by S. T. Joshi
“Get a grip!” Rob’s voice again, a snarl this time, and Ian knew he was hallucinating. Chilly now, he trembled, his exhale a suffocating gurgle of not getting enough air in or out that assured him he would never really get a grip.
He turned the knob and pulled open the narrow door. The bedside light showed him that inside was only an iron and ironing board, an empty shelf where the blanket had been, hangers on the pole, one holding a bag of liquid he had been told would absorb moisture so his clothes wouldn’t get mildewy. Finally, a broom and dustpan.
Ian quickly snatched up the broom, unsnapped the dustpan from the handle, and placed it on the shelf, then suddenly turned by instinct toward the small trash can near his suitcase under the window, near the foot of the bed. And was astonished to watch an enormous round bug—it had to be two or three inches across—crawl over the rim of the can, down the side to the floor, and move forward half a foot and stop. Ian thought it seemed to be looking at him as if sensing danger.
He didn’t know what to do. He didn’t kill bugs, even though he thought them disgusting, and this huge one particularly so. He caught them and put them outdoors in nature—an action Rob had always mocked him for. A quick look at the microwave shelf told him there was nothing he could use to catch this giant, shelled insect that was now exercising its wings as if it could fly. Maybe he could sweep it toward the door and out. Yes, that’s what he would do! He leaned back from the closet to the room door that led to the courtyard and twisted a little so he could open the lock. In that moment, he heard a distinct “No!”
His head snapped back. The insect was running in circles. And that scared Ian so much his wheezing intensified.
On impulse, he stepped toward the bug—it really was big!— and tried to catch it with the broom and thought he had. He began one quick and deliberate sweep toward the open door, but when he swept out the door, nothing went onto the outside landing.
“What . . . ?” And then he saw the bug racing up the broom handle. He let out a small shriek as he cast the broom away from him.
Before the broom hit the wall, the bug unfurled its wings and leapt off the handle in midair—yes, it could fly! It landed in pretty much the same spot as where it had started—between the trash can and Ian’s suitcase—then raced under the bed.
Now it was Ian’s turn to yell “No!”
He grabbed up the broom, bent over, and began sweeping under the bed, the bristles sideways so that they would pull everything out into the open. Nothing, just dust bunnies. Panicked, he did it again and again.
As he was about to give up, wondering how he would be able to sleep with this giant flying cockroach under his bed, the broom brought out the bug!
Ian tried to sweep it toward the door again, but it disentangled itself from the bristles. Before Ian could react, it ran the other way, moving faster than any insect he’d ever encountered, behind the trash can, up the wall of the little counter toward the snacks and the microwave, then right-angled and disappeared into a crack where the counter met the wall.
“No!” Ian said again, not quite so loud, not wanting to wake other guests who would see him in this naked, “hysterical” state, as Rob would have defined it. And Ian did feel like a madman.
He closed the room door, picked up the broom, and leaned it against the wall in preparation for further battle; then, feeling like the loser in a tournament, he sat on the bed, shoulders slumped, head in hands, body no longer chilly but now blazing, so hot that sweat seemed to gush from his pores. Everything looked strange, as if this place were not a physical environment but a dream world, and he wondered if he was dreaming or awake. Or dead. The wheezing from his chest assured him he was neither dead nor dreaming. He was gasping for air like a fish pulled from the water.
He picked up the salbutamol inhaler, did a test squirt to make sure the medication would come out, and exhaled a big, ragged breath; then, with the opening of the inhaler in his mouth, he pressed the little canister down into the top end of the inhaler’s elbow-shaped pipe to take in the medicine, sucking relief deep into his lungs. He repeated this twice more. He felt the Ventolin doing its job, relaxing the small muscles in the walls of the airways, allowing breath to flow in and out without the wheeze. Within minutes the clenched muscles relaxed completely, the obstructed bronchial tubes had unblocked, and he could breathe like a normal person again.
The enormous swell of heat subsided and with it the intense sweating. But now he was getting cold again, so he wrapped himself in the top sheet and blanket and took a sip of Coke, which no longer tasted wondrous.
