A Home For Gokiburi*

Harsh, bright lights disrupt my deep slumber. My lovely evening nap is ruined. There is no choice. I run. I scurry. My wings flutter as I awkwardly flap towards darkness. Wishing I had even more legs, I aim for corners, for shadows where I can finally relax, indoors, at last, away from this blistering Japanese heat and humidity.

“Hot, isn’t it?” chirps a little critter as I walk past.

Our kind have been walking the earth for the past 354 million years, outwitting the dinosaurs and defying radiation, you’d think we’d have grown accustomed to four different seasons so much to the point of predictability. But I can hardly question the veracity of this little tyke’s statement: It IS very hot. Back when I lived in my Chinatown kitchen in New York City things got toasty, but never quite like this.

But I digress. We were talking about my nap. I am scuttling towards dark corners and my hosts are being oddly inhospitable. Screams. Shoes. I tumble head over heels. There are heels over my head. I run over a fleshy, pink, lump that smells of nail polish. More screams ensue. I am lost in thought and neglect to realize that my abdomen has detected moving air from above. Large stiff bristles pelt me on the head.

Finally, I find solace in a corner with a nice breeze gusting in from under the door. Yes, yes, this could do quite well for a napping locale as well. I slow down my heart rate in an attempt to become as quiet as possible. Blend, blend, become one with the floor, I tell myself. My efforts are fruitless as a deadly umbrella spoke is shoved rudely in my face. My antennae bristle. A kindly, melodic Irish voice attempts to usher me out of my newfound home into the sweltering heat outside. It is followed by more irate, deranged tones belonging to an American female who comes at me with an evil-looking Japanese heel.

I am a hearty traveler – I can hold my breath for forty-five minutes and survive for months eating nothing but the glue off the back of a stamp, but it’s difficult being foreign at times. The heat, the traps, the ostracism, the solitude, the pesticides. Yet, the experience has been completely rewarding. The travels, the exploits, the okonomiyaki, the worldly insects from all over the globe that have gathered here to learn all they can about wonderful Japan, the meticulously separated garbage that allows me to find delicacies all the more easily.

But to be treated with such rudeness is unacceptable. The brash and profane American English makes my shell quiver and is actually worse than the hysterical, high-pitched screams laden with vowels that I endured for several weeks two floors down. Where are the famed cries of “irashaimase!” to enthusiastically welcome me wherever I go? They are elusive and, I’m beginning to think, possibly mythological. These six syllables have become my holy grail.

And then, wait, what’s that? A cottage? A hotel? With its cute façade and alluring aromas I can’t help but be drawn in. Perhaps this is one of those famed love hotels with saunas, video games and various toys that I have heard much about. A welcoming sign that reads ホイホイ** beckons me in.

*gokiburi = ゴキブリ, cockroach
** hoi hoi = ホイホイ, a popular ‘roach motel’ used in Japan to get rid of the pesky creatures.

I was recently asked to write an article for Niihama’s monthly newsletter. As cockroach season was upon us at the time, that’s what was on my mind. So unwittingly I began channeling Kafka and ran with it.

But upon seeing my piece in hardcopy in the newsletter, I was flabbergasted. Not only had I morphed into a cockroach during this piece, but apparently, I had also had a sex change AND lost the past year of my life in Japan. My, how much things can change in a year. Perhaps I’ve been eating too much Men’s Pocky as of late.

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Published:
8.29.07 / 1pm
Category:
amusing incidents, what i call life, culture, unschoolish