The Roaches Have No King

by Daniel Evan Weiss

  How could she account for the birth? If she were smart, she would use Mary's line and say she had been inseminated by a divinity during the night. How far would it be from the truth?

  THE CLEAR VICTOR in the vaginal joust was Ruth. Though by the standards of the magazines Elizabeth was more visually attractive, Ruth had crushed her in every other way. I've always been convinced that everywhere in Kingdom Animalia, even on this rotten branch, the fittest pheromones get their man. So my plan to have Elizabeth topple Ruth had been doomed from the start.

  What could I do now? Find a woman with more sexual swat than Ruth? Not likely. It would take a hormonal barbarian, a woman not hindered by the limits of good taste or any accepted social standard.

  It took a whole day before the proper questions pushed through the fog of my hangover. Who defiantly refused to bathe regularly because it was germ genocide? Who thought grooming was a conspiracy of the plastics conglomerates? Who refused to use tampons because they interfered with the self-expression of her vagina? This barbarian had been a crucial part of our lives—she was, in fact, the Savior in our original, short-lived plan—yet somehow in all my plotting I had overlooked her in favor of Elizabeth.

  It was now April. I climbed onto Ira's desk and rubbed a leg across the tip of his pen and added a digit "1" to the front of his taxable income on his 1040 form. Anything that got Ira thinking about needing extra money could only help us.

  I spent the week in the upper molding. The following Friday, Rufus the businessman returned. In the foyer, still humiliated by the previous week's events, Ira subjected him to a double dip of self-effacement. As Rufus shifted from custom- made shoe to custom-made shoe, I lined him up and dropped from the ceiling onto the soft cured skin of his hat, cushioned by his thick bush—a perfect landing pad. As Rufus started down the stairs, I scurried over the rim of the hat and into the dense matting of his hair. It felt impregnable.

  "To the Gypsy's, boy," I said. "And step on it.”

  On Tenterhooks

  RUFUS AND I stopped on the second floor, waited for Ira's three locks to snap shut, then crept back to the third floor. Rufus glided down the hall. Where were we going, to eavesdrop on Ira? No, we passed his door. Certainly not to see Oliver. Perhaps a play for his wife? But we passed her too.

  He slowed. I said, "No, not here, Rufus, buddy. Any apartment but this one. Please."

  But he buzzed. Hector Tambellini opened the door. "Hey, Rufus baby, come in out of the rain." He bellowed, "Hey, Violetta, look who's here." Rufus quickly closed the door behind us.

  Clutching his hair, I scanned the floor for the Periplaneta perverts who had defiled me. The door slam must have scared off the cowards. But they were out there.

  Wait. What was I worrying about? Barring a suicidal charge up Rufus's body they could not get me up here. And even if Rufus OD'd and fell to the floor, I could dive into the tight woof of his bush, which would give me a natural advantage over the monsters. Rufus was my fortress.

  "American Woman!" I sang. "I'm back, lover. Please come out. I can't see you." The floor was covered with reddish-brown smears, the waterbug palette, painted by the soles of Hector's orthopedics. She would make a lovely silhouette.

  Violetta walked in, at work on a sandwich. As she bit, slices of American cheese and cold cuts greased with mayonnaise slid out into her palm. She pushed her face into her hand and ate them. I liked the way she luxuriated in food, so unlike the modern women down the hall.

  "Rufus," she said between bites, "you're so skinny. Look at him, Hec. He don't eat. Get him something. Get him the other half of this sandwich. It's on the counter. I'm on a diet."

  "No, it's cool," said Rufus. "I ate."

  "Don't nobody feed you? You got a girlfriend?" A triangle of bologna stuck to the corner of her mouth.

  "Don't embarrass him, Vi," said Hector.

  "There's nothing to be embarrassed about. You got a girlfriend?"

  "Why, Vi, you got a niece for me?"

  "Well, I mean..."

  "Don't mind her." Hector gave Rufus a roll of bills. Rufus counted. "It's all there," said Hector.

  "People make mistakes," said Rufus. I counted twenty dollars less than Ira paid; the wages of liberalism, and probably the reason for the secrecy of the visit.

  Rufus pulled off his hat and took a small, clear bag of white powder from inside the sweatband. I burrowed a little deeper. He handed the bag to Hector.

