by A. R. Braun
No.
Terry had to concentrate so he’d learn these lines. Reading for the pilot of a sitcom called My Brother the Bozo, he found himself chuckling aloud, surprised by his high-pitched laughter.
On the computer screen, Orkin advertised at the right of his e-mail provider, and huge cockroaches with human eyes crawled all over the ad. Terry quit laughing.
What if the little bastards laid eggs inside me? Are they incubating? Will they . . . “Oh God, stop it!”
Of course, that was impossible. The acid in his stomach wouldn’t allow any life, but what about his ears? What was in there to stop them, wax?
Terry took another sip of java, wincing because it had grown cold. Then he jumped. He knew hallucinations were a part of schizophrenia, but one would have to admit the giant cockroach sitting on the bed was unsettling. It sat cross-legged, many times. The top two legs served as arms and made gestures as it began to speak with Terry.
“You know when they spray,” the insect said with a voice like scratching in a tin can as its feelers writhed above its head, “they mix several poisons together because we build up a tolerance to one toxin. Hell, we’ll be the only ones left after you people nuke the planet into oblivion.”
“Shut up!” Terry cried with his hands over his ears, and his “friend” disappeared.
The way Terry lived before, if roaches infested the house, the only thing to do was burn it down. Terry couldn’t afford an exterminator. And burn it down he had, although he’d made it look like an accident.
A commotion rose in the hallway. Terry dropped the script and stomped into the living room to make sure he’d locked the door. He had, but then he noticed a small hole near the light switch in the living room. Terry meant to contact the housing authority tomorrow, which was perfect, because he didn’t get his phone turned on ‘til then. He had to watch his pennies. Terry grabbed the duct tape.
The light from the window cast lines of yellow radiance on his hands because the blinds were down in the living room. He ripped off a couple of strands of tape, walked over and put the layers over the small opening. That was as good a trap as flypaper.
Terry returned to the script. His mind couldn’t help but wander though, as if a sentient consciousness had assumed control within his being.
Terry remembered the glue traps he used to set behind the couch. He’d put off looking at them, not wanting to know what he’d caught. And when Terry had forced himself to check it out, the roach would look more like a transformer spaceship: legs locked in perpetual halted motion, mouth open, feelers stuck out in a broken-looking fever pitch. It seemed to say, You stopped me, but my family will avenge my death.
Terry had heard the cockroaches he’d seen on the walls or in the sink were the ones that couldn’t live with the colony. Terry hoped he’d never see a colony.
“Fuck!” Terry threw the script on the table, sending up dust that the sun’s rays silhouetted into a sickening cloud. “Why can’t I concentrate on my script?”
Had they laid eggs inside him that survived, forcing a symbiosis with his mind? Like a Lovecraftian nightmare—the things that should not be.
“All right, that’s it!” Terry leafed through the phone book, looking for a headshrinker. “I need therapy! This must be a delusion.” Terry studied the DSM IV when he needed to get inside the mind of a villain he read for. So he knew the score. He needed help.
Terry found a shrink that looked affordable, called and made an appointment. There had been a cancellation, and he could come tomorrow. As Terry hung up, he fought for control.
Terry knew they sprayed and baited, then why the hell was he so scared? Hell, his heart rate had gone up as if he were jogging. The pesky thoughts repeated. Terry thought of the other night when he’d been talking with his neighbors as they sat outside the apartment building on the warmest day this spring had offered. How they’d seen roaches on the elevator and in the hallways; how if one went to the food bank, one could bring home roach sacks because the Christian Outreach Center was infested.
Terry had raided the pantry a few days ago. He hadn’t won a part in a month, even though he was reasonably handsome, albeit not perfect with a hook nose and lack of a tan. However, it took him longer than most to assimilate a script into his brain . . . just lately.
Assuming it was trauma from the hellholes he’d lived in before, Terry decided an early lunch would clear his mind. He headed for the café around the block.