Ian was used to the side effects of the asthma drug but had never gotten comfortable with the jackhammer heart, the quaking body, the headache that was not always present but when it was, it was a doozie. There was a list of other possible symptoms, some of which he suffered occasionally. But one symptom was psychosis. But he wasn’t psychotic—or at least he hoped he wasn’t.
He’d already started to tremble uncontrollably and was aware of his heart beating so fast and hard that it set his body to quivering even more. This was much worse than usual after using the inhaler, and worse than the flu symptoms, but maybe they’d mixed together. As always, he’d just have to wait it out. Hadn’t his mother always said—
“Keep calm. This will pass.”
Ian jolted. Rob’s voice again! Who said that? He looked around the room. Now that he could breathe he not only felt more confidence, but had the liberty of once again thinking about the giant bug and what to do.
As if on cue, the bug tentatively came through the crack in the wall in three stages of movement, then stopped and perched on the edge of the counter, antennae waving frantically in the air. It didn’t make a move toward or away from Ian.
“Don’t overreact!” it said, and Ian knew that the bug had said this, in Rob’s voice, and this was quickly followed by, “You’re not losing your mind. I’m your spirit animal.”
Unable to stop himself, Ian blurted out, “You’re not a bear or a wolf or a raven or an eagle. How can you be my spirit animal? You’re just a bug! A cockroach!”
“Palmetto.”
“What? What are you talking about?”
“I’m a Palmetto. You know, from the palm trees.”
Ian’s heart still raced, but the speed-like drug made his head much clearer, and he felt brave for once. “Why are you talking in Rob’s voice?”
“I’m not. You’re hearing his voice, like a translation from Palmetto to English.”
Ian grabbed his head just as the headache began to form. “This is crazy. I’m crazy! I’m losing my mind!”
“You’re just emotional. You’ve got to calm down.”
“Don’t tell me to calm down!” Ian’s hand shook as he reached for the can of Coke, so jittery he knocked it over, the remaining contents spilling onto the tile floor. “Now look what you made me do!”
“Ian, take it easy. You really are stressing yourself for nothing. It’s just liquid. It will dry. If you want, I’ll come over there and drink some of it if that will help.”
Ian grabbed his head as it began to throb in earnest. “Go away. Please! Just . . . go away. I’m having an aneurysm!”
“Such a drama queen! You’re not having an aneurysm. It’s just a headache from the meds.” Something Rob would have said. And still in his voice.
“I’m losing my mind! I’m about to have a stroke! I’m talking to a roach!”
“Palmetto.”
“God, stop!”
The creature was silent. Ian spent the next few minutes trying to control his quaking body and pounding heart, breathing deeply and slowing, struggling to relax his brain muscles so the headache would dim. And had enough success that he could contemplate mopping up the Coke.
Finally he stood and walked to the bathroom, scowling at the bug en route, who seemed to be following his movements if the shifting antennae were any indication. Washcloth in hand, he went back to the cola spill and mopped up as much as he could, having to
rinse out the washcloth and repeat. Finally he left the washcloth in the bathroom sink, came back to the bed, and re-wrapped himself in the shroud of sheet and blanket to counteract the flu chills that had now replaced the asthma-treatment trembling.
“Ian, I think you should sleep now. You’ll feel better with some sleep.” Rob’s voice again. But Ian also decided that sleep was the best solution to everything—the flu, the asthma, the Ventolin, the hallucination of a giant insect talking in Rob’s voice. All of it would dim and hopefully disappear with sleep. He lay back and closed his eyes, leaving the night table light on. He wanted to cry. Instead, he fell asleep.
* * *
Ian awoke to the sound of laughter and chatter. The sounds came from outside his window, and he remembered the pool was in that direction, so it must be guests using the pool. He heard one man say something about dinner on a ship docked on the east side of the island and two women with British accents agreeing that it sounded like a brilliant idea.
