My Monday night began like many others as of recent: I got home from work at about 10:30pm and, fatigued and ravenous, went about concocting a meal from whatever half-rotting vegetables and meat scraps happened to remain in the fridge. I squinted, scouring the shelves from side to side like a primitive, dress shirt-wearing hunter gatherer perusing his game territory with the blazing sun in his eyes. The fridge was fresh, its cool air offering welcome relief from the stagnant heat of the Osaka evening. Peering in to it made my face feel cool for the first time in ten hours and just as my thoughts began to drift to air conditioners with angel wings and naked women frolicking in the snow... Alas! It turned out that my trusty bottle of Coke had been hiding a dark secret, harbouring a fugitive, for when I stroked it aside I beheld a large sachet of curry gel that I had bought last week and to my (now) delight had forgotten all about. I cooked my own rendition of chicken curry. I was happy. The Coke bottle was pardoned.
After dinner, my contentment gave way to boredom and I contemplated how to spend the remainder of my evening. I still had the pots from dinner to wash, but that was going to take time, effort and besides, they looked quite striking piled up there in the sink like that; the jagged, volatile contours of the stack and the polished ceramic that reflected the colours so vividly making for a greasy, abstract homage to botulism. With these sentiments in mind I decided against my better judgement to skip the pots for now and head upstairs to watch a couple of episodes of Louis C.K. with my neighbour. Little did I know that this decision would be to my detriment.
...
I stumbled into my apartment an hour or so later and, merry with laughter, flicked on the main light switch. The central fixture groaned its usual sharp, industrial buzz and soon the apartment was again aglow. One thing that struck me immediately was the stench: it was as if my brief absence had triggered a baptism within my nasal passage and now it was reborn; innocent, curious and re-sensitised to the post-culinary odours of the kitchen. Safe to say it was time to wash up. I marched up to the sink inflated with purpose, The Good, The Bad And The Ugly theme playing somewhere in the background. I lowered my eyes, wiped the sweat from my manly, Eastwood-esque brow and began to reach for the tap as if it were the gun in my holster. Everything played in slow motion. My fingers inching closer, the music reaching its brassy crescendo, but then the music suddenly stopped dead as the moment my finger made contact with the faucet handle I saw movement from the corner of my eye and recoiled and froze like a yellow-belly coward. Clint would have been disgusted.
I edged away from the sink, stood perfectly still and began scanning the stack meticulously. My eyes followed the contours of dishes and analysed the shadows intently. Again! I saw it move. It was definitely there, but the satisfaction in being proved right to myself was quickly dwarfed by terror as I beheld two twitching antennae emerge from under the left side of the bottom plate. Soon followed more of its body and any doubt I had previously clung onto vanished. It was definitely a cockroach. Shit. It was big and bulky, its brilliant brown shell resembling a honey-glazed almond fresh from the oven and its legs thin, agile and filthy like some sort of verminous ballerina. It tiptoed arrogantly in and out of the shadows thinking itself undetected. The sight petrified me but I had to take action quickly, so after taking a moment to gather my courage I reached for the bottom of the stack and gave it small shove right as to make space for the manoeuvring of a rolled-up magazine. I instantly regretted my move as the wretched creature took off and bolted around the sink, causing me to leap back two feet, letting out a horrified yelp as I did so. I quickly composed myself and saw the roach dance back under the bottom pot it had come from. The battle was now officially a stalemate.
Many minutes elapsed. I knew where he was and he now I, but none of us dared make the first move. Any frivolous swipe with my rolled up magazine might topple the stack of crockery and open the narrow window of escape up into the walls, or worse, anywhere else in my apartment. On the other hand an aimless dash on his part left him vulnerable to a rolled up magazine attack; not a favourable way to meet one's end. We both knew the stakes and played our position, waiting the other one out for what seemed like an eternity. At first, I fully expected him to take his chances so I braced myself, magazine in hand, ready to strike; but he never did. He was smart. Eventually I came to the realisation that it was me who would have to make the first move, but how? I glanced around the apartment, being careful not to take my eyes off him for more than a second, and at first came up with nothing. I returned my gaze to his position and began once again to feel acutely aware of the blanket of heat that the Osakan evening had cast over us. Sweat began to trickle down my forehead into my eager eyes. As my vision blurred I imagined that I was melting and that he had played his cards perfectly, waiting for the futile human to cook in the heat that he thrived in. HEAT... wait a second. I was on to something. I quickly jerked my head downward and looked at the electric hob, and then up towards the shelf which housed my boiling pot; the best part was that they were both in reach and wouldn't require me to leave my post. I slowly and delicately reached for the pot, keeping my eyes on him every second, filled it half full with water and placed it on the hob. Then I flicked the dial and turned the hob on.
The water began to gently ripple as small bubbles rose from the pot's depths. He retained his position, half hidden under the filthy bottom plate and oblivious to the tactical master stroke that I was in the process of executing. It was surely only a matter of time now, but I had to stay vigilant regardless: he was fast and might still make a run for it at any moment. I kept the rolled up magazine raised above the stack ready to strike. I had him cornered. After a couple of minutes, each of us remaining statuesque and tense, the water began to ripple with slightly more energy, and I caught a glimpse of him poking his tiny head out from under his shelter as if to gain a better understanding of the situation. I watched him curiously, taking stock of his movements and the cautious manner in which he made them. Maybe... maybe this guy wasn't so bad, maybe we weren't so different after all, I mean, we both wanted the same things: food and women right? oh, and to not have to wash dishes after we eat. The more I thought about it, the more I concluded that me and this brilliant creature had a lot in common. He was my Boo Radley and was probably just if not more frightened by my presence as I was by his. The water in the pot began to bubble vivaciously as it reached the rolling boil. I thought of him, the cockroach and his wife, and their ten thousand children sat at home laughing and joking and playing cockroach scrabble and going for strolls on a Sunday afternoon in their favourite rubbish pile. My heart warmed and my battle-weary frown melted into a smile. I looked at him again and saw that he was looking straight at me, for the first time, our eyes meeting in a mutual show of respect, understanding, comradery. He appeared to nod and, relaxing my shoulders and magazine-bearing right arm, I nodded back at him. I began to think of how we could resolve this situation amicably: of how I could let him escape back to his family and we could go our separate ways without either of us losing face. The bubbles in the pot now bubbled violently as the pan began to foam at the brim, steaming and volcanic. After a couple of seconds thought I devised a way to gently move the stack so as to not risk injuring him, and leave the path open back up into the wall, back up to his home and his family. I thought of them being reunited and the jubilation and tears of joy that would be wept by his spouse and spawn… and then I thought "f**k this, what the f**k am I thinking? IT'S A F**KING COCKROACH" and I picked up the boiling pan and doused the bastard.
