Shoebag (3 page)

“Why wouldn’t she?” Mr. Biddle said. “You are a very, very nice-looking young fellow.”

“Thank you,” came from the cockroach mouth, and Shoebag’s wings lifted and fell in the old roach signal of contentment.

F
OR AN HOUR BEFORE
bedtime, Shoebag was invited to watch television with Pretty Soft, in her all-pink room.

Pretty Soft always watched her two favorite sitcoms then, each one a half hour long.

Shoebag was not a regular television viewer, since he and his family always foraged for food in people’s kitchens when they turned on their sets.

He leaned back on Pretty Soft’s pink velvet chaise and laughed and laughed at all the jokes, but Pretty Soft kept a straight face. She was lathering it with Chase Away, an anti-wrinkle cream. She was propped up against the pink pillows on her bed. She wore a pink kimono, and pink scuffs, and kept her pink mirror beside her.

Shoebag waited until a commercial for hair spray came on, before he asked her why she watched this sitcom called “Molly Moon,” if she didn’t think it was funny.

“I think it’s hilarious,” she told him, “and one of the reasons I watch it, is because it has a laugh track.”

Shoebag didn’t know what that meant.

“Wherever you came from,” she said, “it couldn’t have been a very civilized place, or you would know more about television. All that laughter you hear is pre-recorded, what we call canned laughter. The television producers stick it in after someone does or says something funny. That’s why I don’t laugh. They do the laughing for me.”

“But I can’t
help
laughing,” said Shoebag.

“Then laugh. Most home viewers do, but I have to save my face.”

“If most home viewers laugh, why is there a laugh track then?”

“Because some people don’t get the jokes,” Pretty Soft said, “and because some people don’t like to laugh alone. They feel like they’re having a better time if everyone is laughing.”

Now Pretty Soft had put down Chase Away to brush her hair, 100 strokes in front, 100 strokes in back, and 100 strokes on both sides. She was counting under her breath.

Suddenly there was a familiar sight on the big 25 inch screen. Cockroaches. Dozens of them running around a giant chunk of Swiss cheese.

Shoebag felt a thrill of recognition. Here were his own kind on television! If there were cockroaches featured on prime time on national TV, they could not be as hated as his family had always claimed.

Shoebag felt proud, and he looked across at Pretty Soft to see her reaction.

“… twenty-nine, thirty, thirty-one,” she was counting as she combed her hair, and although her eyes were on the screen, Shoebag could tell nothing about her feelings.

He was planning to exclaim on cockroach bravery (risking exposure and eye glare under those bright television lights) and their great beauty (they had chosen only the ones with the shiniest shells and the longest antennae). But something catastrophic happened before Shoebag could speak.

A great white cloud was puffed at the cockroaches causing them to fall over, legs up, as it mushroomed over their little bodies and hung above them.

An announcer’s voice with a particularly ominous tone, said “Zap zaps cockroaches dead!”

“Oh, no,” said Shoebag. “Zap!”

“It’s awfully smelly stuff, isn’t it?” Pretty Soft commented. “On the first Monday of every month, when they fumigate here, I go to the park with Madam G. de la G. Then mother sprays the house with Fresh Meadow Scent, so there’s no foul odors left when I get back.”

There was not one survivor on the TV screen … and now a large hand with wrist hairs was holding up a can of Zap.

“Zap!” said the announcer’s voice. “For things that don’t deserve to live!”

Shoebag said, “Why don’t they?”

The announcer couldn’t answer Shoebag, of course, but Pretty Soft did as she ran the pink hairbrush through the left side of her long blonde hair “… sixty … sixty-one, sixty-two … because they’re ugly little insects,” she said. “And they’re filthy!”

“They’ve been around for 250 million years,” Shoebag said. “They were here 249 million years before you were!”

“I don’t care what was here before I was,” said Pretty Soft.

“They don’t harm people.”

“They hide out in drainboards, under toasters, anywhere they feel like it, in people’s homes.”

“They were here first!” Shoebag said. “People moved into
their
homes.”

“But cockroaches don’t have leases,” said Pretty Soft. “People have leases. We have a three-year lease on this apartment, and we’ll probably renew it.”

“A lease is just a piece of paper!” said Shoebag.

