Making Friends

The room is dark. It is warm and a garbage can ripe with the smell of old food in the corner attracts the roach. The roach scurries along a cheap tile floor from a crack in the wall. An Arby's wrapper lies next to the trashcan. It has been there for a while. Some grease and a bit of some old hard cheese the roach finds particularly interesting clings to the paper. It is hungry. It scrambles over the smooth paper and begins feeding on the processed cheddar. The roach moves from that to a small puddle of the grease. Its legs push into the skin on top of the grease and its pincers bite through. Wings flit at random.

Without notice a blazing fluorescent light floods the room and the roach scurries under the ledge of a wooden wall. It anxiously looks back at the yellow greasy substance it was nibbling on the paper. Tremors spread across the floor as a large human walks into the room. The roach's antennae twitch quickly as the man turns to a dingy white fridge and opens the door. More light fills the room along with a rush of cold air, carrying with it the smell of more food. The man scratches himself through a hole in his boxers. He removes a plate of meat and shuts the door. The roach takes several nervous steps back as the man's feet crash toward it. They stop, facing the cabinet door the roach hides under. The smell of decay wafts from the man's feet, from his whole body.

Some rustling sound comes from above. The roach tentatively steps out from under the ledge to get a better look. A small piece of white meat lands in front of the roach with a thud. The roach looks up at the man eating the meat with his hands. He bites into a large portion, gripping the bone tight. While the man eats, a few smaller pieces drop to the ground. Risk appears small. The roach steps within eyesight of the man and bites into the meat. It tastes relatively fresh. The fridge door closes and the light flashes to darkness again. As suddenly as the man arrived, he leaves. The roach crawls back to the crack in the wall.

In the afternoon of the next day the roach again exits the crack in the wall and sees the same paper and the same bits of meat about the floor. The roach looks up. The same plate appears to be on the ledge above it. It smells like it's up there, too. The roach heads for the wall and begins crawling up. About halfway up the wall, a long creaking sound flows through the room. The roach freezes. The creaking stops, repeats, and then ends in a slamming sound. The roach scampers up the wall and on to a flat surface above the floor. The counter is a whole new world. Several porcelain and paper plates are spotted with more old food. The whole surface is contoured with dirt and stains and a few spots of mold. This excites the roach but the enormous plate of meat on the new level distracts it. The roach is higher up than last night so the tremors of the man's feet are barely noticeable. The smell of meat is too enticing.

The roach darts from plate to plate, pausing under the raised lips of each. As the roach makes its way to the mountain of white meat, the man is thrusting keys into the pocket of his blue shorts and slamming his blue hat featuring a USPS logo into a trashcan. The roach, overcome with hunger lust, scales the leftover chicken despite the man. The man does not notice. He is busily grumbling, rubbing wet red eyes, and rifling through the sparse items of the refrigerator. The roach has made it into the body of the aging meat as the man wheels around, remembering the same. He pulls off the other small leg and opens the bottle of barbeque sauce. A few drops through the breast startles the roach and it runs out into the light, freezing in full sight of the man. He speaks a few gurgling words and bites into the leg. The roach panics and makes for the wall.

The man does not react, only watches it go and continues eating. This is unusual. The roach expected to be attacked by now. It freezes behind an open bag smelling of sour cream and onion. It could scramble down the wall and into the crack, but that meat is so attractive. The roach carefully steps out from under the bag just as the man's hand sails down toward it. The roach speeds toward the wall, climbs down quickly, and slips back through the crack. The man finds the bag empty.

It is late morning. After the roach has kept out of sight for hopefully long enough, it enters the tempting kitchen once again. The roach crawls across the linoleum to the cabinet of the first night. Just then, the roach sense the man's tremors and hides securely in the corner. Returning is no longer and option.

A second roach's antennae emerge from the crack. The first notices them and tries to indicate how dangerous the situation could get. The second is younger and does not understand. It climbs out on to the dirty floor and heads toward the first roach. The first turns toward the second. They meet in the middle as the man steps into the kitchen. This was also unusual. He was never around at this time before. He stops. All motion has stopped in this room.

He is holding a bowl in one hand. He's wearing the same boxers and a tee shirt with an In-N-Out Burger logo on the right side of the chest. The fabric is old and threadbare. Holes and stains speckle both pieces of clothing. A drop of white cream falling from the spoon in the bowl to the floor breaks the stillness in the room. The second roach watches the drop of sugar, just short of the man's yellow, long toenails. The first roach, unable to do anything, watches the second rush out to it.

The man watches, too. He speaks a few words, opens up the freezer and retrieves a box of ice cream. He pulls the scoop from the sink, avoiding the roach enjoying a spot of sugar, and scoops the last of the box into the bowl. He tosses the box at the full garbage can. It bounces off the heap and crashes down toward the first roach, watching this exchange. Suddenly it darts toward the second roach as the box lands behind it sending more spots of ice cream over the floor.

The man stands next to the counter looking over the picked-over carcass of the Safeway bird and then to the two roaches eating his leftover ice cream. The wary roach runs back a few inches as the man brings the plate around and down to the floor next to the garbage can. He speaks a few words and takes his bowl out of the kitchen. The smaller roach abandons the ice cream droplets and climbs over the mountain of chicken. The larger roach follows suit.

