THE COCK

THE COCK-A-ROACH

G. Alexander Virden

One of my favorite I'm bored activities is killing the ants that crawl around my kitchen. Oh, but I hate ants. Seeing them is up there with infomercials on every channel, when I can't sleep at three A.M., followed by telephone solicitors selling light bulbs, or coupon books, at eight o'clock the morning after. My naturalist friends, who defend the ant, say, "They are a part of natures environmental controls, cleaning up waste and dead decomposing forest animals."

I don't know about you, but I have yet to come into my kitchen and find a dead decomposing forest animal. Though I must admit the ants are right there, on the scene, ready to act should the need arise.

Here I go, jabbering on about ants, while neglecting the real low life of the crusty six-legged-world. The true scum. The ugliest, most determined, creature ever to spoil a potato. I speak, in these ominous tones, of that invincible foe, that nuclear surviving, born pregnant, speed-demon of the bug world, the Cock-A-Roach!

Ah, but I have fond memories of those nights in Florida. Armed with a Chuck Taylor, size eleven, high top, I would go on safari, in search of the dreaded Palmetto, the largest and most dangerous of the cockroach family. They required great skill and cunning for a successful hunt. My first attempts were in vain. I lacked speed and endurance and my accuracy fell painfully short of the mark. For once alerted, few things can equal the speed of a run-a-way, cock-a-roach!

After weeks, of failing hunts, I became despondent. The breaking point arrived when I found half a still wiggling cockroach in my liverwurst sandwich. A scream mixed with bile erupted from my throat and I ran from the house. At night, after work, I started walking the streets, not wanting to return home to my invaded kitchen and THEM.

I began eating out, always checking through my liverwurst with a fork. Sporadically I would make an attempt; shaking, I'd reach for the cabinet door. Then I would hear that scurrying sound I knew so well. The image would flash before my eyes. That broken body, guts oozing out and two remaining, pedaling, legs.

Shuddering, I'd surrender and drag my poor, defeated, body to bed. Tossing, like a salad shooter in overdrive, I’d try to sleep. The feverish dream came, like reruns of Three's Company, over and over again, tormenting me, robbing me of my life's energy. When I closed my eyes, he would come to me, the big one that always got away. I'd scramble to hit the bug, with something, trying to avoid the dreadful crush-gush, that results from a direct hit with the palm of your hand. He'd scurry away through that unseen door, laughing as he made off with my food, spoiling what he left behind. His laughter, echoing up through the intestines of my home, would wake me in a panic. My arms waving frantically as I tried to anticipate the moves of a cockroach, a cockroach that wasn't there.

Screaming I pressed my palms hard against my pounding temples. Tears, streamed from my bulging bloodshot eyes, onto my twisted and tortured face. All I could see before me was thousands and thousands of squirming, crawling, COCKROACHES! Eating my food and laughing at me. I cried out. "No more! I will stand for this no more!"

The dream over I lay on the bed trembling, cold icy sweat flowing from every pour in my body, soaking the sheets and my ragged nightshirt. Was this bug to rule me? This exoskeletal nightmare? No! The time had come for action. It was me, or him.

During the coming weeks, I drove my body to the absolute limits of humanity. I ran, worked out with weights, and began attending Kung Fu lessons. Lastly, I developed my own, technically advanced, form of Cock-A-Roach assassination training. For hours I went at it, honing myself to a fine steel edge of perfection.

The training consisted of tying one end of a string to a precisely scaled model of a Cock-A-Roach, sort of a Mock-A-Roach. Then, very carefully, you tie the other end of the string to the tail of an alley cat. This accomplished, I would take my "Chuck" in hand and chase the cat down the street, striking the Mock-A-Roach as many times as I could.

The cat eventually managed to get away from me, so I had to give up the training.

Finally I was ready. The day had come for me to return to my kitchen. I started preparations early in the day removing all obstacles from the floor before noon. With the kitchen table and chairs safely stacked in the living room I began to rig my equipment.

First I brought my computer in from the study and wired in the auxiliaries. A sensor switch that led to the 120MHz, double chip, Pentium, activated the flood lights. Testing it, the brilliant flash of white light momentarily blinded me. All systems were go. It was time for my fifteen minutes of history. As I baited the sensor with liverwurst, and placed it in the exact center of the floor, the sun dropped below the horizon.

Dousing the lights, I gained my perch upon the counter. Chuck Taylor at the ready I began my wait. This was the pay off. The hours of training, the determination, and total commitment that had consumed my life, had all built to this moment. Would I act without hesitation? I knew I was good enough, but I carried the doubt of all those former defeats. Could I shake it and come through? Tonight I would get my answer.

Seconds crept by, like the Academy Awards, as I stared at the 3D graphics display of my kitchen, on the 20", .26 dot pitch, MAG color monitor, waiting for one of the perimeter sensors to pick up a bogey. Beads of perspiration formed and rolled down my face. I felt like an expectant father waiting for Rosemary's second child. Would he show? I'd worked so hard. I wanted to face him; Mano e Cockroach!

There! The 3D, four color, cockroach moved, indicating the perimeter had been crossed. He seemed to show caution. He scurried not toward the bait, but circling. Was he suspicious of a trap?

Holding my breath, I tensed, waiting. I could see his shadow from the moon light that filtered through the green house window, at the far end of the kitchen. I fought to keep from jumping prematurely, as if I were a virgin and I had just heard a girl say yes for the first time. Then in a flash it happened. He made for the bait at a full gallop!

Sirens whined, lights blazed. My nemesis was at the bait. It was now or never! I landed on the floor in the Eat-a-me kill stance. The dazzling light stunned the cockroach and I was able to get my first swing at a stationary target. In my excitement I hit to the left of him. The crack of the rubber sole, against the tile floor, broke his trance. Knowing his life was in danger, he charged like a raging bull, bucking his antenna. I anticipated his dart to the right and swung the weapon with all my might, hitting him square!

He reeled drunkenly and staggered on two legs. Before I could retract, for a second strike, he recovered and began to run again. I pivoted and swung twice. On the second shot I pounded home. The Cock-A-Roach was finished. With a groin yanking scream, he died. Victory at last. I had won!

I flipped over his limp lifeless body and sat cross-legged on the floor staring at him. It was all so useless, the anguish, pain, and life that cockroach had taken out of me, just to overcome my fears. All the wasted time and energy, for what? As I sat there pondering The Death of a Cock-A-Roach, the truth came to me and I smiled.

Leaving everything where it was I drug my tired, but satisfied body, to the bedroom and flopped down on the bed. Never again would I let intimidation rule my life, or let fear keep me from accomplishment. My life was now my own. As I drifted off to sleep, I had a strange feeling, that for the first time ever, I was free. Funny, what a great teacher, that little cock-a-roach, turned out to be.

THE END

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