The Glen Book OneChapter 23
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Based on a March 29, 1916 New York Sun newspaper column
and the 1927 book "Archy and Mehitabel," both by Don Marquis
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Cockroach
By Pretzelgirl
dear boss,
you don't know me but i am andy the cockroach.
i live in the wall behind your computer.
i thought this might be a good way to introduce myself
by writing you a letter. i have meant to do this for
a long time, but you never leave your word processor
running at night until now, and i can't work the mouse.
also, i can't work your shift key so i can't use
capital letters. please excuse me, it's all i can do
to ram myself headfirst into each key one at a time
to write this, but the night is long and i am patient.
i have watched you for a long time, from a hole in
the wall facing your monitor. i like the stories you
download from the net, but i wish more stories involved
cockroaches. maybe you could write one about a spiders-r-us
wizard who changes roaches into ladybugs. just a
suggestion for you and your friends.
also i wish to point out i notice you own the book
elements of style by strunk and white.
i suggest you read the book more carefully
as your own prose is in dire need of improving.
i like your poems though.
if you wonder why a cockroach can write and speak
english, much less criticize literature, let me point
out i am a reincarnated short story writer.
reincarnation happens to be quite real and most of
us short story writers seem to come back as roaches.
you may wish to either consider a new vice or at least
upgrade yourself to a full-blown novelist, as most
of them at least return as sewer rats.
also, if you can stomach more advice i would
recommend you pull down the shades when you dress up
like a girl in the future. i have spoken with an alley
cat named miranda who sees your near-nightly ritual
quite plainly from her stoop behind the house. she
finds you highly amusing, though i confess i understand
your plight and try to stick up for you.
nevertheless, it wouldn't do for any humans to spy
you the way miranda the cat has.
funny how humans are hurtful to one another about
habits us pests tolerate or even empathize with.
people get creeped out by roaches.
i bet they'd be creeped out by you in a dress, no offense.
anyways, please leave your word processor screen on
again tomorrow night. i have had no audience save
miranda the cat and would love to express some of
my thoughts to a kindred spirit once again.
yours
andy, the cockroach
...
dear boss,
i met a moth the other evening who reminded me of you.
he was ramming his head into a light bulb, and i asked
why his kind is always pulling this vain stunt.
what if that had been a bug zapper or an open
flame. are you stupid or something.
he says, no i'm not stupid. but i have a love of beauty.
it's something all moths have, for secretly we aspire
to be butterflies and are deeply envious of their
pretty colors and graceful flight. people roll up
newspapers and try to swat moths, but i never seen a human
try to kill a butterfly yet.
so i answer him, do you think if you smash your
head into this light bulb enough times it will magically
make you into a butterfly.
he says, no of course not. but to us moths, the light
is beauty and an escape from humdrum routine. light is
excitement, it is fiery and hypnotic. we have nothing
to be happy about but a few dreams. we know we can't
ever possess or become the light. and we know sooner or
later we'll pick the wrong light and wind up fried crispy.
but what does it matter. i say it's better to be consumed
with joy in a single instant than to live a long, dull life.
i start to tell him i'd personally rather have half
the excitement and double the life expectancy, but
before i get a chance, he spots an electric-blue
bug zapper in the distance and burns himself to a cinder.
i still think he was dumb, but at the same time i
wish i had as much passion for something as he had
for light and beauty.
i wonder if you are the same in your crossdressing.
it's also a quest for beauty you can't ever really touch.
i hope you don't wind up fried because of it, though.
yours
andy, the cockroach
...
dear boss,
last night, i had an interesting conversation with
miranda the cat that caused me to think of you.
it seems miranda claims she is also a reincarnated
human, but instead of being a humble short story writer
like myself, she was once cleopatra, queen of egypt.
i am at once skeptical and ask her if she ever truly
loved marc antony, and she says what do you mean, that
pop salsa musician. what has he got to do with being
queen of egypt.
i say to her, no i mean marc antony the roman fellow
who was friends with caesar and had a great affair
with cleopatra.
stop being smart, says miranda. i have had so many
famous lovers and lived so many lives it is easy to
get mixed up which is which.
then i remember a story i read once on your computer
about cleopatra coming back reincarnated as some fat
fellow in victorian england. i tease miranda about
this as though it were truth and not just fiction.