Wincing at the chilly breeze, Terry came around the back of the Skyscraper Restaurant. He couldn’t help stare at the dumpster as he headed toward the front of the eatery. Anxiety filled him like lard. He eyed the scraps of food: the browning lettuce and the bits of un-chewed burger that looked red enough to be mooing. An almost irresistible urge to dive in and feed on the scraps took him.
My God, was he that hungry? Or was it something else? Could it be . . . no, couldn’t be.
The restaurant stood on the bottom floor of a skyscraper, of course. He walked in and sat down while leafing through a menu, hearing the chatter and clatter of the patrons and the staff. The sun shone in the window so brilliantly he had to shield his eyes, placing his hand over the side of his face. He blinked at the greasy stains on the laminated list of meals.
This dive reminded him of a fast food restaurant he’d worked at as a teenager that had a roach problem—The Come Inn Place. He’d seen them crawling on the walls as he’d pounded out tenderloins. Terry would never eat there again. He made a mental note to tell everyone “Never give them your patronage.”
After a while, a pudgy woman with red, curly hair that had obviously been bound with curlers asked him what he would have.
Terry surveyed the menu for a few more seconds. In one of the booths, an angry boyfriend railed on his girlfriend while mock-hitting her. Terry thought he ought to go over there and show him how to treat a lady.
The waitress gave a rueful smirk that somehow turned into a smile. “I’m not getting any younger.”
That was for damn sure. Her crow’s feet and laugh lines scored her skin like scars.
“I’ll have the chiliburger with fries and a Coke.”
She wrote in her pad and took his menu. “Comin right up.”
Terry glanced back at the couple. Now they were making out.
Wow. I wonder how her secretions taste. Then Terry flinched at the thought. Why had he just pondered such a thing?
Terry pictured the couple leaving dishes in the sink. Maybe they didn’t take their trash out for a while—lots of . . . munchies.
Terry’s eyes goggled. He took a drink of water, his hands shaking so badly he almost dropped the glass. Sweat cascaded down his face. He told himself it was impossible to turn into a cockroach—they didn’t have souls. However, Terry couldn’t wait ‘til his appointment with the psychiatrist.
The waitress brought his greasy plate of food. “Enjoy.”
Outside, a bag lady pushed a shopping cart full of junk.
Did she hold a pet roach in her hand?
Terry lifted the bun to make sure they hadn’t put pickles on his burger. They had, the bastards. Then he found what looked like a strand of hair . . . or a cockroach’s feeler.
Terry raised his hand. “Check, please!”
Terry visited a barber shop to get his head shaved because the part called for it. He thought it a better alternative than trying another restaurant. When back at the homestead, he tramped into the kitchen, opened the cupboard and tore open a can of Hormel Chili. After cooking it in a pan, he dumped shredded cheese on it and cooked it in the microwave for a minute. Terry grabbed a plastic box of strawberries and a glass of skim milk, then took the bowl out, put it all on a tray and had lunch at his computer desk while he studied his lines.
Terry’s cell phone beeped. His ex-girlfriend, the psycho hose beast that texted him about ten thousand times a day, had sent him another message. He opened his flip phone and perused it.
Hey Terry don’t mean 2
Bug U. What R ya doin?
Bug me?
Ain’t U gonna text back?
U don’t care. U think I’m
a pest don’t U? Y or N?
A pest?
Terry closed the flip phone; enough of that.
Terry’s cell phone rang then; his ringtone was a riff his best friend, Tim, had ripped out on his guitar. Man, that guy can wail.
Terry flipped it open. “Hello?”
“Hey, Terry, what’s up?” Tim’s bass voice asked.
“Not a hell of a lot.”
“I’ve got the new Mortification CD. Wanna jam?”
Terry shook his head. “I’m studying my lines right now; how about Sunday night?”
“Yeah, that’s fine.”
Damn, I’m still hungry. “Will you bring snacks?”
Tim chuckled. “Snacks? Why? You havin a party?”
Terry had the irresistible urge to let him come now . . . if he brought snacks.
“Well, no, but . . .” Terry half answered. But what? Why did he long to devour sugar? “Bring snacks and you can come now!” Terry closed the phone.
