So the story is, I had a conversation with a cockroach last month.

We met in my apartment, in the kitchen. It was a cold November morning, and I hadn’t been awake more than an hour. I was busy mincing onions and bell peppers for an omelet when I noticed him standing in front of the sink.

“Morning,” he said, tipping his head slightly.

At first the whole thing made me uncomfortable. This was my home. I paid rent, and utilities. I tried not to be rude about it, but it was unpleasant thinking this stranger could just waltz in on my life.

The cockroach sensed my unease. He told me it was ok — the last tenant had given him a similar reaction. In fact, most of the people he’d met in the building were the same way.

“At least you’re not gonna squash me, right?” he joked.

I felt bad. We’d only just met, after all. Where was my open mindedness?

I offered him some coffee, something to eat maybe. He politely declined, saying he’d just help himself to some garbage later.

“Right.”

We started out chatting about little things, small talk mostly. He was a very nice guy and a great conversationalist. The weather was starting to get nippy I commented. He laughed and asked me how long I’d been living in the city.

“This is nothing,” he chuckled. “Just wait another few months. February is a real bitch, lemme tell you.”

I smiled and cracked some eggs into a bowl. I asked him how long he’d been living here.

“A long time I reckon…” he said, thoughtfully. “Well, for my kind you know. I’m an old man.”

I told him I couldn’t tell, and he laughed heartily. Diet and exercise, he said.

“Do you have a family?” I asked, turning the yolks and whites over with a fork. “Wife, kids, anything like that?”

“Oh sure,” he retorted. “I’ve had a few of each. I’d wager I’ve probably got a few hundred great grandkids running around at this point.”

This comment made me uneasy, but I didn’t let it show.

“Yes sir, quite a few,” he continued. “It’s funny how quickly they come and go. One moment your house is full of them running around, making messes. You get sick of it. Then, before you know it, they move on out of your life. Even the youngest rarely call anymore.”

There was a twinge of sadness in his voice. I tried to imagine what it must be like to have thousands of kids. I stopped beating my eggs.

“I’m sorry to hear that,” I replied. “I should probably call my parents more often.”

He laughed again.

“That you should,” he said. “But ahh…”

He stretched his legs and fluttered his wings restlessly. I pulled a skillet down from the cabinet, careful to step over him in the process.

“I remember being your age,” he said. “Full of energy, on your own for the first time, ready to take on the whole damn world. I sure as hell couldn’t wait to get out of the house.”

I clicked my tongue in agreement, nodding my head slightly. A twist of the stove knob brought a burner to life.

“Boy, you shoulda seen me when I was younger,” he grinned. “I was a real stud, believe me.”

He began punching the air with his tiny feet, dodging imaginary retaliations with little swooping motions.

“I used to run this whole place — the world was my goddam osyter. The best food, the best nests… and the parties!”

He scuttled over the tilling to the trash bin to get a look at his reflection in the dented steel. His speed was impressive, given his age. Diet and exercise, I thought to myself.

“Those were the days kid. There’s nothing like being young.”

I sliced a small wedge of butter into the hot skillet, where it landed with a satisfying hiss.

“What I wouldn’t give to be your age again,” he said, turning up to me.

My reply was a weak smile and a half nod, but the insincerity of gesture did not go unnoticed. Despite the size of his brain, he was a remarkably perceptive.

“Hey now,” he quipped, “Don’t let me be another old man trying to tell you about his glory days.”

That wasn’t it at all, I said. I tossed my vegetables into the pan and stirred them around with a spatula. We stood in silence for a while.

“Look, I know I should be enjoying all of this,” I blurted out, pausing for a moment as I watched the onions and peppers sizzle away. “But it can be strange sometimes too, you know?”

The cockroach cocked his antennae curiously.

“How do you mean kid?” he asked.

“Oh I don’t know…”

I flipped my concoction over itself with a flick of the wrist.

“Sometimes I just feel like I have so many questions, and so little answers…” I went on.

“Everything is new and exciting, sure. But every day that goes by just makes the world seem bigger, and sometimes I get to feeling like it might be impossible to find the right place in it.”

I regretted my honesty immediately, and tried to focus on the business of pouring my beaten eggs into the skillet. I could feel the sting of his gaze on the side of my head as I blushed.

“Sorry,” I said.

Eventually he sighed and turned back to his reflection in the trashcan. He laughed again.

“Ahh, kid…”

I looked up from my eggs.

“I’m not saying that this isn’t a great time or anything like that,” I said defensively. “But, some days I just feel like I have no idea what the hell I’m supposed to be doing, you know?”

The pan was getting too hot. I set the burner down to its lowest setting.

“I just think there’s a lot I want to know, and I wish I knew it now,” I concluded. “I mean, look at you — kids, grandkids, a whole lifetime of experiences and adventures under you belt. Isn’t that wisdom satisfying?”

The cockroach was still focusing on his mirror image in the bottom of the bin.

“Sure is,” he said. “Sure as hell is! You wouldn’t believe the secrets of life I know.”

My eggs were almost done. I turned off the heat completely.

“But nothing good happens overnight kid,” he continued. “Nothing in this life comes easy, believe me.”

