Him or Me

by YVONNE GEORGINA PUIG

I was attacked by roaches when I ten years old. It was one of those hot, soul-crushing days in August, the glimmering dog day of all dog days, and I thought... I'm bored. So I went, with my little cousin Adri, out to the treehouse. Just to poke around and check it out. I hadn't been up there all summer.

I remember climbing up the ladder and arriving at the threshold, being vaguely aware of the possibility of red wasps and yellow-jackets, but it never occured to me to watch for roaches. Maybe a roach, always a roach — it's Houston. But I wasn't prepared for this.

I looked down and saw Adri at the base of the ladder, and then I pushed open the door. The door lurched and stuck and then it was like Lucifer squriming posthaste out of a crack in the wood, flitting his fingertips in my ears and throwing a blanket of black over my head.

I think I saw Adri running frantically across the yard and into the house. She was probably screaming. I must have been too, I dont remember. They were flying all over the place, and their wings were slick and cold. The sound of their flight was (and is) the absolute worst. Like a crazy dude stumbling on his F's with a dry mouth. This all happened within thirty seconds, enough time for me to decide I was jumping, about 15 feet, onto the brambly lantana below. I couldn't use the ladder; they were crawling all over it. My dad ended up rescuing me. He caught me mid-jump, but somehow I managed to get a bruise the size of a volleyball on my thigh, which I showed to my classmates once school started of course. I think I slipped on the ledge but didn't feel it because I was so panicked.

the author with a young catTo this day I am still traumatized. These were not little roaches, the kind that scurry off into corners. These were ring-necked giant flying tree roaches. Red pickles. I like bugs. I think they are interesting, and I instantly dislike people who squish them.

In Houston, the simple lifting of a brick reveals all kinds of strange and wriggling creatures. I used to spend hours circling my backyard, picking up bricks and staring at their undersides. But the sight of a tree roach turns me into a squealing sorority girl. The other day I did something remarkable, however. I confronted a tree roach. I was visiting Houston, the only place one see roaches of this caliber outside of the actual tropics — and I was sitting on the couch in my parents' den, and I looked up and saw it on one of the dining room walls. The thing inspired awe in a bad way. I had to take a moment just to appreciate its sheer size before sprinting into the other room

Normally this was my Dad's job. Growing up, one of us would scream roach patrol! and he'd come running. But I was alone for the week, and it was just me against the beast. When I approached him from a distance a few minutes later — to take his picture — he actually turned around. He turned his wet little head around and looked at me. That was enough. I slept in my sister's room that night, the room furthest from his wall.

In the morning, he was still there. He hadn't moved at all. Fortunately I had no need to enter the dining room, so I decided to pretend like he wasn't there. It was rather like pretending that rash on your face doesn't itch, like that pile of poo is not on the dinner table. Ridiculous. But I persisted, and he persisted, not moving for three days. Until he was gone. A minute before I had verified his location, then I looked again and he was nowhere. Sure enough, two days later I see him — no I HEAR him— plodding along my sister's bedroom floor. Coming for me.

I killed him with a mad spray of Raid, way too much Raid than was required to do the job. I just kind of lost it, and at the end I held the can a few inches over his body, applying a direct hit. I definitely took my old treehouse rage out on him. Then I stood back and watched, and felt pretty bad about it. On his back, legs writhing, he looked so small. Do roaches feel pain? Who knows, but it couldn't have been pleasant. Poor guy. But there just wasn't enough room for the both of us.

Yvonne Georgina Puig is the contributing editor to This Recording. She tumbls for your pleasure right here.

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