Three decades as a professor ought to inspire a less emotional conclusion, but the truth is that my kitchen was a goddamned war zone. Admittedly, talking about war does not conjure images of a professor in a kitchen, and this of course is where Columbia focuses their argument. They contextualized war on a battlefield in East Germany, and the skies above Japan. War is not for kitchens, they said. And I said, I am old and gray and a little bit goddamned impatient, but war has nothing to do with location. War is about sacrifice, and how many of you would be willing to sacrifice your kitchen, much less your job, in order to fend off a hostile invasion?
The fall semester began in the middle of a heat wave. The humidity was thick and pressing, the open window in the corner offering little relief. I stood there fanning myself, trying to forget about my kitchen. It had been weeks since the first incident. Just over five weeks, and now I stood in the corner of a classroom in Hamilton hall, watching the students hurry to their seats. In a fit of inspiration, as I wiped a bead of sweat from my temple, I thought of Canada. "Canadians," I said to the quieting students. "Who would've thought it possible."
I turned to the blackboard and reached for the string, pulling it down to reveal a North American map, colors separating the countries. "A military laughingstock, we thought. Well, today is the day for the Canadian military. With relative ease and strength unforeseen, they have crossed our northern border and sacked a number of our cities. Seattle is now under Canadian rule, as is Tacoma and Billings, Montana. And the gas," I said with an extended pause. "The gas had no effect, and our special forces were destroyed last night. The President is waiting for our phone call. We have twenty minutes to reach a decision."
By this point, the students were blank-faced, all eyes on the map in front. No shifting of chairs. No rustling of books or papers. Just my shoes against the tiled floor as I walked through the aisles, my finger scanning the computer printout for a name. "Janowick?"
"Here." The voice came from the back. I located his raised hand, and our eyes met. A small fellow, Janowick. Small but presentable.
"You've been following this invasion, Janowick. You seem to think that these Canadians are very tricky, or so it says in your report."
"My report?"
"That's right. Right here on line three," I said, flipping through an empty notebook on the podium. "Very tricky, you say."
"I remember now," Janowick said to a chorus of giggles. "Of course. Very tricky. I believe that was an understatement, given that they just sacked Seattle."
"We never needed Seattle, you realize. Rains too much there. But tell us, Janowick. What are you going to tell the President? He's quite concerned."
All heads turned to Janowick. I walked to the window, feeling the breeze slip under my sport coat. Mugginess is their lifeblood, you know. Cockroaches infest buildings according to the presence of water, with temperature and air movement having a more limited effect. And when they came to this country, by ship and plane and arguably through other means, the climate was rather ideal, particularly in the hotter, wetter environs.
You see, humidity and New York City are like unfriendly relatives. Every summer brings the obligatory picnic, and it's always a disaster. Sweaty buses. Hot winds blowing through the subway stations. Sewer stench. Air conditioning is enough to keep me mobile, but not much more.
"The President is waiting," I said from the window.
"Canadians?" Janowick blurted.
"That's right."
"I must be missing something. We could block an invasion with our Air Force. Our Air Force would be too strong for them"
"Fair assumption," I said turning to the class. "Yet we have deployed our Air Force, albeit in a limited capacity."
"More innocent victims in an air attack. More footage of bleeding civilians. Wouldn't bode well for the President."
"He may not have a choice in a situation like this."
"Millions of viewers, Janowick. ABC. NBC. All of them showing Mrs. Crabtree bleeding from the temples because our F-14s bombed the Canadians that were behind her house."
"Maybe Mrs. Crabtree has to die," Janowick said, sitting up in his chair.
And there it was. The answer. Didn't expect it. Students seemed surprised by it. But there it was. Maybe Mrs. Crabtree has to die. Quite an answer for a Columbia student. And you could see the unrest that it caused in the class, but Janowick, he didn't seem to care. Didn't even flinch. That's how it happens, you know. In a blink we become killers. We stand there looking at the bloody mess, the torn bodies and battered ranks, and we give the order. We raise the notch in order to ensure victory, and we know that people, maybe even our own, will perish in that last, explosive assault. Send in the planes. I heard that order many times. I lost dear friends to that order.