Terry shook his head, putting his face in his hands. What was he doing? Damn, he was freaking starving!
Terry forced himself to consume the delicious chili and strawberries. He couldn’t figure out why he craved sugar so and didn’t want to know.
Tim never showed. He must have thought Terry was a weirdo for the comment about snacks.
Terry studied his lines until suppertime, forcing himself to focus. It was the damndest thing, though. The script had a part where he caught his brother the bozo not taking out the trash or washing his dishes. The script called for Terry to freak out over the roaches in the sink. Suffice to say, he didn’t have much of an appetite.
Terry fixed a salad. He sat on the soft couch and flicked on cable TV. The Discovery Channel had a show about . . . roaches.
Terry switched the channel. He brought up VH1 Classic and they had a “Totally Nineties Marathon.” The video for “Breathe” by Prodigy came on . . . and roaches writhed around in the sink.
“Oh, shit! What the fuck is going on?”
Then a Marilyn Manson video came on. More roaches in the sink.
“I think I’ll watch a movie.”
Of course, Terry had plenty of movies, being an actor. He searched his shelves. One of the DVDs caught his eye.
They Crawl.
“I think I’ll have supper at the dining table.”
Terry turned the TV off, walked over and sat at the table, forcing the images of the cockroaches out of his mind by ignoring his thoughts, which was the only thing that worked—tricking his mind by ignoring it. He’d made the bitter salad delicious by cutting up green peppers and sprinkling grated cheese on it. He was able to finish the food and a bottle of water.
Terry made damned sure he washed the dishes and secured the lid on the garbage can. Better yet, he decided to take out the trash. After the obsequious duty, Terry came back in, turned off the beeping phone and studied his lines until bedtime.
When finished, he found his back ached from sitting in the chair. He reached around and rubbed it. His back felt abnormally hard . . . chitinous even. Terry started to hyperventilate from a panic attack and rose to grab a paper sack from under the sink. He breathed into it until he could control his lungs. His heart did blast-beats, and sweat dripped off his face. And didn’t roaches breed in sacks from the grocery store? Terry put them all in one of the empty fruit or vegetable storage drawers in the icebox. He’d heard insects couldn’t survive in cold conditions.
Huge Roach appeared again, sitting at the dining table, its legs motioning like before. “See?” the grating voice asked. “You’re cracking up. You know we’ll win. We always do.”
“Shut up! Roaches can’t talk. You’re not real!” Terry closed his eyes, clamped his hands over his ears and forced himself to breathe deeply. He’d read in NATURAL CURES “THEY” DON’T WANT YOU TO KNOW ABOUT that breathing heavily all day could even cure cancer because the disease couldn’t live in an oxygen-rich environment. When he opened his eyes, his “buddy” was gone.
Terry decided he was imagining things, or maybe his muscles had hardened from working out yesterday and sitting in the chair all day today.
“I wish someone was here to pop my back—pop it like an egg sack.” Terry bolted upright.
Perturbing, that.
Terry decided a good night’s sleep would be the best thing. After he saw his shrink tomorrow, perhaps he’d feel better. Terry brushed his teeth, rinsed with mouthwash, stripped down to his underwear, and went straight to bed.
The next morning, Terry stared hard at the mirror. He imagined two long strands of hair—actually feelers—poking their way out of his forehead even though the barber had shaved his head. Terry imagined he could sense things with them—the food in the garbage, the water dripping from the faucets, the food next door. He even imagined his vision becoming blurry.
Nothing like that happened. Terry drew a few deep breaths, relaxed, and . . .
Terry’s eyes grew wide as he felt a violent stirring in his brain, as if his mind was about to become unglued and crack into several pieces. Then he felt his eardrums stretch. It was the worst pain he’d ever felt in his life, as if someone had pinpricked him with nine inch nails. He trembled as trickles of warm blood oozed out of his ears.
Then the cockroaches climbed out.
