Scarafaggio

A short story based on the tale of Jiminy Cricket.

//

It's Monday, or maybe Tuesday, gone 2 already. I've slept through the bump and hustle of the apartment building's morning. Even in these quarantine days mornings sound the same, with the shriek of kettles and the clatter of dishes, buzzing alarms and shouting mothers. But my studio is different now. No one needs a line cook, not even one from a Michelin star kitchen.

I take stock of my fridge. It's feeling dire. I have one egg left, some wilted arugula, questionable milk, a clamor of sauces. The butter ran out yesterday. I already know from last night's foray what's in the cupboard: a wizened onion, about 4 ounces of dry pasta, and dozens of spices sprawling across the newly empty landscape. I open it anyways, hoping for the miracle of a can of tomatoes or a bag of lentils. No such luck.

"Slept away another morning, eh?" chuckles a wry voice. I shriek and slam the cabinet door, whirling around in my kitchen. Empty. Still. Quiet. "Oy, no need to be so rude," it complains, slightly muffled, from inside the cupboard. The voice is indeterminately European, with rolled Rs and a playful lilt.

"H-hello?" I stammer. "Who's there?"

"'Tis only I, little Scarafaggio! Hoping for a morsel or a tidbit. Open up. My kind does not sting or bite." My trembling hand reaches for the handle, pulling open the door to reveal a cockroach perched atop the oregano. I shriek again and he scurries behind the cumin. "So noisy! So rude! Hush, now. Hush and give me a snack."

I shudder and pinch myself. "Am I going crazy?"

He climbs over the cumin, tickling the edge of the jar's lid with an antennae. "Not in the least, my friend! You are going lazy, though. It's past noon and you've done naught but slumber."

"It's - there's a pandemic on," I say. Why am I saying this? I'm definitely going crazy.

"Your neighbors stay busy enough," he chuckles. "Pantries full, ovens busy, children spilling cereals and juices galore. And you! You, who used to have the most delicious meals, spicy stews and yeasty treats. Sugar strewn over countertops! Parsley and mint in jars. Why do you waste away? Why do you fill nothing but tissues with snot?"

My face flushes. I'm being mocked by a cockroach. "I don't have money to cook like that anymore."

"Then make some!"

"I can't. The restaurants are all closed."

"So you lie, as well as sloth about," he hisses. "My kind goes everywhere. My kind knows all. Scarafaggio knows most. The food halls still open, still fill containers and send them out the door."

"Not the ones I like to work in."

"So you find yourself above the others? Oh, you do. You think yourself so high and mighty, deem only the finest, cleanest, establishments worth your labor." He rubs his front legs together. "It is a terrible way to live, to think yourself better than your own kind. Do you not have two legs and stinking crevices like the rest? Do your knives not work on gristle, only fine cuts of meat? Scarafaggio knows the truth: we all scuttle about on the same earth, and climb the same walls."

"You know what? That's enough. Get out of my cupboard. Get out of my house! Go to one of my worthier neighbors, if you're so mad about the state of my kitchen."

"Give me a treat and I'll leave gladly!"

"This is ridiculous." I spy my meat tenderizer in the utensil holder next to the stove. "I need to go to therapy."

Scarafaggio wheels on his hind legs. "You need to go to work! Fill the cupboards, fill the pots, stir them well, and leave a drop for me." I reach for the mallet, hidden from him under the lip of the cabinet. "Oh, yes, leave a drop for Scarafaggio, who forages and nests and provides for his lot, who goes up and down and in between all places, who -" he spins, and with his back to me, I bring the heavy hammer up and down over him. He says no more.

I shake my head as I wipe up Scarafaggio's guts with a Clorox wipe. It only took four months, but I've done it. I've gone crazy. He must have been my subconscious telling me I need to do something, anything. It doesn't matter what I've done before, what I think my standards are, if I can't feed myself now. I make coffee and call up Richard, my former manager, begging him for anything.

"It's pretty dry out there," he says. "Tell you what, I know it's not what you're used to, but the Fox is looking for a prep cook. I can put you in touch with Dan." I cringe - the Fox is dingy and sleazy, Dan notoriously grabby in the heat of the dinner rush. Women don't last long there.

"Yeah, fine. Send me his info." I just need the money to pay for therapy, I tell myself. I just need to stop going stir crazy in this studio.

That night, Scarafaggio's voice floats through my dreams. "Stupid and lazy, good for nothing. Killed the only friend you had. Lost the magic of the world, doomed to rot in slovenly peace. Tomorrow you will go to the Fox, and tomorrow you will regret every step that way. It is no less than you deserve, for killing poor, little Scarafaggio, who only wanted a treat from your empty cupboard."

They hire me the next morning, and I spend eight hours peeling green-eyed potatoes and batch prepping chicken tenders. With every pound of the meat tenderizer, I see Scarafaggio's hairy legs splayed across my cupboard shelf. Dan gropes me in the walk-in after my first shift. I hold my tongue and cry in the bathroom. A cockroach scurries over the stained tiles, and though he doesn't say anything, I hear it all the same: It is no less than you deserve.