Fear the Crab

I’m not sure if I’ve mentioned this, but I have been using a titanium spork at work to assist in the consumption of comestibles. I first heard about this thing via ThinkGeek and felt that it would serve me well in The Office environment. In a stroke of pure genius and total lack of work on my part, I managed to secure myself a titanium spork as a gift (along with a squishy bowl set, which I also use at The Office).

I use the spork practically every day. I pack a home lunch and drop that utility-ous utensil in the box, give it a quick spritz of dish soap to rinse off after lunch, and bring it home for a proper scrub at night. It’s very handy.

Sometimes I don’t bring lunch from home. I still bring my lunch box, because it has my squishy bowls and I use them for my breakfast of championship oatmeal. Those days that I don’t bring home lunch, I generally try to find something to eat from places around The Office, and in a passing fit of environmentalism, I opt out of the plastic forks in favor of my metallic culinary weapon.

Such was the case yesterday. Since I had to go to the bank, I stopped by a plate lunch place (located in the Biomedical Building… relevant?) and secured me some herb-roasted chicken. As mentioned, I took no utensils and resolved to use the spork. I’m doing my part to reduce my carbon footprint! Despite the fact that the lunch came in a styrofoam container and that my feet are kinda small.

Fast forward past a fantastic serving of fowl, and the rest of the day is frapturously dull. So dull that I can make up words like frapturous, because it rhymes with craptastic.

I go home, open up my lunch box so that I can wash my bits, and I realize that I FUCKING LEFT THE SPORK IN THE PLATE LUNCH CONTAINER. The container that I threw out in the large garbage cans outside The Office building, that I now distinctly remember having no other such garbage so as to land directly at the bottom. The bottom of which undoubtedly has filled up since I dumped my container after lunch and only realized the spork was missing after dinner.

I figure, well hey, it’s only nine (8.99) dollars, plus shipping and handling. Yeah, it was a gift, but shift happens sometimes. On the other hand, it was 9 freakin’ dollars (plus s&h) and it was a freakin’ gift! Shift!

As if I didn’t have anything better to do, I stayed up late fretting about it.

This early morning I arrive at work, and it’s raining. I have my raincoat and lunchbox (sans spork) and I’m splashing through puddles as I make my way from the parking structure to The Office. I arrive at the building and stop at the garbage can. The garbage can that I threw away my food in. The garbage can that has been filled with other food containers since I left yesterday.

It’s still dark, as it is not yet time for the sun to wake. And it’s raining. Hard. I peek into the can (it has no lid) and see that yes, it is now halfway full. As I suspected, yes, there are food containers, likely filled with leftovers that invariably attract my #1 nemesis (see tags for a clue). And yes, I can see the corner of the container that I threw out from where I stand, pale white styrofoam gleaming in the baleful orange glow of outdoor hallway lights.

Huh. You know, I could reach in there and get it. The can, can be considered halfway empty, right? And the spork was a gift, right? So what if there are dozens of other plates and containers in the way. So what if I have to navigate past all that rotten food and who-knows-what in open bags. So what if, assuming I do pull out the container I used, there is another “occupant” inside when I open it.

I stand there, over the garbage can, pondering my decision. I stand there in my black raincoat, large hood over my head, backpack on my shoulders, lunch box in my hand. I stand there in the dark, rain and wind falling around me, utterly alone since no one with any semblance of sensibility is up at this forsaken hour.

“Lo, how the mighty have fallen,” a witness might think. “Lo, how the dying throes of a weakened economy force State employees to forage for food.” Well, fuck it. I dropped my lunch box to the ground, and dove into that can with as much courage as I could muster.

Apparently it wasn’t much courage, because I ended up just sticking one sleeve-rolled-up arm in there and tugged at the barest piece of styrofoam real estate with my thumb and forefinger. My other fingers were trying as hard as possible to stay away from the germ-ridden filth. My chin was parked on my shoulder blade in an attempt to avoid possible backsplash from.. well, anything.

But it was okay! And my hand was already making the OK sign! I pulled out that lunch container, gave it a quick shake to dislodge any residue, and popped the lid open before my rational mind could interrupt.

Voila! Spork! Disregarding any previous attempts to remain sanitized, I snatched my precious out from the grasp of day-old rice and chicken fat, and dumped the container back into the can. I went inside The Office to the break room sink and gave it a quick rubbing down with dish soap and water, then I microwaved a mug of water and dropped the business end of the spork into it, where it has been soaking since I started this post.