Terry batted at them as they poured out of his ear canals, smashing a few; however, most of the bugs tickled him as they crawled down his neck and onto his chest, entangling in his chest hairs. He thought of how the insects carried a wide number of diseases—diseases now in him.
“Ewwwww!” Terry struggled with shaking hands to knock them off. They clacked as they hit the floor.
That’s when he fainted.
Terry came to a few minutes later, and black spots flashed before his eyes. His mind assaulted him with panic as he remembered the cockroaches pouring out of his ears. Terry eyed the floor surreptitiously, not wanting to find any roaches writhing around. Mercifully, there were none. Then he felt his ears—not bloody. He rose quickly and looked at the mirror, twisting his head to get a good look at one ear, then the next.
No blood. No pain in his head.
At first, he was relieved, but when Terry realized he must be losing his mind, a panic attack attempted to rape his mind.
“Oh my God, I’ m going insane!”
“That’s right,” said the tinny voice of the huge cockroach hallucination, this time peering over his shoulder and making Terry feel as if a punk walked over his grave. Then he slapped himself.
“It’s not real. It’s a delusion.”
“Uh-huh,” the buggy voice disagreed, putting two cockroach legs on Terry’s shoulders that dug into his skin a bit, racking him with pain. Huge Roach “peered” in the mirror again.
“Ugh!” Terry shook off the legs and writhed. “Ew!” The huge hallucination scampered off, thudding into the bedroom. Was that where it lived? Terry shook his head with stealth, telling himself he wasn’t seeing this grotesquerie. He needed to get to the headshrinker right away.
A horrible thought took him like a rapist. Terry turned slowly, craning his neck so he could see his back in the mirror.
A hard, brown shell was not forming. He was indeed sore from working out and sitting so much.
Terry threw on a shirt and headed to the psychiatrist’s office.
On the subway, Terry found the seat uncomfortable because his back was so stiff he couldn’t lean back and relax. He listened to the train roar across the tracks and then realized the chatter of the other passengers had subsided. Terry looked up from his newspaper.
They were staring at him—gawking even—businessmen and women, teenagers and homeless people alike.
Terry felt itching on his neck. He searched for the cause and caught two hard, oval shapes in his hand, which he grasped and held out so he could see them. Terry cried
out like a schoolgirl and threw the cockroaches on the floor. They scampered away with incredible speed.
The other passengers laughed at Terry as he shyly looked them over. He imagined being able to smell the body odors of the homeless people and the perfume and cologne of the businesspeople, so sweet and fresh.
This is nonsense! I’m delusional!
Terry mused over this assumption. Had the two roaches been visual and tactile hallucinations?
Then why are they staring?
The teenagers pointed and laughed. “Hey, cockroach boy! Look, it’s cockroach boy!”
A businessman munched on a Little Debbie snack cake. Terry imagined bounding out of his seat and snatching it away from him, then shook off the asinine thought.
The businessman scowled. “What are you looking at, you freak?” He whipped out his cell phone and placed a call. Terry imagined it was to the police.
When the train stopped, Terry hurried off, running to his appointment.
Terry knew where the psychiatric office was because he’d seen it before, right across the street from the convenience store. After registering with the secretary, a nurse came and got him, checked his vitals, and led Terry to the doctor’s office. Terry and the doctor sat across from each other in yellow and plush chairs.
Hmm, they must not use couches anymore. Or maybe that’s a myth.
“Hello. I’m David Terrington.” The curly-haired, middle-aged psychiatrist stuck his hand out.
Terry shook with him. The man’s grip was firm.
“Can you bill me for this appointment?” Terry asked.
Dr. Terrington frowned. “Oh, you’ll get a bill, don’t worry about that. And if you don’t pay it, don’t come back.”
Terry cocked his head. “Are you kidding?”
“Son, this is New York. I’m not kidding.” David sighed. “Now, what seems to be the trouble?”
Terry looked him in the eye. “I think I’m delusional. Can you tell me why I’d be thinking irrationally?”
“Well, actually, I just do psychiatry here. For therapy, you’d have to schedule an appointment with a psychologist.”
