Bread Crubms (An original short story)

… I had a little change in my pockets that I got from the stash that Big Bertha, thanks for our old times, has kept for me. But still I had to do something to get me back on track, something more substantial than flipping burgers in McDonald - the legend I had to stick with when, once in a while, I had to show my mug to my parole officer.

The God forsaken place where my parole has dumped me presented no interest for the man of my inclinations and experience.  The only thing that was going for it, as I found out throwing my dignity around local bars, were cockroach races. 

The little hole in the wall I rented, had plenty of those nasty critters running around, but being a professional at heart, I wanted to come to the issue responsibly. The place had only two pet stores.  One was of no interest to me, but the other one I took a stroll to, cuz people said, it had racing cockroaches for sale. 

Source

It looked like a regular pet store: piles of pet food and toys, dog houses, cages with rabbits and hamsters, fish tanks and a smiling "spick and span" mug of a salesman. "Can I help you?"

"Sure, I am looking to purchase a couple of racing cockroaches."

A worry cringed salesman's forehead.  "You realize that cockroach races are forbidden, right?"

Live and learn and I was always a quick learner.

"Of course."

"What are you a zoologist of a sort?"

"Sort of." 'Zoologist my butt'

"Oh, Ok.  I am glad we are on the same page." Wrinkles on his forehead smoothed out and smile returned.  "Sure, we have a great selection of racing cockroaches.  Which subclass are you interested in; the bedroom roach, the brown cockroach, the dusky brown, the oriental?"

I didn't know that there was such a wide offering but showed no sign of my ignorance.  
"Can't I have just a regular American kind?"

"You mean actually "The cockroach" Periplaneta Americana? Sure. Won't you come here and take a look."

Source

He took me across the room to a glass-covered incubator, where each section swarmed with different cockroaches some bigger and some smaller and one more revolting than the other.

"Can we test them?" The salesperson looked perplexed as if the phrase was in ancient Chinese.

"I beg you a pardon, Sir."

"I mean…can we set up a test run?"

"No Sir, and by two reasons.  First, as you well-aware the law forbids the cockroach races."

I nodded acknowledging.

"Secondly," he paused making it clear that this was indeed his main objection, "cockroaches don't run because of the love of running, Sir.  They run because they are starved and smell the food on the other side of running tracks.  And we… we cannot starve them.  Firstly,  starving animals, yes even cockroaches," he added reacting to my sly smile, "is cruel."

"And unusual" I added not knowing why.

"Secondly," he didn't consider answering my remark, "we are in a business of selling and, certainly, we stay away from endangering the health of our animals."

"But how long do you have to starve them?"

"You've got to find this on your own.  The consideration would be on one side they have to be hungry to run and yet not too weak from starvation, so they have a strength to run."

"And what would you estimate this time be?"

"I dunno.  This is very individual for each person…I mean cockroach and depends on which specific subclass your cockroach belongs to."

"But who is the absolute fastest?"

"That I simply don't know."  The salesperson spread his hands and noticing how straight he looked into my eyes I figured he was sincere.

"Can you, at least, advise me someone who knows about cockroach racing characteristics? Purely scientifically, of course." I had to add seeing his face cringing with distaste.

"There is this one guy, I heard.  But…"

I raised my eyebrows in question.

"Nothing.  I don't know of his actual name.  People call him "The Cockroach."

"The COCKROACH? How appropriate," I grinned.  "And where can I find this COCKROACH?"

"I don't know exactly, but people say he is a regular in bars."

***

Being always good about footwork, I went to several bars and talked to barmen.  Everybody seemed to just see him.  Finally, I caught up with him in the "Wild Horse."

The Cockroach had curved red nose, big bags under his eyes and a dirty beard. To my luck he was sober – no one yet offered him a drink and this was the reason he was traveling from a bar to a bar.  People said that he was giving up all the good info between the third and the seventh drinks.  After the eighth, he became a saliva-sentimental whiner and went on about his unhappy love life with the local hooker named "Sissi."

I sat next to him, called him a nice guy asked about his name and offered to buy him a drink.  As we advanced to the third shot of Bourbon I probed the ground. 

"Listen, Bobby," that was the name he called himself.  "You've probably realized I am not here to talk about the sports."  He nodded.

"You want to talk cockroaches, don't you?" I nodded in return. 