Over the course of the following night, more roaches and then flies join the feast. The man does not return to the kitchen until the early afternoon of the next day. Nearly all of the chicken is gone by now after a night of insects devouring it. The man staggers back at the number of new guests. The chicken carcass is teeming with roaches and a few others are gathered around the diminishing spots of dried ice cream. A light cloud of flies circles over the top of the garbage.

The original roach, eating crumbs from an old baking pan on the stove, watches the man. Several minutes pass as the man looks on at his lively kitchen. A few spiders have moved in around the window frame on the wall above the garbage can. The man speaks a few slow wondering words. He kneels to get a closer look at the menagerie. When hunger whines again, he turns to the fridge and removes a can of soda and a packet of lunchmeat. He attempts to stand up but decides to sit where he is and watch his new company.

He opens the vegetable drawer and removes an orange. He rolls it toward the unrecognizable chicken. Roaches scatter from the plate as the orange bumps into it. The roach on the baking pan dashes toward the edge, looking as the others scatter. The man laughs, sitting in the cool breeze from the refrigerator. A half an hour later, the man has finished off two packets of bologna, half a block of cheddar and three sodas.

He finally climbs to his feet. The empty bags and cans remain where he sat. Watching from the counter, the roach preens its antennae. This is all unusual. The smaller roach, biting into the fatty pieces of old chicken strip breading, doesn't notice.

During the next few days, the man spends more time in the kitchen. The refrigerator is looking sparser as he rarely leaves the house anymore. The pantry next to the fridge is another source of food for the man's guests. The bag of sugar will likely never be used for any cooking. He leaves trails of it around the floor and counter, inviting the ants to march in the random designs. And old bag of cinnamon serves the same purpose. Four oranges are half devoured and several roaches inhabit two browned onions. The window frame is almost completely coated in webbing. Some nights the man sleeps on the kitchen floor. The first roach remains wary, never straying too far from the now busy crack in the wall.

The fluorescent lights do not scare the insects away anymore. The man bids a greeting to his friends and cheerfully makes a breakfast of raw spaghetti and Taco Bell hot sauce packets. He speaks freely now to his only friends: calling them by name, asking questions and telling jokes. The roach never warms to this reception. The flies stay close to him, though. They can avoid danger a lot easier than the roach. It feeds on the various old pieces of food he leaves out for the other bugs, but steadfastly avoids the man.

The newly added small television to the kitchen during one of the man's few excursions from his home becomes the focus of the day's activity. He flips to a news channel featuring a talk show among rival politicians and engages a spider in discussion of foreign affairs. In the middle of a three-point response, a roach crawls over the man's foot and he squeals in surprise. He laughs, staggering back and catches himself on the counter crushing a line of ants. The rest of the chain scatters in confusion. He gasps. He looks at his hand. The roach watches him. He knows that it knows. He turns on the sink to wash away the evidence, but there's no water. Cursing the bills, he grabs the towel hanging in the refrigerator's door handle. As he wipes the bloody and dismembered bodies of the ants away, he glances over to the roach. He tries to apologize. A few of the ant segments move in reflex on his hand. He stamps his hand on the towel and wipes it hurriedly. None of the other insects seem to notice. The ant line he rent asunder is slowly materializing again. His hands are relatively clean. A faint shade of maroon still lingers on his palm. The man leaves the refrigerator and a freezer door wide open in apology and does not return to the kitchen for the rest of the day. After an hour or so, the roach relaxes and concentrates more on eating.

The man spends the whole day and night out of the kitchen. To make up for his atrocity, the man lays out several thawed fillets of chicken from the freezer the next day. It is a feast. Not only are slabs of chicken on the menu, but the last of the rotten potatoes, the last can of tuna fish, and half a box of fish sticks. He nibbles one of the fillets along with a raw hot dog. He hasn't cooked in months. During the feast, the man even offers a bit of tuna specifically to the roach on the counter. He has named it Bob after his old boss. It only runs back to the crack in the wall. Other insects immediately bite into it, however.

At 3:30 in the afternoon, the man is laughing over cops and criminals on television with a few roaches on his lap, collecting crumbs. He absently scratches the top of his head. In unison, the fridge light, the fluorescents and the television die. Just then his stomach turns. It turns and knots in a way he's never felt before. He rolls to his back and groans. He writhes and moans for quite a while. The roach watches again, only from the floor. These new sounds draw it back in. The zoo around him continues as it has, only the creatures therein avoid the flailing man. During the thrashing, the man kicked a rotted orange rind toward the roach and it scurried away again to the crack in the wall. The roach moves on from this house. The smaller one goes with it.

The man holds his stomach tight. Before too long he is still again, perfectly still. The man remains there, not moving for days. Only the sounds of the insects and the more and more occasional phone ring disturb the stale silence.

Fate spares the roach and its companion from the massacre at the house. Other humans show up to take the man away and return the kitchen to an ancient former glory. First physical attacks and then poisons clear the entire kitchen of its inhabitants. Men and women come in to scrub and disinfect after the initial cleaning of the bugs and rotted food. The two roaches never return, never witness the slaughter, the cleaning. They move on to another nearby home where a dog's food dish presents a daunting target for the man's old friends.