He sat up, feeling dizzy, and still sick. Once his head cleared a little, he got his feet to the floor and noticed it was sticky. Right, the spilled Coke. The broom stood against the wall. It all came rushing back to him.
“Talking to a bug. I’m really losing it now.”
He’d missed breakfast and, if the clock was right, lunch too, but he wasn’t hungry. He staggered to the microwave and retrieved the bag of veggie chips, pulled it open, and ate a few, then a few more while listening to the laughter and chatter outside from normal vacationers. Then he noticed the bag was empty but for crumbs, so he tossed it into the trash can, opened the foil packet of smoked almonds, and ate a few, and then put the packet back on the counter. He walked to the bathroom, peed, washed his hands, took a long drink from the tap, filled a glass with water for the night table, hoping foreign germs did not worsen his condition, and turned off the bathroom light.
Despite all the sleep, and the sheets damp and unpleasant from sweating for hours, he climbed back into bed. The rattle in his chest was mild and he decided not to use the inhaler until absolutely necessary. He’d try to sleep more and hope that the rest would cure him. It might not help but it can’t hurt, his mom always said. He switched off the night table light and sighed as his head hit the pillow.
* * *
When he woke again it was dark out. The lights in the room and the bathroom were off, and he only heard the soft whir above him, so it took a moment to remember where he was.
“Are you awake yet?” came Rob’s voice, and Ian tensed and held his breath. He sat up abruptly, waited out the ensuing vertigo now accompanied by nausea, then with a shaky hand reached over and switched on the lamp.
There it was, where it had been the night before, between the trash can and his suitcase, seemingly staring at him, antennae waving in his direction. Ian didn’t even bother with formally being shocked or repulsed by the creature or the voice. He just got right to it. “What do you want?”
“You need help.”
That made Ian laugh bitterly. “You want to help me, huh? By driving me crazy? I’m a sick man, or hadn’t you noticed?”
“I noticed. It will pass.”
“Oh, you’re a doctor too, not just a roach.”
“Palmetto. And no, I’m not a doctor, but my species has existed since the beginning of time and we’re aware of many things, like vibrations. You’re not at death’s door.”
“Thanks for the encouraging words.” Ian knew he sounded petulant and didn’t care. If he was psychotic, so be it. There were drugs for that and he’d get some when he got home . . . when . . . tonight! Yes! Relief flooded him. He checked the clock—four hours until the flight. He’d be out of here soon.
“So why are you talking to me? What’s this about, Mr. Palmetto?”
“You can leave off the ‘Mr.’ I’m female.”
Ian raised an eyebrow. “Too much information.”
“Not enough, really.”
“So why? What do you want?”
“You need an intervention.”
Ian laughed.
“Ian, I know you’re suffering. But I can help. I carry the wisdom of the ages. Of the universe.”
Ian snorted. “Right. With Rob’s voice.”
“I told you—it’s a translation issue. His voice is one you recognize and you give it authority.”
“Not anymore!”
“Are you sure about that?”
Ian took a sip of water. This insect had his number. Maybe he was nuts, hearing Rob’s voice, talking to this lowest of the low creatures, but hey, he was still pretty sick and had nothing much else to do before the flight, so he might as well converse with a roach. Palmetto.
“Okay, so how are you going to help me?”
“I’ll give you the key to unlocking your potential.”
“Oh, so you’re running a motivational workshop. How much?”
“You’re path involves destiny. Expediting the greater good.”
“What greater good?”
“Facilitating others in need. You will help the weak become strong.”
“Yeah, right!”
“Don’t be so cynical.” Rob’s voice and Rob’s exact words, and Ian sighed.
“All right, what should I do to become this powerhouse of transformation?”
“Well, first of all, you need to go home and cure yourself of this physical illness.”
“Thanks, I wouldn’t have thought of that.”
“More cynicism! Next, you’ve got yourself in a mess financially. Sublet your apartment and rent a smaller and cheaper one.”
Ian had, of course, thought of that, but the energy required seemed beyond what he was capable of.
