Louisville Slugger of my household arsenal.

Sensing my indecision, the roach scurries into the bedroom. I pursue it, but it disappears under the bed, so I start dismantling the bed. No sooner do I start to lift the bottom mattress when something runs over my fingers.

Shocked, I recoil, drop the mattress, and loudly list the bug's sexual history. My neighbors benefit from this free and practical English lesson.

A wave of nausea sweeps over me. I feel dirty, violated, and unclean. A thorough scrubbing is in order. I shower, shampoo, scrub my hands and nails, brush my teeth, floss, pluck out a few errant nose hairs, and dig enough lint out of my navel to knit a blanket.

When finally done, I feel cleaner and at least two kilograms lighter. The bathroom, though, now offers an appetizing buffet of my bodily products. I overhear the roach remind himself to change the venue for his next family reunion. I consider buying products other than green apple shampoo, orange soap, apricot facial scrub and mint toothpaste.

Ready for battle, I return to the bedroom. My foe awaits me, drumming his six legs. I hoist the wooden maul of a broom and swing. Oddly, I miss. Another swing. Another miss.

I consider the tidy sum I have spent over the past few months at the baseball batting cages. On my fourth swing, I hear the satisfying crack of bug on bat. Burial at sea follows shortly thereafter.

My habits have changed. Now when I come home, a government issued biohazard warning sticker can be seen on my door. Inside my apartment, the assault of industrial cleaners, pesticides, and fungicides causes my eyes to water, my skin to blanch, my hair to fall out, and my gag reflex to all but choke me.

The upside is that my neighbors are eerily quiet, as is their dog, and I know that I am finally living in a clean environment.

The author is a Canadian who currently teaches English at the Daejeon Educational Training Institute. He can be reached at gmaximus@hotmail.com.