In my mid-twenties, my one-bedroom in Astoria, Queens, developed a roach problem. I don’t mean the odd single scurry disappearing irretrievably beneath the fridge, either. Oh, it started that way. But I didn’t take measures when the situation was manageable because roaches gave me the creeps, and so many activities beckoned that were much more fun.
Between a small shelf and the kitchen wall I stored spare brown paper bags – from which I began to detect a rustling. At some point, the bags began to move. Beside them, the wall gathered an undulating shadow that I trained myself never to look at directly; like Faye Dunaway in Little Big Man, I would ‘avert my eyes at the necessary moment’. One night a friend came to dinner and stared at that wall in frank revulsion. Why didn’t I do something? I looked at him blankly. About what? He was desperate to leave.
Finally, having turned my flat into a low-budget horror film, I faced the music. I was single, and no man would save me. Though it was summer, I donned jeans, long sleeves, gloves and boots. I tied a bandana over my mouth and nose like a bank robber in Gunsmoke. I clutched my six-shooters: an economy–size spray can of insecticide in each hand. At last, I focused on the hundreds if not thousands of insects climbing atop each other and breeding more. I hit the mass with both barrels. They exploded everywhere. I probably stomped more of the bastards than I poisoned. I’ve seldom felt so proud of myself.