“But if you don’t have one,” Pretty Soft said, “you can’t live in an apartment … unless of course you buy the building. I very much doubt that cockroaches make any money.”

“Is money all you care about?” Shoebag asked. He was still badly shaken by the sight of his own species flat on their backs, feet-up, dead.

“I care about being beautiful first,” said Pretty Soft, “because if I wasn’t beautiful I wouldn’t have so much money.”

“Aren’t there other ways to make money?” Shoebag asked.

“Not when you’re only seven years old,” Pretty Soft said. “Wherever you came from, you have forgotten how hard life really is sometimes.”

No, Shoebag had not forgotten that at all, but he was surprised to hear Pretty Soft say such a thing.

“You
think life is hard?” he asked her.

“I protect myself against it all the time,” she told him. “I shouldn’t even be having this conversation, for example.”

“Why not?” Shoebag asked.

“Because I have already lost count of my brushstrokes,” Pretty Soft said. “I have already broken my routine. It’s not good to break your routine, not when it interferes with the business at hand.”

With that, she began all over again on the left side of her head, counting, “One, two, three …”

Shoebag turned his attention back to the sitcom, but not before saying The Cockroach Prayer for the Dead.

“Go to a better life. Amen.”

T
HE BIDDLE APARTMENT WAS
composed of the first two floors of the old brownstone. For all of their lives, Shoebag’s family had lived on the bottom floor, where the kitchen, dining room, and Mrs. Biddle’s studio was. They stayed mainly in the kitchen, behind things, but Shoebag had often played in the studio, where there were always cans of paint in many colors, and great canvases with paintings of the sea on them.

Shoebag had never seen a real sea with waves and sand and a beach. But sometimes he would run up and down one of the pictures, trying to imagine his legs getting wet as they left the tan colors and headed for the gray-green of the ocean, trying to feel the wind as he scampered higher into the blue, resting, out of breath, on one of the white clouds. Mrs. Biddle had just finished making herself a salami sandwich on rye and carried it into the studio, where she was watching the ten o’clock news.

Shoebag had sneaked down the stairs in his new blue-and-white striped pajamas, with the white terrycloth robe. In his hurry to buy Shoebag clothes quickly, before dinner, Mr. Biddle had forgotten bedroom slippers, so Shoebag wore only socks. He could feel the cold of the linoleum floors right through the cotton. Skin was hard to keep warm, Shoebag realized. He missed the protection of his shell, but that was the least of it when it came to missing things.

He missed the freedom he had had to roam about at night. Mr. Biddle had made a bed for him on the couch, upstairs in the living room. He had told him lights out by ten
P.M.,
which meant Shoebag was expected to go to sleep at that hour!

Shoebag also missed the old roach thrill at the approach of the nightly hunt for food. He knew that in back of the stove, under the refrigerator, behind the cupboard, and down near the dishwasher, all his family was gathered with their antennae alert, waiting for the house to settle down, their hopes rising as they speculated over what would be waiting for them, starting with the goodies usually found in the kitchen. (Already Shoebag could see all the bread crumbs on the counter, left by Mrs. Biddle, and the salami grease still streaked across the carving knife.)

Most of all, though, Shoebag missed Drainboard.

He worried that Under The Toaster would do what he had always done: run out ahead of her and grab all the best food for himself. Shoebag had been faster than his father, and his eyesight had been better, so that when he was still one of the family, he jumped on choice morsels and saved them for his mother.

Under The Toaster claimed that the father cockroach came first, because after all he had to shoulder all the responsibility for the family. It was he who had to keep track of when the Zap man came, and it was he who had to decide if they should take a chance and move to a new place when a person packed up anything to be sent somewhere. (Never mind that Under The Toaster probably could not bring himself to leave Boston, or even this brownstone on Beacon Hill, because Shoebag’s father, at heart, was very sentimental about both places.)

Under The Toaster was also supposed to be the lookout for the water bugs, the black jumping spider, and the ones in webs, the Persian cat from the third floor who often got loose, and any other enemies. Still, it was Drainboard who excelled at sensing danger. It was her voice most often calling out, “Get your cerci moving! Trouble is coming!”

