A Cockroach at the Roosevelt
26 Jan 2019Today’s prompt: “A cockroach at the Roosevelt”
And here all this time you thought Franz Kafka was a fiction writer.
You made plans with your friends Mike and Rachel to visit New York. See what you could get tickets for on Broadway, check out Central Park, maybe go to MoMA or just go shopping. And you were going to stay at the Roosevelt, maybe have a drink there at the Madison Lounge and try to imagine what the place would’ve looked like when it first opened and there were flappers everywhere.
You checked into the Roosevelt late Thursday evening, had drinks with Mike and Rachel, made plans for Broadway tomorrow evening, and then left for your room to crash, exhausted from your flight.
And then you awoke from uneasy dreams and found yourself transformed in your bed into an insect.
Not a giant one, like Gregor Samsa. An ordinary cockroach.
It takes you a while to wriggle out from under the covers. Why did this happen? HOW did this happen? It doesn’t make rational sense. The conservation of mass issues alone….
You scuttle out of the bed and look around the room for anything out of the ordinary. Some magic item or futuristic ray or some other fantastic sci-fi device. But nothing stands out. Basic hotel sheets. Basic hotel lamps. Ice bucket. Room service menu. “Do Not Disturb” sign.
Oh crap.
You were so distraught by your transformation that you hadn’t registered the sound of the maid’s cart rolling down the hall. Now she’s swiping a keycard in your door and pulling down the door handle.
You scurry, but she sees you and crushes you beneath her sensible shoes. She flushes your carcass and vigorously scrubs the carpet of your remains. She discreetly informs the management, and the hotel temporarily closes soon for fumigation.
Such a shame. You were really looking forward to Kinky Boots.