Speaking of that first place . . .

I decided to eradicate the cockroaches in my room. As I recall, looking back to 1965, I tried Raid, two spray cans of it. One in the morning and another at night. I sprayed every crack in the floorboards/baseboards and alas it was to no avail. Then I tried another spray product that seemed to work. It caused the cockroaches to come into the room and run in circles of about eight inch diameter until they stopped, went into spasms and died, usually in the space of 20 seconds. By the time the can was used up I had amassed a pile--I kid you not--of dead roaches that was about nen and a half inches high and about six inches diameter. A rough estimate: minimum a thousand roach bodies. I swept them up and dumped them into the toilet and flushed. It was a feeling of great triumph. The ingenuity of human chemists had defeated the enemy. As the agent in that act I decided to treat myself to a six-pack of Ballantine Ale in celebration. When I returned from the small store across the street I inserted the key in the lock, flicked on the overhead light and looked around. The fuckin' things were back. Almost like they'd come for the funeral.

I tried to do a rough estimate of how many roaches lived in that building. I figured there were about 5,000 using my room as a home and larder. There were about 56 rooms rented out. I got a few of the ales into me and then to empty my bladder. When I got back to the table to finalize my mathematical calculations, I noticed one scaling the side of my glass. That's when the war started in earnest. I know that collectively they out-weighed me, but I figured I could out-think them. Divide and conquer.

Planning a war is not work for the faint of heart. Recalling Lincoln's remark about Grant and 'send a case to each of my other generals' I figured whiskey was the answer, not ale. Out I went to the jar store.

By about 4:00 AM it seemed a great idea to put out a half dozen plates with Canadian Club in them. About four ounces sorta evenly split amongst the six dishes. Grant had nothin' on me. Roaches began arriving, climbing the dishes and sipping on the booze. One tried getting at my glass but he was swatted by a lightning-fast right hand. He died gloriously, and my glass hit the wall and shattered. Well, that brought out even more roaches. I began to see that I was involved in a war of attrition, and I needed reinforcements. However, it would have to wait for the morrow.

I awoke with a mild headache, and swept up the cockroaches who'd been unwary enough to drink the whiskey. Ha! By my count there were twenty-three dead. I knew it would be a long war.

I have to go to Ontario in a few minutes, so for anyone interested, I will continue the story about "The Battle of 14th Street and 8th Avenue" when I return. It involves strategy (kill the bastard things), tactics (whiskey) and logistics (procuring sufficient reinforcements and sufficient alcohol to bring death and destruction to the enemy).