what was it like, i ask, also being an old man with a
potbelly a hundred some years ago.
miranda got defensive and said i couldn't possibly
understand what it's like being at the top of beauty
and wealth and power and then having all the wonders
of feminine human perfection stolen away and winding up
just an ragged old alley cat with only a crummy roach
for a so-called friend. i could have sworn a tear
started to well up in her eye.
i tell her i am sorry for the ribbing and offer to
make up and be nice.
i always figure it's better to have friends,
even sensitive ones who put on airs, than
to be a sarcastic, lonely smart ass.
yours
andy, the cockroach
...
dear boss,
the other night we had a visit from a real flashy
fire-fly who seemed awful proud of himself and the
way he lit up the whole room. a few of us roaches,
a daddy long-legs, and miranda the cat gathered
around to watch his show.
he flitted about the room showing off his pretty, glowing
colors. at first it was fascinating fun, but after a couple
hours listening to him prattle on about how beautiful
he was and how unique, how bright, how gloriously special
and wonderful, it got dull.
when the fire-fly claimed to be brighter than lightning itself,
i decided i had to take him down a notch or two and
said, you've got the flash of lightning but where's
the crash of thunder.
some folk are like that, so fascinated in their own
beauty they turn ugly and vain. i'd advise you, boss,
never to tell a girl you look better than she does, as
i suspect some crossdressers are wont to do in some
worked-up, emotional fight with a girlfriend.
pretending to be lightning won't make thunder.
while the fire-fly buzzed about trying to think of a
reply, miranda the cat leaped down and ate him.
yours
andy, the cockroach
...
dear boss,
the other night we were entertained by the most
wonderfully funny tumble bug. i wish you could have
seen him. he did prat falls and slapstick, stand-up
and imitations. his clumsy acrobatics were the best,
where he would fall and land helplessly upside down,
legs working wildly, his fat little topsy-turvy body
slowly spinning around.
but while we are all laughing ourselves silly, i
notice a tear roll down his face.
after the show, i take him aside and ask him,
is it just me or did you appear to be crying.
did you really hurt yourself with that fall.
no, he answers. but you guessed my secret. i never
wanted to be a clown. i always dreamed of being
a concert violinist. you know, a real dignified
gentleman. but it just wasn't in the cards for me.
i have no poise, no class, no gravitas. also,
i have no musical ability. i cannot even play the
violin, which i understand is a prerequisite for
being a concert violinist.
but, i says, you can make people laugh. surely that
is a rare gift too.
yes, he shrugs. and i play the buffoon because i
dearly love the spotlight. center stage is center stage
whether you are the jester or the king.
i wonder though, boss, if the tumble bug was really
happy with his lot. i know they say you should accept
yourself as you are and don't be envious of others.
but i can't help but think maybe he took the easy way
out and just never tried hard enough to achieve his
true dreams.
i notice you try writing a lot of comedy, boss.
i'm sure you're not like the tumble bug, though.
yours
andy, the cockroach
...
dear boss,
i had a long talk with a despondent transsexual
ant the other day. he was most depressed and
explained to me that he'd recently uncovered the
fabled insect-sized medallion of zimbo, capable
of changing a bug into any other insect the
medallion touches.
why would you be so down after making a monumental
find like this, i ask.
he says that shortly after discovering the
medallion he comes to realize that all ants are
identical anyways.
my brothers and sisters and i are one-and-the-same,
he exclaims. i change into them, but there's no
change.
i think for a moment and eventually come up
with a plan. why not try age regression instead,
i say. many self-respecting human transsexuals
seem to be into this idea also. maybe you should
try life as a larva or pupa.
my ant friend agrees this is an intriguing
proposal. but no sooner has he changed himself
into a tiny, legless, white pupa then along
comes a sudden gust of wind which carries him
off into the sky, where i never see or hear
from him again.
i feel a bit guilty over my role in this
tragedy, so i composed a little song for him
and all the other transsexuals borne away by
the callous winds of fate.
