I moved into a new apartment over the weekend. It’s a tiny studio with bay windows, hardwood floors, and old white interior shutters. It’s cozy, open, full of light, and infested with cockroaches.
I found the apartment listed on Craig’s List, and met with the previous tenant one evening after work. She is a friendly, enthusiastic yoga instructor, whom I liked immediately. I attributed the dirty apartment to the fact she was moving, and things were just a bit messy at the time. Tenants leaving the apartment building are only required to broom-clean, and I assumed she’d have things tidy by the time she moved out.
I suppose it’s all in how you like to live, but my idea of tidy does not include living with cockroaches. There are heaps of them, lurking, wiggling their feelers and scurrying, fast as lightning, under cabinets and inside my kitchen drawers. Roach spray has become my best friend. Tomorrow, a fog of RAID death will descend upon my apartment, and I expect I’ll come home to tiny corpses littering my counter tops.
I feel slightly guilty about the war I’m waging on these creatures, for they are only looking for food and shelter, but I cannot, and will not, share my apartment with them. I am hoping the previous tenant’s yoga karma is still inhabiting the apartment, and will wrap the cockroaches in its arms and usher them into a cockroach paradise, full of glorious piles of garbage, half-eaten food, and complete freedom from poison.