Sandra brought the one of the last small boxes upstairs. We had finally done it, finally after three years of dating, of trying to figure out where we left this or that — at my place or hers — we were going to be in the same place, waking up in the same bed, every day. Just a little more furniture and a few more boxes to go.
As soon as my head finished with the words “every day,” a knot formed in my stomach. In the rush to move together, to cement our relationship, I had forgotten how much I cherished those days, usually once or twice a month, where I was able to wake, alone, without prompting from an alarm clock or another being with an ever-so-slightly different biological clock.
Sandra was a great woman to be with, this relationship never seemed to be a mistake, and the desire to be apart was a desire to be alone, no more. And now, being alone, here in Los Angeles, would be a rare thing.
Sandra saw the concern in my forehead and asked “are you OK?” At that moment, as if on cue, a large, brown cockroach ran from the baseboard to the center of the room. I jumped back.
Sandra, originally from New York, took no mercy on me or the roach, launching her left sneaker onto the roach quickly and effectively. An audible crunch, leaving a three inch circle of roach juice on her shoe and the floor. Yuck.
“You just killed the welcoming committee” I said jokingly. “In this neighborhood, they don’t bring the new neighbor a pie, they take it from them… one bite at a time.”
Sandra’s eyes followed the wall. As quick as a cat, she moved. Crunch, splat and another circle of roach juice. I opened my computer and looked to see if I could find the landlord’s number. I dialed, panicking as every dark spot in the apartment seemed to move. The call went to voice mail.
“Mr. Landry? This is Mike Rafael. We seem to have a problem here with roaches. Please call me at 323-555-1212 when you get this.”
Crack, splat, crack, splat. Sandra had killed another four in the last minute. They started appearing though cracks in the floor — coming up from nearly everywhere. Hundreds, no thousands of them.
Crack, splat. Crack, splat. Crack, splat.
I picked up two of the most valuable boxes to put back into the van. After I put them in the truck bed, ten huge, brown, disgusting roaches crawled out of the bottom box. They scurried into the front of the truck. There was no stopping them.
Sandra followed with a couple of clothing boxes. She dropped them in the van and one popped open. Another twenty or so jumped out of the box and scurried to the front.
“Let’s get out of here” I said. Sandra nodded and we went over to her Mazda and hopped in. No roaches! We pulled away, the boxes sitting in the wide open van as we pulled the U-ey. At the first stop light, Sandra pulled off her shoes and tossed them into the overgrown weeds next to the sidewalk. We sped off, driving as fast as we could — to the PCH, then up toward Oxnard. Not a roach to be found.
Back at the apartment, Mr. Landry walked around the truck carrying a soggy, full grocery bag and smiling. Then he went inside and looked at the open boxes. As soon as he entered, the tide of roaches scurried into the cracks, like water flowing down a storm drain. He phone beeped, the deposit had cleared. “Thanks, guys! You did an exceptional job today” tossing the grocery bag, full of half rotting food, into the apartment below. He picked up a pretty new iPod, popped the earphones in, and pressed play, dancing out of the apartment to the sounds of another triumph.
Flechewounds 