  "Happy trails to you," Rufus said at the door.

  "Yeah, you take it easy."

  "Get yourself a girl who can cook," said Violetta.

  On the street, Rufus reached into his pocket for a silver case, from which he pulled a thin cigar. The night was calm and the smoke rose straight up, driving me further under the hat. The hair made a good filter.

  We stood there for a minute, and suddenly the hat lifted off. I panicked and dove. I was about halfway to the scalp line when a line of sharpened black spikes ripped through the bush, barely missing me. Hairs pinged as they snapped. The spikes retracted, and an instant later came cutting through again, even closer to me than before. I knew this had to be the dreaded Afro-pick.

  Pulling myself through the thick tangle of hairs in the deeper levels was nearly impossible. The thought of being skewered like a shish-kebab was awful. Would I end up suffocating in the grimy clogged drain of a ghetto tub? Or would I gradually starve here in Rufus's hair, so weakened by the wound that I couldn't escape the confined stench of my own putrefaction?

  By the eighth pick plunge, I managed to reach the scalp. Serendipity landed me on a patch of psoriasis, a pip of a disease which causes human skin to come loose in micaceous scales. I slipped between one and the skin beneath, and lay as snug as if it were a freshly made bed.

  After a woman's length of preening, the hat went back on. I slipped out of my little bed. My back leg caught and tore the end of the scale. I froze; this blunder could bring him down on me with perfect accuracy. But nothing happened. The skin had to be completely dead. I took a nibble, but it was so bitter that I spat it out. Too bad. Rufus and I could have had genuine symbiosis: I would have eaten, and his leatherwear would be dandruff-free.

  Laboring for air, I was about to climb back up when I noticed a clump on the neighboring scale. It was a group of nits, baby head lice, using Rufus for warmth and food. No wonder he was coming down so hard with that pick; nits are notorious for their deadly sharp claws. I kept my distance.

  "How's the digs, fellas? I'm aboard now. Anything I should know?"

  The voracious little suckers wouldn't stop to answer. There was so much I wanted to know. How often did Rufus shampoo? How long had it taken them to get used to his taste? How could they live in the air down here? I couldn't.

  I surfaced and peeked out from under the hat. The cool evening breeze felt terrific. Rufus and I were in full stride. Soon we turned into Reggie's Bar and Grill.

  "Yo, Rufus, how you be?" came a deep voice.

  A huge black man placed a hand the size of a pizza on Rufus's shoulder. His gigantic head sloped sharply from his receding forehead to an enormous, powerful jaw. The top of his head was shaved except for a thick mohawk stripe down the center. In his right lobe he wore a golden earring shaped like a pistol; a matching amulet hung from a golden chain around his neck. A cigar sporting the El Producto label nestled in the gap where one of his yellowing front teeth was missing.

  The three of us took a couple of torn vinyl stools at the bar. The bartender, with lazy, addict-red eyes, approached. "What it be, gentlemen?"

  Everyone in Reggie's was black, except for a fat bleached blond across the bar from us, whose thin white T- shirt was intended, I supposed, to show her descending breasts to their last advantage. She wore steel-framed glasses so thick that they gave her huge frog eyes—myopia probably explained why her flaming red lipstick had pretty much missed her mouth altogether. She sighed impatiently as a graying man on steel crutches tried to light her cigarette without falling over backward.

>   "The usual," said Rufus.

  "So what you been up to?" said his friend.

  "Not much. Runnin' the store."

  The bartender returned and mixed Rufus a glass of Courvoisier and 7-Up. Rufus took a sip and smacked his lips. "Ah, good shit." A few vile sprinkles landed on me. I wiped them onto his hair; I was permanently on the wagon. "Junior, I seen you with some mean trim the other day. In Blimpie's."

  Junior smiled broadly and laughed. The cigar rose with his upper jaw. "Yeah, ain't she fine?"

  "Built for speed, Jim." Rufus laughed and offered a palm, which Junior slapped so hard I was afraid he'd break it.

  Another voice said, "Built for speed is right—that cow needs a diet pill." I was astounded by this challenge, and even more so when Junior ignored it.

  Rufus said, "So you shacked?"