I think maybe it’s okay now. It’s time for oatmeal, and I’m hungry.

Harken back to the tales of old, when a man’s home became his fortress, besieged on all sides by the noisy conspiracies of cockroaches in flight, saved at the eleventh hour by the timely arrival of nose-borne boogers.

Listen well, then, when I describe the true-to-life account of the same man’s further adventures in home defense!

* * *

I was jarred awake by a crash, a sharp crack of decibel followed by the trickle of something in cascade. It sounded like breaking glass. Yes, the sound of a window break, accompanied by the tinkling of glass on the floor. Adrenaline-rush, on!

Whilst waiting for my super-Hulk-powers to formulate, I made the split-second decision to grab my collapsible baton, the one I used to carry with me on bike rides. No intruder would walk away from this encounter with an un-bumped noggin.

Maile worriedly asked what was going on, but I had to quickly calm her before entering Rambo-mode. I apprised her of the situation, then crept into the hallway, straining my ears to detect the sounds of further intrusion.

Stop! Wait by the doorway before proceeding. The killer may lurk beyond. Darn, I should have brought one of Maile’s dental mirrors to check around corners. I hoped it would not be a fatal mistake.

I had to chance a peek into the living room. The cold light of my blue LED clock cast disturbing shadows, but yielded no other movement. My eyes were well-adjusted to the dark, and I saw nothing out of place. The windows here were not broken. I continued down the hallway, stealing a glance into the empty bathroom and adjoining bedroom. My next destination was the kitchen, likely the source of the intrusion into my domicile.

If the intruder was in the kitchen, the battleground would be a tough one. If this person did not have a weapon, one could easily be found within the many cabinets. I could only hope that their search for utensils would be akin to mine (fruitless and frustrating, thanks to countless reorganizations).

The ambient light from outside filtered through the frosted louvers, glaring across the many silhouettes of pots and pans, and threatened to reveal my approach. Behind me, the wall was illuminated by this soft light as it streamed through the doorway I was next to, therefore I could not peek around lest I cast my shadow to amplify my presence. I now had a decision to make.

The light switch was on the other side of the wall I was against. I could easily reach my hand around the edge of the doorway and bathe the area in fluorescent luminescence. This would possibly serve to blind the intruder temporarily, and enable me to rush in and incapacitate my opponent with a swift chop to the back of the neck, ala Star Trek. However, my own vision would suffer the sudden burst of brightness.

My only hope would be my intimate knowledge of the kitchen layout (just, you know, not the contents of the cabinets). Having tread many a path between the tables and chairs, I could let my body’s memory of the area guide me into position during the few milliseconds available to me. It just might be enough.

Decision made, I switched the baton to my off-hand, slowly reached around the edge of the wall and pressed the light-switch. With a guttural cry from my bottom, I charged forth, stepping into the blaze of battle to challenge the intruder of my domain.

Nobody was there. The kitchen was empty, no one hiding behind the counter, nor in the sink. Both microwave and stove were devoid of life, and the toaster was untouched. The windows were intact, the doors secured, and a quick inspection of the outside yielded no signs of trespass.

This was not a trick of my imagination. I clearly heard the sound! Maile heard the sound! What was it, if there was no intruder and every barricade to my castle was left unbroken? I gripped my baton tightly. Something had come. It had gone without incident, but it had made its presence known, nonetheless.

On high alert, now suspicious of every shadow, I returned to my den. Disturbed by this recent activity, I could only find solace in the fact that when danger threatened, I was ready to defend and protect my family and home. Perhaps, some comfort could be taken from that.

* * *

Maile, in the course of these events, sleepily went to the bathroom and found that her razor, normally hanging from a suction-cup hook in the shower, had fallen. The suction had come loose and both implements clattered upon the shower tiles.

She just didn’t bother to tell me until I came back to bed.

I remember the second night of living alone.  My ears were still not accustomed to the sounds of an empty house, and I’m sure sleeping in the master bedroom accounted for a different perspective than where I used to bed.  It still put my body in alert-mode, wondering if the noises I’d hear meant something wicked was afoot.

Just so happened to have woken up at 0015.  I wasn’t sure what jarred me from slumber, but I immediately went silent and started to listen.  I needed to hear if there was a burglar, a ghost, or maybe even cockroaches!  And in that moment of traversing the list of things that could kill me, my ears picked up a strange, haunting note.

It sounded like a very very low whistle.  Or was it the sound of the beating of wings?  A buzzing vibration?  The sound was too clear to be what I figured a ghost would make, and I never heard of a burglar with a portable fan, so it had to be the #1 destroyer of sanities, the cockroach!

