What really bugs me: Deep in the Heart of Fear

I almost die every time I see a roach

My neighbor stopped by one evening while I was working in the yard. He marveled at my dancing as he saw it from his window, asking what I was so happy about. I looked at him quizzically and ask dancing? He said it looked like I was really getting down. Oh that I said, realizing what he had seen. That wasn’t dancing. That was me trying to stomp on a roach. A very fast one. Going round in circles. Quite spry this one. He chuckled saying he understood, adding that he’ll go out of his way to unalive those disgusting things. It’s like I have a twin. 

Basically

what I see any time one flies at me

Should you desire to hear an otherworldly screech, be in my living room late at night when one comes flying at me. How I must look through the window, arms flailing in the air, ducking and running as some invisible oddity will surely send me to the center of a black hole. And the thoughts going through the micro brain of the beast as it’s flying through my living room towards my hair must be of interest. Do you think they know the fear they cause people like me? What does maniacal roach laughter sound like? I bet more humorous than terrifying. 

Howdy from the rodeo, ya'll

I’m from Texas—born and raised. Seventh generation. I know all about roaches and how they will be here long after humans have expired. This doesn’t endear them to me in the least. They are everywhere in Texas. I laugh when reading a restaurant review and the horror of seeing a roach while dining. That’s just as normal as pee in a public pool. It’s disgusting and simply something you have to put up with. Just be glad they’re not the ones I had in my college dorm room. I’d wake up at night to catch them trying steal away with my mini fridge. Those beasts.

Shortly after providing my looky-loo neighbor some free dance entertainment, I was speaking to a woman at work who mentioned the horror that shakes her to the core at the sight of a large scampering scoundrel. “Is there anything more disgusting than walking into the room first thing in the morning and finding a dead roach on its back,” she asked. Well, um, yeah. Finding one drop from the ceiling and making me target practice. “Touche,” she admitted. 

The only image of a roach I can stomach is Milquetoast
from Bloom County Comics

It is troublesome how they always die on their backs looking up at me like they are judging me for having ended their life. I try to remember that all life is precious, but I’m so thankful that my insecticide works as well as it does and that I find them dead more often than alive. In a god’s name, I often exclaim, and then fetch the dust pan to toss it in the trash where it truly belongs. 

My co worker said she actually looked into why they die on their backs. I let her continue for some odd reason, realizing as she didn’t get too far into the story that I was beginning to shudder just thinking about them. Like bats (and I love me some bats) they can’t just pick up and fly- they have to drop. So when they are in their death throes, they flutter their wings and end up on their back where they can’t right themselves again. Well the poor things. Good riddance. 

Then there was the time I came into my bedroom and found one belly down. Turns out I can emit nearly the same sound when finding them unexpectedly, just sitting on the floor before they begin to scurry, even though they're not flying towards my head. I backed away cautiously to fetch the bug kill spray and returned to find that it hadn’t moved an inch. Odd, I thought. I gave it a big dose of liquid bug death and it didn’t respond; it was dead already. I don’t know if the cats played with it or what. So off for the dustpan I went unsure which is better: having them look up at me from the other side of the veil and knowing it’s dead, or thinking I’ve found a live one and giving my heart a boost. In the end, I guess I’ll take a dead roach any ole way. 
 

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My three deaths on a hot summer day: The Agony of Yard Work

Adelie Manor

The older I get the more off kilter is the concept of wanting children. In my youth I wanted kids. And a wife. But before too long I became so independent and set in my ways that I enjoy the freedom of not being married and I tend to appreciate the notion that children should be seen and not heard. And then there's yard work. That's when I wish I had kids. My father used me like a slave. At parties he easily volunteered me to take out trash. I was 7 or 8 years old. The bags of trash were nearly the same size as me and I had no idea where the condominium trash bins lived. I hated it. Fetch me this, go and do that. But if I had children now that I'm doing my own lawn...slave labor would be awesome.

Recently I was working in the yard and a neighbor walked by and complimented how good things were looking. She said you shouldn't be out working in this heat; you should be doing this later in the day. Lady, if I waited to do yard work like that it would take a month to get it all done. Besides, who doesn't love being outside in Houston summer at 2PM? I always say I'm a vampire, however and most unfortunate, my eyesight is human, so pruning bushes and mowing the yard at night isn't logical. 

Let the bags fall where they may

The yard compliment was greatly appreciated because the physical exertion had killed me. Literally. Several times, actually. 

Death 1: First of all, I was sweating so much that I drowned. Simply too much water to breathe. I've worked up good sweats all my life. In college I worked for a family friend who owned a warehouse where I broke my sweaty back loading 55-foot containers with 50 pound bags of fertilizer. My step-father paid me good money to mow our yard when I was 10. (Fifty cents a week is good money, right?) Was I time I sweat like a normal young man. I never knew I could sweat so much as I do now, and in the past few years I can wring the sweat out of tees like I just excited a pool. If you've seen the movie "Airplane," the scene with Ted Striker at the controls with water running down his face...that is me. 

Death 2: A few minutes later I had heat stroke and passed out. At least in my mind I did. When I awoke on the damp ground I thought I had gone to heaven, but soon learned it was just the cozy morning dew and a dog licking me. Either I have a good imagination or was delirious in the 94 degree heat with a real feel of 112. Felt more like 500 degrees. I didn't pass out and wake up in heaven. But I thought about it. 

Death 3: After pruning the bushes and cutting them down to bundle up for the trash to haul away, my back broke into two. Two completely pieces of PenguinScott. The break was so bad that I had to get the owner's manual to put myself back together. That was some labor, but I do love my home and take pride in its appearance. 

Home

I'm definitely not as young as I used to be. When I was young I could be out in the afternoon Houston heat doing yard work no problem. Granted I never liked it. Now that I'm 500 years old I can only do a few little tasks and then have to sit for 5 minutes to wipe the sweat and drink a gallon of water. After resting I can get back to the tasks; what used to take 2 hours now takes 2 days. 

Towards the end of the evening, with the sun sinking low, people with half a brain began coming outside to enjoy the evening. I was up on the ladder cleaning my gutters when my neighbors from Puerto Rico came into their front yard speaking Spanish. From looking at them, they were having a pleasant conversation. To hear them, however, it sounded like a group of people arguing over what they were going to have for dinner. They are a lively group and we enjoyed the entertainment we provided each other. My waterworks, their spirited conversation.

Good looking back yard

The gutters cleared, I decided to prune the bush that was beginning to tower over my house. I'm standing on the ladder over my dining room window with the lopper tackling a branch that was a bit too large to be handled by a lopper-wielding old man on a ladder. I saw out of the corner of my eye that my neighbors noticed my struggle, perhaps thinking I was in way over my head and in real danger of falling and breaking my neck. They rose as if to come rescue me just as the branch gave up and fell to the ground with a thud. They acted as if they had left their seat to pull a weed, but were now impressed by my strength. 

I am Penguin. Hear me roar

They had such little faith in my abilities. After years of lifting weights in my youth, I'm stronger than I appear. I may not be as heat tolerant or as spry as young PenguinScott, and I may have an active imagination with all the times I died but didn't, slaving in the heat, but I can still get it done when done needs getting. 

If you enjoy poetry, you can purchase signed copies of my 3 books at www.penguinscott.com 

www.PenguinScott.com

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