I pulled a plate from the dishrack and slid my breakfast from the skillet. We moved to the living room, where I sat on the couch, and he crawled halfway up the leg of the wooden coffee table. No matter what he said, it was a brisk morning in my apartment.

“So what, be patient, trust the process, is that what you’re saying?” I ground pepper and sprinkled salt over my plate. “I’ve heard that one before.”

Morning light poured in from beyond the drawn blinds, reflecting off of the glassy blackish-brown body of the cockroach.

“In as many words, I guess I would say something like that,” he replied. “But you brought it up kid.”

I looked at him and could tell that my words had offended him. Again, I felt bad.

I took a bite of my omelet and chewed for a while. “I just wish there was a clear path forward sometimes.”

The cockroach twitched his antennae philosophically, then climbed the rest of the way up the leg onto the table top where he dodged by empty glasses and bottles to perch next to the ashtray.

“You know, I used to be just like you,” he said. “Wanting the whole world on a silver platter. You mind if I smoke?”

I shook my head and kept eating. The cockroach produced a tiny cigarette, but had forgotten his lighter. I walked to the coat rack and produced a box of matches from my jacket pocket. I lit a candle on the table and returned to my plate. He crawled over to the flame and carefully held his cigarette to the base.

We just sat there for a few minutes, me eating and him smoking.

“How did you know what you wanted to do with your life anyway?” I asked, pushing the remnants of my finished meal away.

He took a few more drags of his cigarette.

“Well, I tried a lot of different things when I was younger…” he told me. “I started out as a mechanic actually. Worked in finance for a while too. I was kind of all over the place now that I think about it.”

The tip of his tiny cigarette illuminated as he puffed it.

“You didn’t like any of the things you were doing, or what?”

He took another drag and stubbed the butt out in the ashtray before responding.

“Well honestly, I liked most of it. I liked all of it matter of fact. Working my hands, working my mind… every little thing taught me a little bit more about myself. I think that’s what I was after most of all. Just to understand what kind of man I was going to be.”

He stroked what I imagined was the cockroach equivalent of a chin, pensively. I sat back on the couch hanging on his every word.

“Those were strange times in many ways. But also very beautiful. I had my highest highs and lowest lows back then. No matter what you think you know, you can always feel. I lived my life trying to feel my way to knowledge, I guess you could say.”

He reached out his front legs and balled his hands up dramatically.

“It always seemed to me that you never really know what you actually want until you’re holding it in your hands,” he continued. “And even then, sometimes what you think you want more than anything else in the world doesn’t feel quite right when you finally grab ahold of it.”

The central heating fired up with a sudden crack in the wall behind me, and I jolted in surprise. My guest didn’t budge. I shook my head.

“I don’t get what you’re saying exactly,” I said. “If you can’t know what you want, how are you supposed to know what to do?”

The cockroach chuckled.

“You should trust your instincts a little bit more kid,” he replied, lighting another cigarette on the candle. “You’ve made it this far.”

More silence for awhile.

He turned around slowly, surveying the apartment. He noticed a stack of tattered paperbacks on the counter and pointed.

“You like to read?” he asked.

“Yeah.”

He turned to a guitar perched in the corner of the living room.

“You play?”

“When I can.”

He walked over to an open notebook lying on the table next to the candle, crawling onto the page to read my handwriting. I thought it must be difficult to read words half the size of your body.

“You write too?”

“Every day, if I can.”

The cockroach stayed on the page and kept reading, smoking as he did. For some reason I didn’t feel the slightest bit of self-consciousness as he took in my work. Eventually he hopped back onto the table and perched next to the ashtray.

“That’s good kid,” he said. “Keep it up. You’d be surprised where the little things are gonna take you.”

The cigarette dangled from his mouth as he spoke.

“All of the things I’ve done, the places and people I’ve encountered. I didn’t know it then, but it was all building towards something.”

He opened his eyes and gazed into the candle thoughtfully.

“Building to what?” I asked.

“A realization I suppose,” he said. “That moment when it all suddenly makes sense…

I thought about that. The apartment was finally warming up. Suddenly, he put out his cigarette and rose up on his tiny little legs.

“Hey look kid, I should really get going,” he said. “You’ve been a great host.”

He fluttered down from the table and started scuttling off towards the kitchen. I stood up and grabbed my plate before following him.

“Yeah, I understand,” I said. “It sure was nice to meet you.”

When the hardwood of the living room gave way to the tile of the kitchen the cockroach seemed to move a little slower. As he was passing the trashcan he stopped one more time to look at himself.

“Like wise kid,” he said. “I’ll be around.”

I put my dishes in the sink and started to run some hot water. The cockroach moved on from the trashcan towards a small crack in the floor molding that I now felt very conflicted about.

“Hey,” I said. “One more thing. That thing you found out, or discovered or whatever. What was it?”

He paused at the mouth of the hole and let out a deep sigh.

“Well, guess I woke up one morning, and it just clicked…”

He seemed lost for words.

“What?” I whispered.

He looked up at me and gave one final, roachy grin.

“Im a cockroach, kid,” he smiled. “It’s just what I am.”

He turned round and disappeared away into the infrastructure of the wall. After a moment, I simply shook my head, and went back to doing dishes.

***