As much as Shoebag honored Under The Toaster, he was his father, after all, he sometimes felt his mother was taken advantage of. Under The Toaster took the warmest sleeping place for himself. And he was always criticizing Drainboard for things like not warning him the dishwasher had not completed its cycle, so it would start up again, just as Under The Toaster had crawled behind it. Or he would shout at Drainboard that she should have told him there was a roast in the oven, and not let him find it out for himself as he hopped down to the hot burner.

So Shoebag was filled with concern for Drainboard, which was why he had sneaked down to the first floor, past his bedtime.

He could hear the television weatherman from inside Mrs. Biddle’s studio, forecasting snow.

Mrs. Biddle had left the little light on over the stove, and Shoebag climbed up on the kitchen stool and snapped it off.

“Mama?” he whispered. “Mama, it’s me, your little boy, are you there?”

“Don’t say that, honey, please,” he heard her voice from somewhere. “It is bad enough what has happened to you, but call yourself my little son, not my little boy. Little boys kill roaches.”

“I promised I wouldn’t, Mama, and I won’t. Are you all right?”

“I am, but your poor father is feeling badly. Look around and see if there’s a choice morsel for him.”

“There’s salami grease on the knife, Mama, but I was hoping you’d have it.”

“Would you put the knife up on the spice shelf for a moment? Your father is sleeping behind the cloves.”

“What’s wrong with him?” Shoebag asked as he snapped on the stove light, got the knife from the counter, and opened the cupboard.

“He caught his left antenna in the oven door yesterday,” said Drainboard. “It hurts him badly. He can’t forage for food, or be the lookout, or any of that.”

“Are you sure he isn’t faking? He’s done that before so that you end up doing all the work.”

“SHUT THAT DOOR UNTIL YOU TURN OFF THE LIGHT!”

Shoebag turned off the light and stood in the dark on the stool. He was still very much afraid of his father’s bad temper. Shoebag had not changed that much.

“There’s salami grease on that knife, dear,” said Drainboard to Under The Toaster.

“Don’t you think I can see that? Do you think I’m blind?”

“Mama?” Shoebag said. “There are rye bread crumbs out here. Your favorite kind. Come out and get them.”

“Thank heavens for Mrs. Biddle’s gigantic appetite!” said Drainboard.

“Rye bread crumbs go with salami,” said Under The Toaster. “Get
me
those rye bread crumbs!”

“They’re for Mama,” Shoebag said.

“Let Daddy have them,” said Drainboard. “I’ll come out later and look around for something.”

“You could share them, there’s plenty,” said Shoebag.

“I need them all,” said Under The Toaster. “I have an injured antenna, and I need to build up my strength.”

“Get them for Daddy, dear. Make sure his door is shut, turn on the light, gather them up, turn the light off, open the door, and put them beside the knife.”

Shoebag did all that, saying, “What about you, Mama?”

“Don’t be such a mama’s roach,” snapped Under The Toaster. “I thought you were a person now.”

“She’s still my mother!” Shoebag said.

“And I’m still your father!” said Under The Toaster. “Show some respect. I eat first and best. I deserve special attention, too, now that I have injured my antenna…. Get this knife away, or someone will come along and suspect I’m behind the cloves!”

“Yes, sir!” said Shoebag, and he did as he was told.

“Don’t worry about me, Shoebag,” said his mother. “I’m not hungry now. I’ll eat later.”

That was what she always said.

“These rye bread crumbs are too fresh,” said Under The Toaster. “I like them a little crustier.”

“Then let Mama have them.”

“I just ate the last one,” said Under The Toaster with his mouth full. “Now see if you can find me something sweet for dessert.”

“Is everything all right, my son?” Drainboard asked.

“Find me some cake,” said Under The Toaster. “I feel like cake.”

“Are you happy, Son?” said Drainboard.

“Let him find me some cake before you start all that questioning,” Under The Toaster said.

“Don’t you care how our little son is doing?” she asked him.

“I did, when he looked like me … but now …”

“Now what?” Shoebag asked him.

“Now get me some cake!” said Under The Toaster, and that was the point when Mrs. Biddle called out, “Who’s in the kitchen? Rodney, is that you?”

Shoebag would have run back upstairs fast, except for what he saw crawling across the kitchen counter.

It was the seven-legged, black jumping spider.