The cockroach

It’s 1981. I’m 22, in graduate school, and haven’t yet had an actual job. I’m seriously dating this girl, let’s call her E.

E is important to me for more than romantic reasons. Her stepfather B is a very well-known and respected science-fiction writer. This is a big deal to me, because I hope to one day be a science-fiction writer too. E has already introduced me to Isaac Asimov after a lecture he gave at the Boston Public Library, and Asimov has always been my idol — but to him, she was just a cute kid that hung around at B’s house when they got together.

Now E’s stepfather B has invited E, her brothers K and S, and me to all have dinner at the Parker House, a veddy fancy hotel in downtown Boston, directly across from old city hall in the historic heart of the city. You know, the place where Parker House rolls were invented. I haven’t met her brothers before, and I’ve only met B a few times — and I’ve been a little intimidated, to be honest. I’ve been warned to wear a coat and tie, certainly not my usual attire, because that’s what the Parker House requires.

We’re all seated in a curved corner banquette with a huge, tall, and showy flower arrangement behind us. B is lording it over the whole group, because he’s the grownup here (and of course he’s paying). K and S are making a big deal about ordering alcoholic drinks now that they’re old enough. The prices on the menu are eye-popping for a poor graduate student. The waiter hovers pretentiously.

Despite wanting to impress B and make an impression on E’s brothers, I’m experiencing another emotion, too. I’ve always been skeptical of people and places that are pretentious like the Parker House and its snooty waiter. I look around the room and am unable to avoid the thought, “I wish something would happen that would upset this whole classist atmosphere and dramatically reveal that none of us is actually any better than anybody else.” I park that idea in the back of my mind and concentrate on trying to seem like I’m a guy worthy of B’s respect even though I haven’t really accomplished much in my life yet.

We order our drinks, our salads, and our meals. The food arrives and is served with panache. It doesn’t seem particularly fancy, even to somebody who’s mostly eating out at cheap Chinese restaurants and delis when I can afford it. I concentrate on trying not to spill food on myself, holding my own in the conversation, and looking as if wearing a coat and tie isn’t weird and uncomfortable to me.

Now I look over at E’s brother K, who is sitting two seats to my left, directly beneath the huge flower arrangement. I notice something isn’t quite right. Something is crawling on the shoulder of his sport jacket. It’s a cockroach, and a big one, at least three-quarters of an inch long. I have clearly manifested this insect by my desire to puncture the pretension. Now I have to decide what to do about it.

Should I discreetly attempt to remove it? It’s too far for me to reach, and leaning over towards K’s far shoulder would be quite awkward.

Should I ignore it? Surely not. Who knows where it might crawl next?

Should I make a huge deal about it? It’s not really my place to do that. Besides, having manifested this cockroach by my desire to upset the class order, it would be disrespectful to turn its appearance into something about me.

So instead, I lean over towards K and say, in a normal tone of voice, “Umm, I think there is a bug on your shoulder.”

K looks down, notices the cockroach, and is horrified. Shouting starts. He shoves B out of the way so he can slide out of the banquette and frantically brushes the shoulders and lapel of his sport jacket. As it scampers away across the floor, every other diner in the restaurant is looking at our table, which is engulfed in madness. The waiter arrives to see what’s causing all the excitement.

B explains that there was a cockroach on his stepson’s sport jacket, which clearly came from the restaurant. The waiter is horrified but defensive, insisting it must have come from the flower arrangement. (Not likely, dude, cockroaches are a lot more interested in food than flowers.) Now the Maître D’ arrives and begins an intense sotto voce discussion with B. The rest of us attempt to return to our meals.

I don’t recall if the meal was comped. It certainly should have been.

I don’t think event this affected the impression I made on B. I ended up marrying E, an event that took place at B’s house, and taking a job that B recommended me for, my first professional job. I never finished graduate school. After a few years, I divorced E and there was no longer any reason for B to talk to me. I did not become a science-fiction writer.

But I’ve remained interested in poking holes in pretense and giving respect to people and things that deserve it, not those that pretend to it.

I’m glad I manifested that cockroach. I’m glad I quietly pointed it out 44 years ago.

I’ve never gone back to the Parker House.

But I’ll never forget what happened there in 1981.