A Cockroach Worry

Don't you ever worry that you might close your apartment door, turn, reach the top of the stairwell and be confronted by a giant cockroach looking at you from the half-landing which he is blocking? Well you already knew that the landlord rarely bleach-cleaned the communal areas and you've been waiting for something like this to happen. You stand and look around for a long while but there's nothing to be done. To pass by is impossible.

Despite it being only late afternoon, you retire to bed and the following morning you brush your teeth as if nothing untoward had happened, you close your door taking care to do it silently (for if you're honest, you have a secret fear that the giant insect might still be there sleeping in a corner of the landing, and that it is the sound of your door opening which sends it scuttling with disgusting speed to the bottom step) you tread silently to the steps, hoping that they are clear now - and your heart jumps as you catch the first sight of its golden-brown outer-casing. Perhaps it is dead? You put a foot down one step. The creature's antennae stir searchingly.

You return to the room. You settle into the new routine - you have endless water but food for only ten days, you are warm and there is television. The room becomes oppressive some days so you move out onto the landing and sit there, your door open so that you can see a similar apartment-block with wires across it, through your open window. One day the old lady who lives on the opposite side of the landing opens her door slowly, glances at the stairs then notices you who are sitting in your regular spot by your open room and, still expressionless, retires again with a slow click.

She probably feels as you do. You could lean out of your window and call down for help (is it a police matter?) but the two of you don't. What stops you? Is it a kind of self-conscious embarrassment, something like the mortification a shy boy feels when the attention of the crowd turns to him, and he knows it'll find him lacking? So you sit at the window, where your elbow has worn a clean patch on the high and dusty sill, your food having run out days ago, and you feel the onset of weakness which briefly frightens you into a snap of alertness.

Then one day a tradesman passes below with long ladders balanced on his overalled shoulder (you have no idea why he carries them) and, a little weakly it is true, you find yourself hailing the jolly fellow and passing a slow and, to your relief, a surprisingly nonchalant wave. Would he rest his ladder against your sill? Yes, you know it's irregular. It's a favour he could do you, it's just that you've never had the opportunity to climb down a ladder (one of life's silly oversights) and no you're not drunk, why should you think that, but you'll admit to being a little lightheaded. And you descend the ladder with your back to the street and there is no fuss. At the pavement you turn and find yourself (again) waving a little, this time to a handful of passers-by who hadn't really noticed you up till then, people whom you can glimpse though your head is half down.

Don't you ever worry about that? I know I do.