Hungover Saturday afternoon, one of those broke days-deciding whether to spend my last couple of bucks on laundry, or ramen and a 40 oz'er, or a newspaper. As my ramen boils merrily away, I watch a cockroach scurry from behind the refrigerator toward a mess near the stove. He flits about it and I imagine his celebratory dance: "More food! Look, more food! Whoo hoo!"
I don't even bother to step on them anymore. I figure it's a useless waste of energy. There's millions where that one came from, and I see an odd parallel between his life and mine. He runs around and does what he need to do to get by, then slips between the cracks into the darkness to do god knows what. Do they sleep? Do they have extended roach families? Boggles the mind. His only worry is the shoe. Or rolled up newspaper of some hulking, light-blocking behemoth to crush him. Whereas my worries extend to some dim sloth in his auto recklessly careening into me, making a fusion of flesh, concrete, metal, and blood.
Meanwhile my ramen has boiled its life span and is sizzling. I grab the spice packet, shake it a bit and add in. Tonight it's "Oriental Flavor." It makes one wonder: did the holy grand guru poo bahs of the hidden secret society of spice packets travel to the exotic eastern lands of Thailand, Laos, and China, and all the rest to finally settle on these granules to best represent that continent? I doubt it, but it makes me wonder. But, any good-type substance you can buy 7 for a dollar, you shouldn't split hairs over.
So I walk over to the fridge, thinking: oh shit! I left three beers in there last night. My roommates had better not have gotten to them. I yank open the door and forage around through half-empty condiment jars and find the solo prize: a 16-fluid ounce can of malt liquor. Whew, it's a good thing too. I tried to imagine what the police and coroners would say when finding the bodies of my dear roomies strewn about.
CORONER: These people look like they were ripped and slashed by some crazed demonic animal.
POLICE: Yeah, it's grisly but the assailant says one of the victims took his last beer.
CORONER: Ohhh. Hmmm, that's toughie.
POLICE: Yeah. Son, we're gonna take the corpses away now. And let this be a lesson, stash your beers in your room the next time.
I went to sleep after my noodles and beer and kept having this crazy dream of a gigantic cockroach dancing on two hind legs grasping packets of ramen and cold malt beer, dancing on my stove with all four burners on, piping orange hot. Repetitively chanting a mantra in his screechy little cockroach voice:
-DV96