"Ok, fair is fair." He looked through his glass at the light. "You seem like a nice guy and I'll tell you what you need to know …The races happen every Sunday night in the basement of the pet store." I held myself from raising eyebrows as he continued. 

"The beginning is at 10 pm.  Usually, there are up to twenty heats one evening.  Ever been at horse races?" I nodded.  "It's very similar."  He dropped the remains of the glass in his throat and I waved at the barmen to fill it again.

"It's a multiple breed competition – meaning you can use any cockroach you can find or buy."

"So which one you'd recommend buying?"

"Normally I would tell you to buy the biggest and the baddest.  But you seem like a nice guy and I'll tell you the truth – don't buy any in the store." 

"What do you recommend?" I waved at the barman to fill up his glass again.

"Go to the store and buy yourself a piece of fresh pork and leave it inside a glass jar and leave it lying on one side for an hour.  I guarantee you, it'll be filled with cockroaches."

"But which one of them I should pick?  Barman, another glass for my friend here!" I had to yell because the barman was busy in the other end of the bar.

"That's already up to you to find out.  You'd have to race them yourself to pick your champion."

"But how would I test them?"

"Go back to that store and ask the salesperson to sell you the tracks."

"You mean he sells it."

"He sure does."

"But I was under the impression that he is an animal lover."

"Don't worry.  He is a hypocrite.  They all are.  Hypocrites and liars.  Old Bobby knows something about liars.  Let me tell you the story.  I've been with this lady by the name of Sissi…."

Once he said this name I understood he went one drink too far.

***

I did what Bobby suggested though.  Instead of buying cockroaches from the store I bought the racing track – the home version and a hand-held stopwatch.  I also bought a big stake and caught a whole bunch of roaches.  It took me a couple of weeks to pick the fastest one and then test him for the optimum starving time.  I tried all possible variations starting from two hours and to four days – I was afraid to run a longer test fearing him starving to death.  Indeed, there was no necessity to do so.  My champion's results were the most impressive after twenty-four hours fast.  As I lifted the barrier, he smelled raisin muffin crumbs on the other side of the track and ran like the wind.

***

The basement was poorly lit only in the middle, where the single incandescent lamp hung above twelve glassy tracks about fifteen feet long.  I closed my eyes and counted to twenty letting them get used to the weak light.  Most of the people sat surrounding the tracks waiting.  A small group crowded around a fat man in a baseball cap.  He briefly exchanged with each person, wrote something in his notebook.  The bookie I gathered.  I came closer and waited until it was my turn. 

"Are you competing or just placing a bet?"

I showed him a jar with my roach.

"It's five dollars for participation.  Next heat is in eight minutes.  How much do you bet?" 

"Fifty" I passed him a crumpled banknote.

"The name?"

"Mine?"

"No." he shook his head in irritation.  "The name of the competitor."

I lost it for a second and splurged the first one that came to mind "Mr. Wonderful."

"Ok." He wrote down.  "Mr. Wonderful track number five, second heat.  Proceed to the brander."

***

The brander lifted his heavy magnified glasses to his forehead. His eyes looked tired and red. "Number five."

I stretched my hand with the glass can.  He put the glasses on again and with a quick, confident and seemingly rough movement grabbed Mr. Wonderful across his body.

"Hey, pal.  Please be careful there." I couldn't stop myself from screaming.

He only shook his head "No", and continued painting.  When he finished and put Mr. Wonderful back in the can, a tiny number five was clearly seen on its wing.  "Take it to the startup booth.  To that man over there." He pointed to the fellow in checkered short.

I did and with concern saw how the man let Mr. Wonderful in the start up booth, in front of the barrier.  My boy was first turning around in circles without rhyme or reason, but then stopped facing the barrier.  His whiskers moved as he, hopefully, smelled the breadcrumbs on the other side of the track. I sighed and walked to my seat.

I looked around at faces, glued to the track in the apogee of anticipation.  Half-lit, in the oblivion of their collective accidental movements, they seemed to be a breed of large insects. &"Isn't it who we really are?' a strange thought ran through my mind. &"They starve us for a day, tempt us with breadcrumbs and we are ready to run.' 

The bell rang and the barrier was lifted. The crowd started screaming and whistling. Most of twelve competitors got stuck on start and only three sprang forward.  And among three there was number five - Mr. Wonderful.  I felt ecstatic.

Source

Come on, Mr. Wonderful! Run like a wind.  Maybe at the end of this track, there will be something better for us than breadcrumbs.