My first thought was, “Do cockroaches make noise?”  I heard tales of roach sounds shattering the minds of men, but no one really told me what that noise was (further proof that roaches are a bane to human existence; no one who heard the sound lived to tell).   And in this thought process, I heard it again.

That strange, alien sound.  It was coming from another part of the house, it seemed.  Fainter, yet distinct.  This thing was moving.  It was casing the house, determining the best angle of attack.  Oh, things are going to get dicey.

But I didn’t hear it again.  I turned my head, listened some more.  Nothing.  Uneasy, and a bit creeped out, I went back to sleep.

0145.  Bolted awake.  That sound!  I heard it in my dreams!  Quickly I listened, but it was quiet.  Too quiet.  It had to be a cockroach, or some other strange insect fluttering around my house.  Maybe it was the beating of wings, or maybe it was the chomping of mandibles.  The only thing certain was that it was alive, and it was INSIDE.

It sounded again.  That buzzing noise, that low whistle, echoing above the beating thunder of my heart.  It was close!  It was so distinct, so vivid, that it could come from no other place but in my room!  It was HERE!

…

It was my nose.  Seems my nasal passage congested to the point where every exhale made the boogers vibrate.  My nose was fucking snoring.

Killed a roach in the office. Freakin’ thing was under my desk, though I suspect it came from elsewhere because I remember last week when it was reported at someone else’s cubicle. I did manage to kill the roach, but now I’m totally skeeved. I had to gather it up in a cardboard box (that’s how big it was!) and carry it outside to the dumpster.

I hate hate hate roaches. I loathe and abhor and just plain don’t like ’em.

Now I don’t feel like working. Plus I couldn’t sleep last night, so I only managed to squeeze in 4 hours in these hot and humid evenings.

Last night I found a small scorpion in my bathroom. It was just sitting on the floor.. well, perhaps sitting is not the right word, but it was simply there, and not moving much at all. At first I thought it was dead, but it made a little twitch in my direction. I showed my dad, and he mentioned that it’d been years since he saw a live scorpion.

Then he killed it with his slipper.

The smashed corpse was wrapped in a paper towel and stuffed into a glass bottle that was going out in the trash. In the end it was rather anti-climactic.

It reminded me of the other time I saw a scorpion, roughly that same size. It was at George’s house, and we found it in his sister’s closet. It was captured and put in a glass jar, and then someone mentioned that scorpions glow in black light. It just so happened that the sister had a black light lamp, so we pulled that out and turned off the lights and turned on the light. And it’s true, they do glow. It’s kind of weird, in a creepy sort of way.

George then figured that he should use the black light to check for more scorpions, so he pulled it over to the closet while the rest of us sat in the dark. I think we started discussing why there are scorpions here, and how much of an infestation there was in the islands.

That’s when George screamed and dropped the black light lamp. As he bolted up, the rest of us cleared the floor, thinking there was a massive invasion force nested in between the denim and cotton. I don’t think any of us have moved that fast, ever, and we probably mastered the art of levitation if only for a few seconds. What was worse was that when George dropped the lamp, the bulb fell out and so the room was plunged into darkness. Meaning we couldn’t see squat of what was going on.

So amidst the screaming and the jumping and the banging into furniture and other people, someone had the intelligent idea to turn on the lights.

And we see a cockroach scurrying away.

Turns out the roach was in the lamp hood, and when George started moving it around it tried to run, and ran up his arm. That’s what he felt, and that’s why he screamed. At least, that’s what he’s claiming to this day. I know I was freaked trying to avoid stepping on the little stinging bastards that I thought George had unwittingly unleashed upon our pink toes.

In the end we caught the roach, and threw it into the jar with the scorpion to watch them fight. Oddly, they both died.

I’m still sick, though I was able to go to school. Waking up was not hard, but halfway through the day the phlegm decided to attack from two sides, clogging up both my head and lungs. So I had a sinus headache and couldn’t breathe.

Yay.

This morning I had to kill a 4″ flying cockroach, which would qualify for the Bambucha award in my book. I whacked it 15-20 times with a rolled-up newspaper, shoved its gross carcass between two inserts, took the entire paper outside, and danced a speed-induced Macarena on it, because those suckers just don’t die. I remember the last time I whacked a roach until I saw guts and broke off two of its legs. I dumped it in the trash, and the next morning my dad found it crawling along the kitchen floor.

Yay.