how many heels must a man walk in
before he can feel like a girl
how many bras and panties must he steal
before he's the queen of the world
and how tightly must he cinch-up that corset
before he's rightly girdled
the ants are my friends, they're blowing in the wind
the ants, they are blowing in the wind
how many times must a man shave his legs
before his skin turns silky
how many times must he freshen his lipstick
before he can ever feel pretty
and how many years must he wear a disguise
before he can finally walk free
the ants are my friends, they're blowing in the wind
the ants, they are blowing in the wind
how many times can a man wear a dress
before he's no longer just a guy
how many nights must he wonder who he is
before stopping to try and justify
and how many times must he hide true colors
from harsh, inquisitive prying eyes
the ants are my friends, they're blowing in the wind
the ants, they are blowing in the wind
yours
andy, the cockroach
...
dear boss,
i met a spider the other night by the name
of wanda weaver. she was perched in her web,
contented after dining on a fat horsefly
and began to wax philosophic to me.
andy, she says with a smile, the world is created
for our enjoyment and pleasure. why look at this
comfortable window-well i've made my web in.
created especially for me, planned as a
personal home and food magnet just to serve
my needs.
i remark that i don't think the building
contractors had her in mind when making that
window-well.
nonsense, says wanda weaver. it was the
great spider goddess herself who placed
this window-well here. and it's a blasphemy
to think there is no purpose behind everything
in this rich, wondrous creation.
boss, i quickly learned that wanda weaver
considers herself the very center of the
universe, which exists to provide her a
warm sun at noon, a quiet starry evening
at midnight, and plenty of fat flies to feast
on in between.
i ask her what she's done to deserve this
special place of honor and distinction in
the cosmos.
wanda weaver answers, you may as well ask
what the universe has done to deserve
someone as special as me.
look around the place, i say. aren't there
very many special, magical, wondrous, and
beautiful things around us besides just you.
sure there is great beauty in the world,
says wanda weaver. and indirectly,
you have the likes of me to thank for it.
the stars would shine less brilliantly without
me, the breeze would blow less cool, and
flies would taste less juicy. without me, andy,
this universe would be a poorer place.
boss, i agree it's absurd to think that little
wanda weaver is the center of all reality.
but before you laugh too heartily, look long
at yourself. vanity runs deep in humans also.
especially in humans accustomed to wearing
make-up and gazing longingly at themselves
in the mirror.
have you ever read echo and narcissus, boss.
you may like it.
thoughtfully yours
andy, the cockroach
...
dear boss,
i met a most unusual toad the other day,
a fat, warty, yellow-green one with wet
bulging eyes. he says to me, cockroach
will you kiss me.
i am startled, naturally, since not even
lady cockroaches ever want to kiss another
cockroach. but i reply very nicely and say,
why, are you in fact a princess.
the toad says says, no but i used to be
a teenage girl until one day after school
my friends dared me to lick a toad. you're
supposed to get high or hallucinate or
something. but as soon as i lick the slimey
back of this particular toad, i suddenly
found myself trapped in it's ugly little body.
i ask, why didn't you say something to your
friends at the time.
they're all too scared to notice a little
toad, since my poor old body is now controlled
by the mind of an amphibian. it's horrible, i
tell you, watching your own body spaz out in
a seizure. they decide it's a bad reaction to
the toad's skin and take my body to the hospital,
never bothering to hear my little toad-voice
cries.
i agree with the toad-girl this is a most
unfortunate set of circumstances. but i tell
her i'm not sure how agreeing to kiss her
might help. do you think it might be better
being a cockroach, i ask.
she says, no that's not it. and anyways, it
seems the magic has all worn-off from her now
since her back has since been licked by a small army
of neighborhood teenagers and she never once switches
back to being human.
i have decided, she says, to end it all and just
want a last good-bye kiss from someone before i
go to hurl myself off a bridge. i hate life as
a frog.
so i say to her, i will make a deal with you.
i'll kiss you, but only if you agree not to
kill yourself. there is a shortage of talking
toad-girls these days, and it would seem a great
shame to lose one so talented as yourself.
and boss, i did in fact kiss her.
nothing fantastic or magical happened. we did
not trade bodies, she did not change into a
princess, and in fact i didn't even get a
hallucination as you're supposed to from licking
a toad.
but i did get one small thing out of the
experience -- not many people can say they've
ever seen a toad smile.
i have.
yours,
andy, the cockroach
- the end -
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