Eviction of a Minor Monster
I dreamed I was chased around the bathroom by a horrifying praying mantis-roach-rabbit.
That's right. Try to imagine that creature.
Upon analysis this might refer to my ambivalent attitude towards insects, which rarely includes crushing so much as a mosquito, but often includes a strangled gasp, followed by moderate freaking out. Hawaii has roach problems, end of story. But I came into my room one day and was greeted by Roachzilla, who was biding his time on the wall above my motel standard bed. We're talking Gregor Samsa on a bad day. I was dismayed, but figured roaches can't really do anything besides get on you. Mildly distressing, but I've certainly spent nights with more malicious wildlife lurking about. I magnanimously decided to live and let live, and let Roachzilla share my place of abode. He would crop up now and again, in the bathroom, behind my bed, under my pillow. When Roachzilla was under the covers you could hear the bed springs squeal. My throat would constrict, I would endure a brief stuggle with fleeing consciousness, and Roachzilla would take refuge behind something. Not entirely symbiosis at it's best, but it was manageable.
One evening, as I grappled with respiratory failure, I realized Roachzilla was not taking his usual leave. He was loitering quite casually at the foot of the door to my room. My room is on the underground side of an apartment built into a hill. The screenless window opens out to the staircase, meaning the window too is underground, and also closed in order to deter the desperate drug addled thieves who abound in South Kihei. Though roaches have nothing so troublesome as lungs, the sheer lack of airflow through this room is enough to drive out even the most resilient of creatures and, apparently, baffle their instincts of self preservation. This would be my only chance. I panicked briefly, the retreated to the kitchen for a cup. A cup? A large mixing bowl might be better. I compromised with a small tupperware container, broader at the mouth than the average cup, but narrow enough to serve as one half of the world renowned Cup and Paper Bug Trap. I dropped it over the dazed Roachzilla and said to hell with the Paper part. My work there was done.
Fifteen seconds later the guilt gnawed though me like the termites through our untreated woodwork. Poor Roachzilla, only trying to get by, no different from anyone else on this island. The forlorn and enormous insect scrambled frantically against his microwave-safe prison. Oh heartless woman! Oppressor of the innocent! I went to find a piece of paper. (Would a single sheet sustain this massive creature?)
Evicting insects goes something like this. Freak out; Cup and Paper Bug Trap; slow motion shuffle to the door a la rigor mortis; launching of Bug Trap and contents into the yard, accompanied by freaking out; slam the door; deep breathing exercises. This generally goes off without a hitch, and this encounter was no different, apart from the size of the insect and his formidable bid for freedom. No, a roach won't do much more than get on you, but who knows what it might resort to, what razor-like follicles on those six hairy legs, what vicious toxins in those snapping mandibles? I was well towards the neighbors' apartment before I flung my charge into the withering palm fronds with the expediency of one who has not only tickled the sleeping dragon, but poked it repeatedly with a sharp stick and called its mother ugly.
In the safety of my apartment I took a steadying breath. Roachzilla did not latch onto the screen in pursuit, heralding death with a vengeful shriek. He did not claw at the screen or spit acid in venomous fury. He was probably under a leaf somewhere, taking equally steadying but not equally breathful breaths into his not lungs, however he circulated oxygen through that alien body. Even Roachzilla is only trying to get by in the best way he knows how. Harmless as rabbits, really. When I went back into my room something crept along the far wall, slowly calmly loitering, no further than a dash away from moldy-mint motel issue headboard. It was Roachzilla's father.
Hawaii has roach problems, end of story. Our mutual tolerance of eachother is not the shining model of symbiosis; Roachzilla's father often gets the room to himself. But at the end of the day he's just a bug. We've all endured far more malicious bedfellows.
That's right. Try to imagine that creature.
Upon analysis this might refer to my ambivalent attitude towards insects, which rarely includes crushing so much as a mosquito, but often includes a strangled gasp, followed by moderate freaking out. Hawaii has roach problems, end of story. But I came into my room one day and was greeted by Roachzilla, who was biding his time on the wall above my motel standard bed. We're talking Gregor Samsa on a bad day. I was dismayed, but figured roaches can't really do anything besides get on you. Mildly distressing, but I've certainly spent nights with more malicious wildlife lurking about. I magnanimously decided to live and let live, and let Roachzilla share my place of abode. He would crop up now and again, in the bathroom, behind my bed, under my pillow. When Roachzilla was under the covers you could hear the bed springs squeal. My throat would constrict, I would endure a brief stuggle with fleeing consciousness, and Roachzilla would take refuge behind something. Not entirely symbiosis at it's best, but it was manageable.
One evening, as I grappled with respiratory failure, I realized Roachzilla was not taking his usual leave. He was loitering quite casually at the foot of the door to my room. My room is on the underground side of an apartment built into a hill. The screenless window opens out to the staircase, meaning the window too is underground, and also closed in order to deter the desperate drug addled thieves who abound in South Kihei. Though roaches have nothing so troublesome as lungs, the sheer lack of airflow through this room is enough to drive out even the most resilient of creatures and, apparently, baffle their instincts of self preservation. This would be my only chance. I panicked briefly, the retreated to the kitchen for a cup. A cup? A large mixing bowl might be better. I compromised with a small tupperware container, broader at the mouth than the average cup, but narrow enough to serve as one half of the world renowned Cup and Paper Bug Trap. I dropped it over the dazed Roachzilla and said to hell with the Paper part. My work there was done.
Fifteen seconds later the guilt gnawed though me like the termites through our untreated woodwork. Poor Roachzilla, only trying to get by, no different from anyone else on this island. The forlorn and enormous insect scrambled frantically against his microwave-safe prison. Oh heartless woman! Oppressor of the innocent! I went to find a piece of paper. (Would a single sheet sustain this massive creature?)
Evicting insects goes something like this. Freak out; Cup and Paper Bug Trap; slow motion shuffle to the door a la rigor mortis; launching of Bug Trap and contents into the yard, accompanied by freaking out; slam the door; deep breathing exercises. This generally goes off without a hitch, and this encounter was no different, apart from the size of the insect and his formidable bid for freedom. No, a roach won't do much more than get on you, but who knows what it might resort to, what razor-like follicles on those six hairy legs, what vicious toxins in those snapping mandibles? I was well towards the neighbors' apartment before I flung my charge into the withering palm fronds with the expediency of one who has not only tickled the sleeping dragon, but poked it repeatedly with a sharp stick and called its mother ugly.
In the safety of my apartment I took a steadying breath. Roachzilla did not latch onto the screen in pursuit, heralding death with a vengeful shriek. He did not claw at the screen or spit acid in venomous fury. He was probably under a leaf somewhere, taking equally steadying but not equally breathful breaths into his not lungs, however he circulated oxygen through that alien body. Even Roachzilla is only trying to get by in the best way he knows how. Harmless as rabbits, really. When I went back into my room something crept along the far wall, slowly calmly loitering, no further than a dash away from moldy-mint motel issue headboard. It was Roachzilla's father.
Hawaii has roach problems, end of story. Our mutual tolerance of eachother is not the shining model of symbiosis; Roachzilla's father often gets the room to himself. But at the end of the day he's just a bug. We've all endured far more malicious bedfellows.