So I'm, apparently, ridiculously afraid of roaches.

And not just fear in the "Oh man, those things are pretty gross and
carry diseases and always eat my last Lean Cuisine" sense. I'm
apparently a nervous wreck every time I'm caught off guard and thrown
into close proximity with one of these bastards.

For the past three years, I've seen maybe four roaches. They were
usually dead and in their comical "legs up in the air" pose. It's the
only time I laugh at death. Unless you count Ms. Pac-Man, because that
little death tune is so cute. When I see dead roaches, I'm usually an
overconfident ass and say things like "Awwww, what's the matter? Dead?
And you think you're going to be here millions of years after humans
go extinct? Look at you lying there in the middle of the floor for
everyone to laugh at your inferiority."

It's usually at this point that my friends roll their eyes and tell
the waitress they want the buffet.

I'm not sure when my fear of roaches started, but if I had to
estimate, I'd guess it was some time around 1991. Probably in August.
On the 23rd. At 9:44 p.m. Earlier this particular day, my father and I
decided to clean out the shed. So in other words, I watched my father
clean out the shed. As I stood on some wood, pretending to ride a
hoverboard, my dad sprayed for pests. As the roaches and John
Leguizamos scurried out, I watched, frozen, as a 12 foot roach flew at
me and, ultimately, down my shirt. I wore pretty large shirts back
then.

"Gwaaaaaaaah!" I said, wildly waving my arms and jumping around. Then
Casey Kasem walked by and and declared me the winner of the Max's
annual dance contest.

I did my best to combat the roach. I think I poked it in the eye. Then
my dad began spraying me with the hose. Then the roach finally flew
away and we had this exchange:

    Me: Whew! Thanks for helping me get rid of that roach, dad.
    Dad: What roach?

Just when I thought the worst was over, night fell. My dad was outside
talking to some guy who drove an El Camino. My mom was in their
bedroom watching tapes of her stories. I was playing Sonic the
Hedgehog when the attack came.

Apparently the roach I had pissed off earlier was back for blood. And
he brought some reinforcements. I won't get too much into the details,
but apparently every roach that was in the shed needed a new home
after pops fogged the place. So they looked at our house as a
reasonable option.

"This place could use some bay windows, but I guess it'll do," I heard
one roach say to another under my high-pitched screams. The night was
a blur, but there were dozens of roaches coming from behind picture
frames and my Sega. I don't know how they got in, but I'm guessing my
leaving the back door open had something to do with it.

Years passed and I moved on. The "incident," as it came to be known,
transformed into a lovable anecdote I often recounted over dinner. I
haven't encountered a surprise roach attack in years, so I assumed my
fear was gone. Plus I'm a virile, 22-year-old male. But let's just say
I realized this irrational fear wasn't gone the other day when I
completely emasculated myself (which is normally something I do
without the aid of roaches) in front of who I hope will remain my
girlfriend.

Let me start by giving some context. My roommate and I are fairly
clean people. We keep the pizza boxes we have stacked in our kitchen
spotless and always throw away bread we leave on the counter after it
starts to mold. There's really nowhere a roach could enter the
apartment, save this one giant hole in the screen door that I believe
was actually used as a checkpoint in the Underground Railroad.

The day we moved in, we did a hardcore cleaning bonanza and sprayed
insecticide all over the place. We couldn't afford trivial things like
a garbage can upon moving in, so we used a big garbage bag for a few
days.

The girlfriend came visit and I decided to impress her by taking out
the garbage. As I reached for the bag, a roach with an eye patch
leaped out at me.

"Eeeeeeeeek!" I yelled, jumping Scooby-Doo style into her arms.

I expected her to say something like "You've got to be kidding me,"
but was met with something more along the lines of "Yeah, that's about
right."

©2005 Tim Landry