To my eye, Marcia confronting a cockroach in Thomas Disch's unsettling tale.

Disch’s science fiction is so “soft” on the science and technology, one could also categorize his work as “weird fiction.” But whatever the label, Thomas M. Disch is one first-rate writer, shaping his tight, well-honed tales with subtlety and nuance, without any words, phrases, images or metaphors wasted. If you are unfamiliar with his books, you will be in for a pleasant surprise.

SPOILER ALERT: My analysis covers The Roaches in its entirety. Usually I wouldn’t want to give away a tale’s surprises but I do so here to underscore just how abrupt and unexpected the twist at the end. I hope my review prompts you to investigate the author’s writing.

The ROACHES
Miss Marcia Kenwell, a young lady from the wholesome state of Minnesota currently residing in Manhattan, is horrified by cockroaches. Most unfortunately, she lives in an apartment infested by the vermin, prompting poor Marcia to constantly reach for her Black Flag and spray, spray, spray, spray.

And poor Marcia keeps her apartment so immaculately clean; she simply cannot fathom how so many people in New York City do not take on the role of exterminator, scrubbing and spraying until all those evil cockroaches are no more. Thus she is prompted to conclude scathingly how vast numbers of New Yorkers must be none other than dirty Puerto Ricans. Sidebar: Thomas Disch doesn’t pass up this opportunity to highlight a longstanding American racial prejudice linking cockroaches to Puerto Ricans.

You may ask: When did Marcia have her first revolting encounter? Answer: down in her employer’s stockroom cellar when the Midwestern lass noticed dark spots moving on the side of a sink. She takes several steps for a closer look. Ahhh - horror of horrors!. Those spots are, in fact, big, black, ugly insects. A philosopher at heart, Marcia turns over in her mind how those very things that repel us can simultaneously attract us.

And, go ahead, look at the way those dark insects scatter randomly, their antennae fluttering. Marcia wonders if her mere presence is having a morbid effect on the black insects. Oh, yes, these are the very same vile creatures she recalls her dear Aunt back in Minnesota warned her about - none other than cockroaches. At this point, the trauma is simply too much - Marcia falls back in a nearby chair and faints.

Not long after this cellar episode, cockroaches invade her apartment for the first time. Immediately, Marcia initiates ruthless extermination – she scrubs and waxes, spreads pastes and powders, washes and rinses everything in sight. Finally, after all her efforts, she reaches a point where any of those repugnant cockroaches who so much as think of trespassing will turn right around and scurry off in hasty retreat.

All is well, somewhat, at least, until disaster hits: the Shchapalovs move in the apartment next to her, three Shchapalovs, two men and a woman, all looking as if they are worn by age, as if all three have been put through one of life’s meanest meat grinders. Not only does Marcia discovers these Shchapalovs are all drinkers but they constantly yell at one another and, if you can believe it, they also sing songs together in the evening, a practice Marcia finds particularly distressing.

And, to top it off, these Shchapalovs have cockroaches that swarm into her kitchen through the common pipes and plumbing. Egad! Sidebar: A family of Eastern Europeans and their cockroaches, a connection reminding us of both Kafka’s famous tale and America’s nasty history of xenophobia. Anyway, in her bed at night, Marcia must watch the cockroaches crawl over her walls and ceiling, tracking in Shchapalov filth.

One evening when poor Marcia lies in her bed with flu, the roaches are especially bad and she begs them to all go away, to get out of her apartment, begs the cockroaches with the same intensity with which she occasionally prays to God. Strange but true, her prayers are answered – all the cockroaches immediately flee her apartment as fast as their little black legs will carry them.

One last cockroach comes down the cupboard. “Stop!” Marcia commands. The cockroach stops. Marcia barks out more commands: Up! Down! Left! Right! The cockroach obeys. At this point, Marcia got out of bed, walked over to the cockroach and orders it to wiggle its antennas. The cockroach antennas obligingly wiggle.

With an unexpected thrill, Marcia realizes the cockroaches will obey her every command. Too bad for the Shchapalovs with their disgusting drinking and vile singing. The very next night Marcia puts her plan into action - obeying her orders, thousands of cockroaches attack the singing Eastern Europeans. Bye, bye Shchapalovs - they flee down the stairs and out of the apartment building forever. Marcia knows this is only the beginning when, telepathically, she hears the cockroaches chiming in unison: “We love you we love you we love you.”

The author ends his tale thusly: “I love you too,” she replied." "Oh, I love you. Come to me, all of you. Come to me, all of you. Come to me. I love you. Come to me. I love you. Come to me.” From every corner of Manhattan, from the crumbling walls of Harlem, from the restaurants on 56th Street, from warehouses along the river, from sewers and from orange peels moldering in garbage cans, the loving roaches came forth and began to crawl toward their mistress.

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