Roachzilla

It was my first month in DC, July, and it was one of the hottest and stickiest in recent memory. Well past midnight, it was still sweltering as I walked back from a show at a club near U Street. ...I almost stepped on it, an oily, black monstrous thing that scuttled across the sidewalk and made me leap in terror. "What was that!" I shrieked before my feet even made it back to earth. My friends shot me amused glances with smirking, crooked smiles. "Haven't you ever seen a roach before?" they teased.

The truth was, not really. Growing up in the suburbs in upstate New York, I'd squirmed over the occasional spider and dashed around my living room trying to chase mice out my back door, trying to stay one step ahead of my eager cat. I’d managed to make it through life in a college dormitory, sharing a house with six and then four roommates in England and America, and slept in hostels all over Europe, some of them admittedly questionable, without ever having a truly traumatic insect experience. I'd seen a cockroach, once that I can remember, in a boyfriend's rather squalid Albany apartment, but it's barely half inch-long body—though horrifying enough at the time—did nothing to prepare me for what I would encounter after moving to the nation's capital.

The bug that had run under my foot I soon found to be the first of an army of such creatures, all scurrying and scuffling between the sidewalk and the dark recesses of the rowhouse steps. I found myself tap-dancing along the cement, terrified that my flip-flopped feet would meet with one.

Soon enough, though, the weather finally began to cool, and the sidewalks seemed safe again. I’d lived in my new apartment a month and a half without incident, and was beginning to feel confident, if not cocky. I left open bags of chips in my room, and made only half-hearted attempts to vacuum up crumbs. If there were a problem, surely I would have seen some sign by now.

Then it happened. I was sitting on my bed and saw something scurry out of the corner of my eye. My carpet’s pattern made it hard to make out, but my first thought was that a little mouse had gotten upstairs. That idea, though troubling, wasn’t all that bad. I actually find mice to be rather cute; my stepbrother had a couple as pets when we were kids. It would have just been a question of safeguarding my chips...
But no. On closer inspection I saw that it was pretty small for a mouse, and also pretty…dark brown. And winged. And many legged. And antennaed. And, most of all, DISGUSTING. Compared to his cousin in Albany he wasn’t just the King of All Roaches—he was Roachzilla.

In an instant I had drawn all four limbs up into a tight ball of self-preservation as far as I could lift myself from the floor without the actual ability to levitate. To touch the tainted carpet with my toe would have been anathema. It might as well have been made of lava.

But as my insect enemy made his rapid advance across my floor, my resolve began to stiffen. I quickly realized if he disappeared into a fold of carpet or behind a dresser all was lost, and I sprung into action. Leaping for a shoe, I managed to back him into the wall by the door, and, as I threw it open, he scrambled into the hall. We tangled for a minute or so, each of my slams just barely missing him and knocking him to the next stair, until I figured, three or four steps down, he was far enough away from my room and I could forgo the highly distasteful conclusion of a very large, very gross smoosh on my sole.

Of course, not long after, I seriously regretted this decision, lying in bed with no hope of sleep and no lack of imagination.