You see, Janowick's answer grows from an American tradition, a noble combativeness in our cultural fabric. I called him to the lectern after class because I was moved. Not moved because his decision was novel, it wasn't. But because Columbia students are notoriously liberal. They still talk about the campus takeover, you know. We professors were scapegoated, and it's never been the same since. Government pawns, they said. Co-opting the classroom for capitalism and war. That's why I gave him my address after class, "If you're free next Tuesday," I said casually, "stop by for dinner. I eat at seven. Are you afraid of cockroaches, Janowick?"
"What?" he said as I handed him my address.
"Bugs. How are you with bugs?"
"They don't bother me," he said with a shrug. "Why?"
"Maybe we'll eat out. If you're free, that is. No obligation here, Janowick. Just thought your answer in class was worth exploring. If you don't make it, no problem."
Was that proposition inappropriate? Thirty years ago, happened all the time. Dinners. A walk through Riverside Park. Now it's good afternoon, glad you could make it to my office hours. Different place, higher education. And the students, they welcome the chance to meet informally. They show up early, thank you for being so unconventional. Then they thank you again, and you begin to wonder how educational policies managed to wedge their way into dinner. Take Janowick. The bug thing might've thrown him for a second, but he left with an air of indifference. A dinner invitation. Not a crisis.
Cockroaches, on the other hand, they come uninvited, and educational policies never mention cockroaches. Pests are a farmers' problem. And let me be perfectly clear about this issue, because if there's one goddamned thing I know about, it's cockroaches. You wouldn't believe what they can do to a kitchen. You wouldn't believe it, and I've been through quite an experience, and Columbia can say whatever, well, you decide for yourself.
Travel back two months. You're standing at your kitchen counter, and before you are two pieces of bread, some peanut butter and jelly, and a knife. Just as you finish making the sandwich, you see something out of the corner of your eye.
From behind the breadbox has emerged a pair of antennae, and then the full body of a cockroach. Quickly, you smash the knife down, missing.
The next day you see two of them, and within a week they've become commonplace. No problem, you think as you pay for a can of Raid, a box of Combat, and some cleaning utensils. And then you see one on your stove a week later, and one in your sink. Another scampers up the wall by your refrigerator, and two more appear as you reach for a can of baked beans. More Raid, you think. More Combat, cleaner countertops, less food in the cupboards. But days later two walk right past your plate of linguini. Another falls from the ceiling, hitting the back of your neck. And then you see one climbing out of your box of Wheaties!
You see, this is what I faced. My kitchen was under siege. Periplaneta americana, Blatella germanica, Blatella orientalis. A total of six different species, and all were displayed on a poster board in my living room. Pins through their heads, and precise information written below. Reddish-brown, 35-40 millimeters in length, originating in Africa and South Asia. Pale-yellowish brown with a pair of dark longitudinal marks on the pronutum.
What's a person to do in that situation? You'd think that over-the-counter methods would be effective, and that two dehumidifiers placed in the kitchen would starve them of their necessary moisture. And you'd think that sealing the cracks and holes would prevent their entry, that plastic wood, calk, spackle, and Elmer's glue would block each opening of 1 millimeter or more. There wasn't a way in, and not only did I clean the place twice a day, but I removed all foods that weren't sealed air-tight.
Over-the-counter methods just don't work sometimes, and I didn't know this until I turned my office at Columbia into a center for pest control research. I know how that sounds, but cockroach books were stacked everywhere, cluttering my desk and shelves. Advertisements for exterminators hung from the door. Full-color pictures adorned an easel in the corner. In between classes I would go to work, spending a half-hour grading tests, a half-hour preparing lectures, and three to five hours learning about pest control. My secretary, Geraldine, she just raised her eyebrows. Didn't know what to say, particularly after I told her about the Egyptians. "Embalmers may have been the first," I said. "Used fumigation to control mausoleum pests."
"Really," she said, ruffling through a stack of papers.
"Geraldine, I know you don't find this very interesting."
"Of course I do," she said turning. "I just think you should call an exterminator."
"I did."
"Good."
"I called fifteen of them."
"Fifteen?"
Fifteen exterminators, and they came at all hours. Gas masks, tanks strapped to their backs, tarps to seal off the kitchen. This one guy, Shakelburn, he wore a full body suit, came back three times. I said to him, "All of these pesticides and yet an increase in the Blatella germanicas."
"Blatella what?"
"Shakesburn," I said looking at the poster board, "it may be our approach. Perhaps we should enlist some help."
"Oh, I don't know. I always work alone."
"Have you considered using predators, Shakelburn?"
"Excuse me?"
