Diary of a Cockroach-Killer

The very first day I arrived in my dorm, a small brown mouse greeted me from underneath my desk. “Welcome to New York,” it seemed to say before scurrying off to welcome other suitemates, no doubt.

Well, the mouse and its brethren continued to make frequent visits, at one point sampling 10 of my granola bars (and forcing me to take a hiatus on my granola bar and squirrel food consumption since the mental association was too much).  Daily screams could be heard throughout my hall, as the mice paid visits to other female suitemates. The security guard would run in, be ready to use his/her training, and then dejectedly walk out upon discovery that it was just a mouse sighting.

After spotting mice regularly in the kitchen and in the bathroom, my suitemate decided to plant some poison. Since then, haven’t heard from any mice.

So I was dismayed when I heard scurrying around in my room again. I was working on an assignment, listening to Janet Jackson on Pandora, and heard the scurrying. I put the music on mute just to make sure it wasn’t a sound effect. And to my horror, there was a huge cockroach exploring the smooth terrain of my plateware next to me. Fabulous.

I didn’t scream. This was it. This was the moment when I would transition from being a newbie to a true New Yorker (never mind that I might leave). Like… becoming an adult. Or puberty.

The first thing I did was what any student caught in the middle of working online would do- I changed my Gchat status. To: “world’s biggest cockroach crawling over my plateware.” Now to be fair, I just spent about an hour trying to reconfigure my Twitter life, downloading an iPhone app and tinkering around online. So “ambient online intimacy” was on the brain.

The damn roach kept scurrying. I didn’t really care *that* much since it wasn’t going to harm me. I don’t live in a pile of filth, so I wasn’t insulted by its presence. But the sound it made, hitting up against plastic bags,  evoked images of half-chewed out Kashi bars from the mice-reign days. And those infuriatingly squirmy little antennae. Blech. It was too much to bear.

So then I made a series of bizarre decisions that frankly made me question my common sense.

First, I opened the door, just like I would for any guest that overstayed its welcome. Looking back, that wasn’t very rational (and probably could be explained away by Malcolm Gladwell). What, was the roach going to tip its hat, say “good day, ma’am?,” and exit?  And then I thought about taking a picture of it (again, I was on the whole online-social-mindset).

Second, I changed my Gchat status to “big but probably regular-sized cockroach crawling over my plateware.” Because my biggest concern at this moment was Gchat status accuracy. Goodness, is this what j-school has done to me?

Third, I googled “kill cockroach” and was brought to a frustrating page of many paragraphs on roach spray. Unhelpful. Then I googled “kill cockroach crush.” Meaning with a shoe, not repressing an infatuation with an insect. “OMG I think Roach was just looking at me!”

I was cheered to know you could indeed kill cockroaches manually. For some reason I thought you couldn’t, or that it was a really bad idea. Too many Men in Black viewings (like when the giant alien is offended by Will Smith stepping on a cockroach).

Fourth, as it scurried back under my desk (was it TRYING to get my attention?) I threw my Croc shoe at the roach, and it quickly dodged it a la Pres. Bush. Then the roach ran back, as I grabbed my Croc again and realized that I was holding a CROC shoe, which is made of the softest, nicest rubber wannabe material ever. Not exactly a murder weapon. No wonder the roach scurried back. It felt sorry for my pathetic attempt and taunted me for another try.

Fifth, I grabbed my newest shoe, a Tommy Hilfiger patent leather loafer, out of the 10 other pairs by my door,  because I subconsciously wanted to ruin my nicest shoe. Right. So I smashed the little vermin. And smashed it again. Yucky-smelling black gunk oozed out of the bludgeoned roach. Then I quarantined my shoe outside in the hall.

I saw the roach’s  antennae moving, so I put it out of its misery, taking the other loafer (again, why did I want to use my best shoes? Was this pent-up anger at buying nice shoes? Hmm.) and smashing it repeatedly and dragging it around the floor.

Then I swept it up, wiped down my shoes, and threw away the carcass. Then I decided to blog about it.

Here is a recap of a similar but more hyper centipede killing of 2007. Because no insect murder is complete without online publishing.