  "No way," said Junior. "The bitch look fine and she got a pussy that drip honey. But all she want to do is get high."

  "Can't blame her. Look at this ugly buffalo. He's so dirty you can't tell the grease from the nigger," said the voice. Yet Junior again let the death wish go ungranted. I couldn't understand it.

  Suddenly Rufus dropped his head. A quick grab at the wire saved me from falling onto the bar. He clapped his hands and gave a falsetto yelp.

  "What you laughin' at?" said Junior.

  "You got the biggest nigger nose I ever seen. You mama shoulda named you Hoover."

  "I like a line or two. Sure. But the bitch, that all she want, line after line, all day long."

  "Yeah, just like you. Only you gotta put up the dead president. Cause she got a pussy and you don't, right."

  Junior was getting upset, and he was easily powerful enough to drop Rufus to the bar with one blow. I looked down to see where we would land. The Blattella germanica population was quite large, protected by the dim light and brown laminated surface, living on beer-nut and popcorn spills. There was no fear or frenzy in their motion, as had always been the case at Ira's apartment. It was a nice easy life.

  Junior said, "You know what I mean. The bitch ain't got no conversation."

  Rufus laughed again. "All you gotta hear is the sound of thigh upside your ear. 'Ain't no disgrace to bring your face below her waist for a little taste.'" He slapped Junior on the shoulder and I almost fell again. But now I noticed the citizens on the bar had a weak, unnatural color, left incomplete by the neon light. Like the humans around them, they were products of generations of alcoholic overconsumption.

  "Shut up, Rufus," I said. "Don't antagonize this large man anymore. I don't want to live here."

  Junior said, "The bitch take my paycheck right up the nose. I don't know, my man."

  "That's welfare check, not paycheck. Three hours on line yesterday, remember?" I had to stop this voice. How much razzing could Junior take?

  "I mean, what you do? How you stop the bitch from spendin' all the green and still keep her doin' her thing?" said Junior.

  Rufus said, "Don't ask me. I don't go for them skanky bitch you like." I grabbed his hair.

  "You see the jive?" said the voice. "Five minutes ago she was mean, built for speed. Now the skinny guy hears money's low, and suddenly she's a skank. But watch this— because of the drugs Junior won't even remember."

  "I can't shove the beefaroni into the bitch unless I feel somethin'," Rufus continued.

  Now it was Junior's turn to laugh. The El Producto waved in his teeth. "Like what, you swipe get stiff?"

  "I don't go for the coke-nose bitch. That strictly business. Speakin' of business, you seen my man Lester around?"

  Junior drained his beer and ordered another. The reflection of the Miller High Life clock on his sweaty head said it was getting late. "You hear about Lester? Made one of them sign, say: 'I am blind, God bless you.' Every day he sit on the sidewalk outside them big office buildin' downtown with one of them blind-man cane. By fall he gonna have enough scratch for a Continental. What you want him for? Make a contribution?"

  "Man borrow money from me about six month ago and develop a bad case of amnesia."

  "No shit. I thought you be friend."

  Rufus finished his drink and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. "Only friend I got is the green dollar."

  "The first true words out of your nigger's mouth," said the voice.

  He had seen me. I dove. But halfway to the scalp, I thought: My nigger? What did this guy think, that I was taking Rufus for a walk?

  But who would notice me here? Who would talk to me this way? And why had Rufus and Junior been ignoring this inflammatory voice? Of course—it was a roach's voice. The constant company of humans was eroding my basic sensitivities.

  I resurfaced to look for the presumptuous, ill-mannered citizen. The Blattellae on the bar were absorbed in gluttony, as were the ones on the floor and in the popcorn dispenser.

  "Getting warmer," said the voice.

  Finally I found him, perched on the front of Junior's mohawk. "This pack animal is not my nigger," I said. "Don't project your problem onto me, fella."

  "So? You think this is mine? No way. I live downtown with a professional relaxation expert. Her name is Nirvana."

  "What are you doing way up here?"

  "I was sleeping with my baby one night and the next thing I knew I was riding the subway in this skunk patch. Grease must have sucked me in."

  Rufus stuck out his palm for punishment. "I got to hit the trail. Be frozen, Junior."

  "Enjoy your new mobile home," I said.

  "I'm out of here. You'll see. If only he weren't such a drugged, destitute halfwit."