Exterminators don't know anything about predators, but that didn't prevent me from making a few phone calls. It took some time to track down the right pet stores, one as far away as California, but I found what I needed. You see, cockroaches don't have too many enemies, but there are a significant few. Buto marinus, a giant toad found in the West indies, the Pacific Islands, and Central America. Then the bluebirds, which have been known to feast on cockroach heads. And then you have a number of lizard species, the Anolis leachi being the most preferable.I ordered two giant toads, ten Bluebirds, and two-hundred Anolis leachi lizards. The toads and lizards were shipped to my apartment via UPS, and the Bluebirds I found at a store in Chinatown. All of them were in my living room now, sitting, crawling, and flapping in their respective containers and cages. The toads I moved into the corner of the kitchen by the window, the birds I set on the table where I ate, and the lizards I put next to the refrigerator. Then I hung a thick painter's tarp in the doorway, and I taped a large cellophane sheet on the outside. And when I opened the containers and cages, I hurried through the opening and sealed it shut.You see, I had removed every bit of food from the kitchen. Cockroaches were the only food left, assuming the predators didn't eat each other. I really didn't plan to leave them in there for more than a week or so. Animal cruelty is not a passion of mine, but considering the severity of the situation, I didn't removed the tarp until three weeks had passed, just to be sure.
And there they were. Two sick-looking giant toads, ten or so lizard carcasses scattered around them, and the remains of each Bluebird on the table, the floor, and by the window. And then I saw the cockroaches, and they weren't dead. They were alive and kicking, climbing around inside of the poor Bluebirds. The damned things were having lunch, and I knew right then that it was time to end it.
About an hour before Janowick knocked on my door, I went for something in my bedroom. Just a small something I had acquired from a guy in Little Italy. His name was Faruzzi. A friend of a friend, you might say. A Vietnam veteran who's quite proficient with explosives. "Faruzzi," I said into the phone, "what can you spare in terms of dynamite? I have a cockroach problem."
"Cockroach problem," Faruzzi repeated softly.
"That's right, and I want to be sure."
"How many cockroaches you got?"
"How many?" I repeated. "A goddamned million."
"Sounds like you need half a stick."
That's what I liked about Faruzzi. No fuss with this guy. No time wasted. Kind of guy you wouldn't want to face across a patch of tall grass, and here he was at my door, half a stick of dynamite in his hand. The Janowick thing had slipped my mind. Simple lapse of memory was all, and by the time Janowick showed up for dinner, the dynamite was taped to the wall under my sink.
The fuse was already lit. That's the point I've been trying to make here, that Janowick was a victim of bad timing. And when I opened the door, fully aware that in thirty seconds my kitchen sink would be flying into the living room, I said rather surprised, "Janowick!"
"Is this a bad time?"
"Of course not," I said regaining my compusure. "But we should take a walk." I put my hand on his shoulder and said, as we were walking down the hall to the lobby, "Janowick, there's a little situation occurring in my kitchen. There's no reason to be alarmed, because in a few seconds, everything will be just fine. My kitchen's having a little work done."
"Renovations?"
"That's right. They're replacing the sink. Let's just wait here on the sidewalk and..."
That's when it happened, and the blast was much louder than I had anticipated. Janowick, he was caught off guard a little. His whole body jerked. His hands shot up to protect his head. And after the noise echoed off the buildings and stopped, he pulled his hands down and looked at me. "Holy shit! Was that your kitchen?"
The rest of it, the aftermath, you can imagine how that went. Fire trucks, police, neighbors coming up to me for answers. By the time Geraldine bailed me out of jail, Janowick had notified Columbia, and a few days later, I was sitting in the corner office of Low Library. The president, the dean, others that I knew. They all sat there rather smugly, and I knew that the whole thing was a waste of time. "Professor," one of them said, "there's a major safety issue here. Dynamite is not a reasonable solution for-"
"Reasonable," I huffed. "Reasonable is what the press wants."
"The press? Professor, dynamite is way beyond the norm here.""Of course it is. I should have served tea and crackers. Talked things over."
"Professor, dynamite threatens lives, and as far as we know, people do not use it in their kitchens."
"Listen," I said. "My goddamned kitchen was under siege, and it had to be done."
"Under siege?"
"Yes."
"These were cockroaches. We are talking about cockroaches, are we not?"
"We are," I said. "Write that down so you don't forget it. And write down that I stand by my decision, and that I knew you wouldn't."