As if reading his mind, the Palmetto said, “You’ve got to do it, even if you think you don’t have the energy. It will save you money and save your sanity by not going back to that place every night that evokes memories and sadness.”
The Palmetto gave Ian a moment to think that over, then said, “And you’ve got to get back into your job. This is not the time to change jobs. Stick it out. Your boss likes you or he would have fired your ass months ago.”
Ian signed again. “True. I’ve been a slacker.”
“Exactly. You have to pull yourself up. It’s over with Rob, he treated you badly, but shit happens and you’ve got to move on. Start with those three things and you will find yourself in a much better place.”
Ian felt chilly and pulled the covers around his shoulders. “You’re right. I have to do all those things. I feel so alone. I just wish I had someone to help me.”
“You do. You have me. I can help you recharge your life. And the best part is, when you’re solid again, I can help you get revenge.”
Ian didn’t like the sound of this. “What do you mean?”
“You can get back at Rob and anyone else who has ever hurt you. And don’t tell me you don’t want to. I can see your deeper desires.”
Ian was about to protest but realized that made no sense. He’d thought about revenge a lot—on Rob, and on others—so this wasn’t out of nowhere. “But how?”
“Oh, there’s a plan already in motion. And there will be help refining it. Don’t worry, it’s all sorted out. It’s what we do. We befriend the weak and helpless and they become strong and powerful beings.”
“Well, I’m not sure I want to know your plan. But how can that work anyway? I go home in a few hours. And you’re here.”
“Oh, I’m going with you!”
“What? No! Not happening. First of all, you’d infest my apartment. Second, you couldn’t survive the cold climate. Third, what do you mean by ‘with you’?”
“Infest your apartment? Really, Ian? One Palmetto? And my species can tolerate extremes. Besides, your place is heated, isn’t it?”
“I guess, but—”
“And when I say ‘with you,’ I mean I’ll be there as your advisor and confidante, helping you make the right decisions and taking action for the betterment of all species on this plane
t.”
Ian thought about this for a few seconds, listening as the whir of the fan in the room cut the air. He was hot now, pushing the covers off, sweating profusely. And his thoughts had become muddy again. Was Rob’s voice going to be with him forever? He had enough clarity to say, “So what are you getting out of this, Ms. Palmetto?”
“Everything. I’ll see new places and observe different human beings, expanding my knowledge base of your species. After all, you humans are fascinating, your strengths and weaknesses, your insecurities; we’ve been studying you for a very long time.”
“Why study us? We’re not that interesting.”
“Oh, but you are! You seem hell-bent on extinction, and my species has known we can help your species with that problem because we are survivors, if you’d only accept us in your world. My offer stands. Yes, or no?”
Ian’s body dripped sweat. He stared at his moist palms and thought about all that was said, or tried to, but his brain wasn’t functioning. He just knew one thing: he had to pack and get to that plane. When in doubt, decide nothing—that had always been his motto. Finally he said, “Thanks for the offer, but I can do this on my own.”
He looked up, but the Palmetto had disappeared from its spot between the trash can and his suitcase. Maybe the hallucinating was over. “Are you there?”
Nothing. That had to be a good sign.
He pulled himself to his feet, lurched to the carry-on, with effort lifted it onto the bed, and then opened it. A smear of brown covering his clothes suddenly started moving, undulating, like hundreds of Palmetto bugs, and he jumped back with a cry. Ian blinked; they were gone. Just his clean jeans and T-shirt and socks, so he took them out and dressed, then tossed into the suitcase everything on the night table and the opened foil packet of smoked almonds from the counter and his toiletries from the bathroom, the clothes he’d worn on the trip down, the inhaler, and then snapped the case closed. As he slipped on his runners, he grabbed his jacket from the back of the door and the room key in one hand, the carry-on in the other. He’d get to the tiny airport early and have something to eat there, then another hit from the inhaler—fewer symptoms on a full stomach. He’d be home by morning. All this would be behind him. No more flu. No more Rob-the-talking-roach. Palmetto! And he laughed so loud at that thought that he didn’t hear the foil crackling inside his suitcase.
