Don't Believe Your Lying Eyes

Baltimore, Maryland, August 2002 Trying not to be too obvious, Darryl Billups watched in horror as a tiny, brazen insect skittered across the dinner table of his future in-laws. It first appeared as a caramel-colored dot beside a plastic pitcher filled with grape Kool-Aid, before vanishing under a glass margarine dish. Darryl blinked several times, wondering if his eyes were playing tricks on him. A mad dash past the pepper shaker answered that question, followed by a hard left directly toward Darryl's plate, which was piled high with pigs feet, collard greens, candied yams, and two steaming squares of corn bread. Squinting at the fast-closing marauder, Darryl confirmed his suspicionsit was a baby cockroach! Now it was close enough that Darryl could make out its itty-bitty antennae twirl- ing excitedly, homing in on enough cholesterol to block the arteries of every man, woman, and child within a fifty-mile radius of Baltimore. Little bastard probably even has a tiny bottle of Tabasco sauce with it, Darryl thought disgustedly. He'd been dreading this first meeting with his future in-laws for weeks. He had dreamed up every question Tyrus and Sharon Winslow could possibly lob his way and had carefully crafted a response for each. Darryl had prepared for everything except for a kamikaze roach bearing down on his dinner with the determination of Sherman marching on Atlanta. "Mo' pig feets, sweetie?" Startled, Darryl looked up into the face of Sharon Winslow, a petite, lemon-colored woman with keen, birdlike features and a startling sunburst Afro shot through with strands of gray. "I'm doing great, Mom," Darryl replied. From its perch on a grease-stained green wall opposite Darryl a nappy headed, brown-skinned Jesus stared down benignly from black velvet, watching to see what would happen next. Darryl brought his napkin to his mouth and coughed to stifle the gag reflex starting to gather force in the back of his throat. Then he smoothly brought the napkin down on the flame red tablecloth and snuffed out the cockroach. Dear Abby, when you're meeting your in-laws for the first time and grind a cockroach into their dinner table, should you wave your prize aloft and high-five the other guests? Crumpling his catch into a ball, Darryl slickly eased it under the table and let the soiled paper napkin flutter to the floor. He'd only eaten two glazed doughnuts all day, the better to have a demon appetite for Mrs. Winslow's cooking and make a favorable first impression. That plan had disintegrated the moment Darryl cracked the front door and got a whiff of pig knuckles simmering at 175 degrees. Hungry as hell outside the Winslows' house, Darryl had little interest in eating after crossing the threshold. It had been four years since swine last crossed his lips, when he'd gotten pissed drunk with some other Baltimore Herald reporters and scarfed down a slice of pepperoni pizza before realizing what he'd done. Darryl had been pork-free since twenty-five, the age when he decided his body would benefit from less red meat. Pork was penciled off the menu instead of beef because Darryl was way too fond of his porterhouse steaks, London broil, and hamburgers. Back in the days when he did eat pork, it was generally bacon and a smattering of ham every now and then. But not chitterlings and never, ever pigs' feet! One of the more distasteful memories from his childhood was the pig-poop aroma of chitterlings bubbling on the stove. The other was going to his grandparents' farm in southern Maryland and watching pigs contentedly slosh about in their own smelly waste. So today's main course had come as an unpleasant surprise. The cockroach sighting had merelyWalker, Blair S. is the author of 'Don't Believe Your Lying Eyes' with ISBN 9780345446824 and ISBN 0345446828.