Cock-a-da-roach

There was a cockroach in my room last week. Hairus cockroachus, a foul critter with hundreds of feelers protruding from its body, making it look more like a prehistoric troglodyte than a modern bug.

It was of a size that, for someone with a phobia of all life that walk the walls in the dark of night, was big enough to paralyze me with fear yet just small enough to make me feel ashamed of it.

Some bugs I fear without embarrassment. A few months ago, I came upon a huge cockroach as I walked into the downstairs bathroom. Over 8 inches long, including the hair. I saw it sprawled on the wall, like it was tanning at the beach. I quietly backed out of the room, saying in as calm of a voice as I could muster: “All yours, buddy. No, seriously. Enjoy.”

Haven't used that bathroom since. I doubt it's still there though. Probably left to eat a cat.

Anyway, when I saw Hairus cockroachus, it was 2:00 in the morning. I was in my boxers. The cockroach was on the wall right by me bed. As I surveyed my options (shoe? phone book? 911?) I was overcome with an innate, perhaps primal desire that superseded my anxious weapon inventory. This desire was not a bloodthirsty rage, nor desire to run. It was an unquenchable need to, as quickly as possible, put on a pair of pants.

I forget my exact thoughts, but it was something akin to: “I'm about to enter battle. I need pants.”

Is this what the Spartan warrior tradition has diluted to? “Eek, a big! Cover ye crotches!” It's not a flight response, but it's not a fight response either. It's fright.

Most people and animals freeze for a moment when confronted by danger, then move on to fight or flight. I'm stuck at fright. Cockroaches might be too. That night, the cockroach and I stared at each other for a good 10 minutes. I spent 5 of those minutes inching over to the closet for a shoe, and another 5 minutes hovered a few feet away from the cockroach, shoe raised in the air, as I tried to muster my courage to kill it. I know that sounds silly, but that's part of the reason it's called a phobia.

The rest of the night was a tragicomedy. When I finally moved to whack it, I missed. It fell to the floor, hidden from sight. I waited ½ an hour, and just as I felt relaxed enough to go to bed, it crawled back up in an uneasy zig zag, part of its body missing. Whack, miss, fall, wait ½ an hour, crawled back up, in worse shape than before.

The third time, I didn't try to kill it. I felt an odd admiration for its preserverence. Its doggedness. The Little Cockroach That Could. I just hoped it would crawl away from my bed and out of sight, preferably behind a window blind.

It was too wounded though, and fell back down on its own accord. I never saw it again. The next day, I was groggy from a lack of sleep and depressed from whatever chemicals my body excreted the night before. It made me think I needed one of two things. Anti-anxiety drugs. Or a clown for a roommate with an extra pair of shoes.