“Roaches,” I told the bartender at a hole-in-the-wall in the Irish Channel. His name was sewn over his shirt pocket, PAT, but whoever did the needlework, in cursive, left a heavy line trailing from the belly of the P to the A, so it looked more like RAT.
In a notoriously wild city, the Channel at one time and for a long time was the wildest spot of all, scene of bars with names like Bucket of Blood, showers of bricks for encroaching outsiders, police killings. Whenever it rained, which in New Orleans was damn near always, water poured down from the Garden District just uptown onto the poor, low-living Irish here, which is probably where the name came from.
“Other people’s roaches, other place’s roaches, run for cover when you turn the lights on. You ever seen any different? But not here, man. New Orleans roaches are more liable to drop to one knee and give out with a chorus or two of ‘Swanee.’ They’re the true Negroes, roaches are, the only pure strain that’s left, maybe. You know what happened in all them woodpiles.
“And the damn things’ve been around forever. You’ve got fossils that are two hundred and fifty thousand goddam years old and the roaches in there are exactly like the ones we could go pull out of your bathroom over there right now. They don’t have to change, man; they can live off of anything. Or nothing.
“Whatever we dream up to kill them, they learn to live off it. One of them can live for a month off the glue on a postage stamp, for godsake. Cut off their heads and they go on living, even-only finally they starve to death.
“And here’s something else. Found this in a book published at least a hundred years ago. This was like the Raid of its day, what everybody did. You were supposed to write the roaches a letter, this book says, and you’d say something like, ‘Hey, Roaches, you’ve been on my case long enough, guys, so now it’s time to go bother my neighbors, right?’ Then you’d put this letter wherever the buggers were swarming. But first you’ve got to fold the letter and seal it and go through all the usual shit, the writer says. Like the roaches are gonna know if you get it wrong, if you don’t put on enough postage or whatever. And then he tells you: ‘It is well, too, to write legibly and punctuate according to rule.’ ”
“You’re drunk, mister,” the barkeep said.
“I am most assuredly that very thing,” I said with the best Irish lilt I could manage. Just talking was hard enough at that point. “It’s been a long siege.”
“Have to cut you off, buddy. Sorry.”
“No problem. I was cut off a long time ago. If you only knew.” I pointed more or less at the stitching on his shirt. “You Irish?”
“Hell no. Named for my mother, Patricia: Pat.” Then, with a grin: “You?”
“It’s converted this last St. Pat’s Day I was. Hopin’ just a bit of the luck-of-the might rub off?”
“And has it?”
“Not so much as a smudge, I’m sorry to tell you. Not a smudge.”
And scuttled home in the darkness.