  "Why don't you walk?"

  "With guard rats on every corner? Pigeons? No chance."

  "Well then, start a tab at the bar. Bon Appétit!" Rufus was rising from his stool.

  "No I won't. I won't stay here. I'm going back to Nirvana. He promised her, and this time. . ." He carried on, stamping on Junior's head like Rumpelstiltskin, until he hit a slick. With a terrible scream he slid down the mohawk, bounced off Junior's forehead, and disappeared with a small plunk into his beer.

  Junior didn't see him. "Yeah, be cool, Rufus my man. Don't take no wooden trim." He held up his glass in toast and drained it in one swallow.

  "Thanks," said a new voice. This time I paid attention; it was another Blattella. I soon found him, perched in the front of the bartender's pompadour. "I was getting sick of that Nirvana rap, night after night, week after week. I thought we'd never get rid of that guy."

  "My pleasure," I said.

  A MOMENT LATER Rufus and I were walking up the street. I heard a primitive percussion. As it got louder I could hear a voice rapping. It wasn't music; there was no melody, no harmony, not even a change of pitch. He spoke only of infatuation, seduction, and sex, with an occasional reference to money. This was a refreshing distillation of human ambition; if Ira were so clear-headed, I'd be safe and warm at home right now. The advent of rapping probably marked a circle in human development; when Homo first chattered and banged on a log, could it have sounded much different?

  I soon started to see gutted buildings, windows and doors sealed with cinder blocks or sheet metal. Bums slept in doorways on newspaper bedding. I was glad to see scores of Periplanetae having to snuggle with them for heat on this brisk evening.

  "Damn!" said Rufus, shivering, stepping into the street. He flagged a gypsy cab.

  Soot puffed from the decomposing upholstery when Rufus sat down. The plastic barrier, which looked glazed with spittle, slid open and the driver said, "Where to?" Tires screeching, we took off.

  "Whoa!" cried Rufus. "This America, Jack. Red light mean stop."

  "Sorry, man. I'm beat. Last night them Ricans was having' a party next door." He turned toward us, and through a mouthpiece formed by his thumb and first finger, gave a creditable impression of a salsa trumpet. "Kept me up till five AM in the mornin'."

  "Watch where you drivin'. One time them Latino did that to me. I call 911. They say they send a car over. Nobody show. I call back, use m
y whitey voice, and say I hear a shot. Four car come flyin' in, siren goin', G-men in bulletproof vest. No more noise that night."

  The driver laughed. "I try that next time."

  The car pulled over. We had been driving the wrong way, away from the Gypsy's apartment. I could stay in the cab and hope it turned around. But it was so stuffy and grimy that I decided to stick with Rufus.

  He paid the tab plus a five percent tip. As we got out of the car, he reached for his armpit. From the peak of his hat I saw the mother-of-pearl handle. Click. A safety? A bullet in the chamber? Where was I going, the OK Corral?

  If I jumped from Rufus's head now, what were my chances of getting out of the ghetto alive? Guard rats on every corner. I couldn't risk it.

  Only one thing could protect me—Rufus's skull. Unlike Ira's ovoid head, Rufus's rose on an incline from his forehead to a peak, then fell sharply to his neck. I moved behind this peak, and periodically ran out to see what was happening.

  Rufus kicked open the cracked glass door of the tenement. A middle-aged man slept on the floor beneath the mailboxes. A younger man leapt off the windowsill and came at us with a malevolent smile.

  "Easy," said Rufus.

  The man looked at Rufus's hand, still under his jacket. Still smiling, he said, "What you got there, my man?"

  "Start walkin', or this roscoe blow you back to Africa."

  The man retreated, still smiling, and went out the door. We backed into the elevator.

  Rufus opened the door to an apartment. The air was filled with a choking carbon haze. A big black woman sat on a sofa that was mostly springs and stuffing, in front of a small TV set perched on a pile of newspapers. The antennae, with small balls of aluminum foil wrapped around the ends, reminded me of me.

  Setting down her Coke and potato chips, the woman jumped up, wrapped her arms around Rufus's neck, and kissed him wetly on the lips. "Where you been at, lover man. You a cruel nigger not callin' me for days. I didn't know what to think."