into his head, burning down the forest behind his eyes, chasing crazy black and yellow dream birds into his sudden tears. He swallowed a scream. His nose bulged and contracted as something inside punched around, fighting to get out. He sneezed, sneezed again. The maddening tickle ceased on the left, and a slick brown roach, as long as the first two joints of his little finger, slid out of his nose.
As clear as day, a sudden picture in his head: Perry’s ten and staying at his uncle’s ranch in Arizona, and the cow in the pen behind the barn is giving birth on this winter morning, and the steaming calf, all bloody and brown and wet, just hangs there for a moment from the end of the cow before falling to the cold manure with a plop.
The roach slid over his upper lip and fell tumbling into the water-stained yellow bowl of his bathroom sink and landed on its back with its legs all folded up and moving weakly as if in prayer. Perry put the bottom edge of the ant-and-roach can on the bug and pushed. The roach folded up like a man doing a sit-up before the can cut it in half with a crunch. The top half flipped over and dragged itself to the drain and disappeared. He turned on the cold water and washed the bottom half down too.
Perry speculated briefly on the proposition that all things separated someday somehow come together again. Going around, coming around. Like the way when you threw your bowling ball, you always got it back. He could feel his heart beating in his face. He closed his eyes and tried to breathe through his nose. The right side was still stopped up absolutely, but he was able to get a weak stream of foul-smelling air in through the left. He didn’t fool himself that he’d cleared everything out of there. He knew what roaches and their leavings smelled like, and that smell was still in his nose, in spite of the bug spray. He felt dizzy, and he grabbed onto the sink. The jolt that had stunned the roach had done its job on him too. He wondered if he dare do his right side.
“You in there, Perry?” Carmela called.
So she was up. Perry pulled himself together and picked up the ice pick. Maybe he could spear a few and avoid taking another shot of the bug spray. Maybe he could do it before he had to deal with Carmela. He put the point of the ice pick in his right nostril and slowly probed upwards. He felt the roaches scurry away from the sharp tool, pressing themselves tighter into his sinuses. The itch and tickle of their scrambling legs and questing antennae made him bite his lips and squint his eyes. He pushed a little more with the ice pick and felt it break into one of the hard shells. The activity in his nose became frantic, and behind him Carmela pounded on the door. Perry flinched and stabbed himself somewhere deep inside his right nostril.
“Come on, Perry. Open up. I gotta pee!” Carmela banged on the bathroom door again. It sounded like artillery shelling.
Blood flooded from Perry’s nose. “Go away, you cow. I’m bleeding!”
“Who’re you calling a cow!” Carmela yelled. She rattled the knob and kicked the door. “I’ll show you a cow! Let me in!”
Perry threw the ice pick at the toilet. Too dangerous with Carmela distracting him every minute. He was lucky he hadn’t lost an eye. Why couldn’t she have slept a little longer? In fact, why did this whole mess have to be happening to him? What kind of world is it where bugs crawl up your nose but leave your crabby wife alone? A world where you’re 37 and as bald as honeydew melon already; a world where you can’t smoke, because you cough up your lungs when you do; where you can’t eat red meat because your cholesterol is too high; a world where you can’t take a drink because your daddy died of it and it makes your knees knock to think about being like that—although you have been, you really have been, just ask Carmela, but you don’t want to think about that right now, after all, you’ve got bugs up your nose—a world where
As clear as day, a sudden picture in his head: Perry’s ten and staying at his uncle’s ranch in Arizona, and the cow in the pen behind the barn is giving birth on this winter morning, and the steaming calf, all bloody and brown and wet, just hangs there for a moment from the end of the cow before falling to the cold manure with a plop.
The roach slid over his upper lip and fell tumbling into the water-stained yellow bowl of his bathroom sink and landed on its back with its legs all folded up and moving weakly as if in prayer. Perry put the bottom edge of the ant-and-roach can on the bug and pushed. The roach folded up like a man doing a sit-up before the can cut it in half with a crunch. The top half flipped over and dragged itself to the drain and disappeared. He turned on the cold water and washed the bottom half down too.
Perry speculated briefly on the proposition that all things separated someday somehow come together again. Going around, coming around. Like the way when you threw your bowling ball, you always got it back. He could feel his heart beating in his face. He closed his eyes and tried to breathe through his nose. The right side was still stopped up absolutely, but he was able to get a weak stream of foul-smelling air in through the left. He didn’t fool himself that he’d cleared everything out of there. He knew what roaches and their leavings smelled like, and that smell was still in his nose, in spite of the bug spray. He felt dizzy, and he grabbed onto the sink. The jolt that had stunned the roach had done its job on him too. He wondered if he dare do his right side.
“You in there, Perry?” Carmela called.
So she was up. Perry pulled himself together and picked up the ice pick. Maybe he could spear a few and avoid taking another shot of the bug spray. Maybe he could do it before he had to deal with Carmela. He put the point of the ice pick in his right nostril and slowly probed upwards. He felt the roaches scurry away from the sharp tool, pressing themselves tighter into his sinuses. The itch and tickle of their scrambling legs and questing antennae made him bite his lips and squint his eyes. He pushed a little more with the ice pick and felt it break into one of the hard shells. The activity in his nose became frantic, and behind him Carmela pounded on the door. Perry flinched and stabbed himself somewhere deep inside his right nostril.
“Come on, Perry. Open up. I gotta pee!” Carmela banged on the bathroom door again. It sounded like artillery shelling.
Blood flooded from Perry’s nose. “Go away, you cow. I’m bleeding!”
“Who’re you calling a cow!” Carmela yelled. She rattled the knob and kicked the door. “I’ll show you a cow! Let me in!”
Perry threw the ice pick at the toilet. Too dangerous with Carmela distracting him every minute. He was lucky he hadn’t lost an eye. Why couldn’t she have slept a little longer? In fact, why did this whole mess have to be happening to him? What kind of world is it where bugs crawl up your nose but leave your crabby wife alone? A world where you’re 37 and as bald as honeydew melon already; a world where you can’t smoke, because you cough up your lungs when you do; where you can’t eat red meat because your cholesterol is too high; a world where you can’t take a drink because your daddy died of it and it makes your knees knock to think about being like that—although you have been, you really have been, just ask Carmela, but you don’t want to think about that right now, after all, you’ve got bugs up your nose—a world where
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