The Flying Cockroach

Dad’s battle with an invader (second of two shorts based on my Dad)

Photo by RHJ

Our move to an inland house seemed perfect until we discovered that cockroaches of all kinds, even flying ones, had infested it.

My dad had the house exterminated and fumigated, not once, but several times before we moved in. He hated cockroaches as much as he hated mice and rats. He was determined to rid the house of cockroaches and vermin. After moving in, we didn’t see any mice or cockroaches for a year.

One night after dinner, mom had just filled the kitchen sink with warm, soapy water, dad stood ready with a clean dish towel to dry and put away the dishes, and I had cleared some dishes from the table when a shadow passed in front of the light fixture above the table.

I looked up, and to my horror, saw a flying cockroach.

Now, I was afraid of flying cockroaches.

I had heard a rumor of a flying cockroach getting tangled in a girl’s hair just long enough to lay eggs. Several days later, the girl awoke screaming as tiny cockroaches crawled from her head onto her face and into her ears. Even though mom dismissed it, at 10 years old, every horror story seemed possible. As long as the story had familiar elements sprinkled through it, to my mind, it anchored it firmly in reality.

So, I screamed. “Oh, my God! A flying cockroach!”

I grabbed the dish towel from dad’s hands and threw it over my head.

Dad grabbed the House Beautiful magazine where mom had left it on the counter and rolled it into a tube, an instant cockroach-killing weapon.

He went chasing around the dining room in pursuit of that flying cockroach, which kept being drawn toward the light above the table.

Mom directed the chase by saying, “It’s over here now! It’s by the lamp! Oh, no! It’s above the table!”

I was curled up in a corner of the dining room, towel on my head, peeking occasionally to check the hunt’s progress. At one point, I remember a brief pause in the action and when I peeped from under the dish towel, saw dad panting and the cockroach on the ceiling by the light with its antennas twitching. I suspect they were both worn out.

Then dad decided on a sneak attack.

He climbed on a dining room chair and tried to reach the cockroach with the rolled-up magazine, but the house had high ceilings. So, he changed his tactic and climbed on the table.

Now, the table was one of those oval ones with one big pedestal in the middle. He approached the center and said, “Aha!” as he brought the magazine down on the spot where he thought the cockroach rested. He missed.

The cockroach flew and landed on the opposite side of the ceiling light fixture. Dad stepped gingerly over the dirty dishes on the table to maneuver himself into the most helpful position.

“Let me remove the dishes, Ken! Let me remove the dishes,” mom said.

Dad, stepping lightly, stalked his prey.

Just as he was about to swing the magazine toward the ceiling, he shifted all his weight onto one foot to get more of a lift. The table dipped, dishes and cutlery slid, dad whooped, as his feet sought solid ground. He landed with his behind resting on leftover mashed potatoes.

Mom and I laughed until we cried as the cockroach circled above my poor dad’s head twice before disappearing through the front door as my brother came in.

No dish broke. Dad, proclaiming loudly he could have died, walked away with just a bruised ego and another joke for family and friends.

Of course, those jokes usually started with—I once knew this fellow… and ended with dad laughing as loudly as everyone else.

Author’s Note

1. Anyone who has lived in or visited the tropics (the Caribbean, Florida, or Hawaii, for example) knows about flying cockroaches.

2. I am still afraid of flying cockroaches (really, cockroaches of any kind…ewww).

3. Read the other short story based on my Dad, I, Brutus.

   I, Brutus

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