ROACHES AND RATS

Well, wouldn't you know! Just when I thought I had culled every last memorable memory from the Monkeymind, two new ones were excised from its mushy grey interior and brought to the fore by a show on Animal Planet I think was called, Infestation. It was about roaches and rats.  Here is what it triggered.

When my father and I first moved to Louisville, Kentucky so he could marry his second wife, I was in the Fourth Grade.  If the math I learned there serves me, I was ten years old.  Clara, his intended, lived with four of her five children in a housing project that was directly across the street from the "negro" section.  This was in the early Fifties, segregation was in place, and you couldn't get any poorer or any lower classed than to live elbow to elbow with the "negroes."  (I'm using negroes in lieu of the term now referred to as The N word; a term far more common than negro in those days.)  Picture row after row of two story, rectangular brick buildings in serious disrepair separated by crumbling sidewalks and patches of dirt serving as lawns and you'll get the backdrop.

One of my soon to be new siblings was a boy named Earl who was a year younger than I was.  He introduced me to the area kid's most common toy.  It was called a Rubber Gun. It was a homemade weapon that was fashioned from three parts.  The first was a one by three piece of wood about two and a half feet long.  Using one inch thick rubber bands cut from discarded car tire inner tubes, the second part, you fastened a clothespin, the third. to the butt edge of the board by stretching the rubber bands the length of the board so that they held the clothespin tightly in place with the pin hanging an inch or so below the board.  You then stretched another band fastened at the top front edge of the board to the other end where you twisted it flat and then fastened it to your weapon by pushing the bottom edge of your clothespin to create a space at its top.  When you released the pin the top of it snapped back and the band was held in place.  Your weapon was now loaded and ready.  You fired it by simply pushing the bottom of the clothespin. This would release the top band and send it flying through the air ten or twelve feet with enough velocity to produce a welt on bare skin.  It would also smack a cockroach flat.

Armed with these weapons Earl and I would periodically go over to one of his friend's place, his name is long forgotten, whose parents were - how should I put this - far less diligent in keeping their pad clean than Clara was. We would retire to the friend's room, pull the shades, turn out the lights and wait quietly for a minute or two.  We were crack snipers waiting patiently for our foe to come in range.  If you listened carefully, you could hear the enemy scurry from their hiding places and venture up the walls. That sound was our signal to hit the lights and blast away.  Three rubber guns, three kills and sometimes four or five if the bugs were clustered close.  We would then make some whooping boy noises and begin again.  Big fun to our young selves, big fun. Well, of course this activity made an ugly mess on the walls, but neither Earl or I or the friend ever thought to clean the stains. We did, though, sweep up the dead carcasses. The spattered walls just became part of the decor.  In truth, I can say now, I found the whole thing somewhat gross, but I was new there and even though I did not then know the phrase for it, I was simply doing in Rome what the Romans do.  

A year, maybe a year and a half later, we had moved to a nicer but still very poor neighborhood.  I was boxing in Gold Gloves then and a peculiar thing happened.  I was sparring on the lawn with one neighborhood kid or another when a rough looking man approached me. He asked me if I knew his son - another forgotten name but I will call him Billy - who lived down the street a few houses.  I said yes, I knew him.  The man then offered me a dollar a week to teach his son to be, his actual word, "tougher." I asked him what he wanted me to do. He said to just box with Billy a few times a week so that he can learn that punches don't hurt all that much and you should fight back. He said he would make Billy come to my house for the lessons.  I agreed. A dollar a week was a fortune!  My allowance was only fifteen cents and came on an irregular basis what with nickel deductions for bad behavior like "talking back" to grown ups being randomly assessed.  Okay, so my being paid to beat up Billy three times a week - I actually went light on him and even taught him a few tricks - is not the crux of this story.  It is only the back drop.  There came a day near the end of the summer some five or six weeks later when I ventured over to Billy's house to collect my dollar.  Our houses all backed up to an alley and I walked down that alley to Billy's house. No one appeared to be home. It was late evening and the house was dark.  The back door, however, was hanging open.  I approached carefully and hollered in was anybody home?  Billy's father's voice answered yes and told me to come inside.  The door opened onto the kitchen and Billy's father turned on the light.  He was sitting at a small table upon which there was a bottle of whiskey, a small jelly glass and a pistol.  He sounded a little drunk.  He told me he was shooting rats and pointed to a dead one over along the wall.  He said they only came out when the light was off but he could still see them to shoot.  He asked me if I wanted to try.  I said no sir I only came by to collect my dollar.  He said no, that deal was over, his kid would never learn. I didn't argue.  

Halfway home I heard the gun go off.  It was loud, really loud.  I ran the rest of the way. 

Animal Planet did not recommend either of these two methods to end an infestation.