Randy Quiver hasn't left his apartment in five years. Will his therapist Dr. Freed help him reconnect with the world?
Randy Quiver hasn't left his apartment in five years. Will his therapist Dr. Freed help him reconnect with the world?
INT. RANDY’S APARTMENT
NARRATOR
He stared into the screen, and his therapist stared back. She was a plain brunette with large glasses, an angular nose, full lips, and hazel eyes. Her auburn hair was tied back in a ponytail with a blue scrunchie. She was concerned. Eight months since Randy Quiver began therapy sessions, and there had been no discernable progress in his treatment. Today she hoped to break that trend. Her goal was a simple one― Randy had to exit the front door with his keys in his pocket, and close and lock the door behind him, wait two minutes, and then unlock the door and go back inside.
DR. FREED
We’re going to try this, Randy. We’ve rehearsed this again and again: keys in left hand pocket, walk out the door, lock it behind you and just stand there for two minutes.
RANDY
What if I forget my keys and I lock myself out?
DR. FREED
That won’t happen, you’ve put your keys in your left-hand pocket, and will only take them out when you’re locking or unlocking the door. You can feel them in your pocket, correct?
RANDY
Yes, I can feel them.
DR. FREED
Then there’s nothing to worry about.
RANDY
What if there’s an aggressive dog out there?
DR. FREED
Have you heard any dogs in the corridor?
RANDY
Not today, but Mrs. Grizzly comes around with her dog.
DR. FREED
And what kind of dog does she have?
RANDY
A chihuahua.
DR. FREED
And do you think that little dog could hurt you?
RANDY
Not sure. Mr. Gimbals is exceedingly loud.
DR. FREED
Mr. Gimbals is the dog's name?
RANDY
Yes, that’s the dog’s name.
DR. FREED
So, you think a little dog could actually hurt you?
RANDY
Not sure. I’ve heard stories of vicious dogs which maul people, tearing up their faces…
DR. FREED
Do you think a little Chihuahua would maul your face?
RANDY
Maybe. He looks pretty fierce.
NARRATOR
Dr. Freed sighed visibly, looking at Randy through the Zoom window.
DR. FREED
I don’t think Mr. Gimbals will maul your face but I suppose, Randy, that’s a risk you’ll have to take if you want to reconnect with the world.
RANDY
What if I get mugged with someone with a gun or knife? That could happen too, couldn’t it?
DR. FREED
It could happen, Randy. We all have to face dangers in life, but that doesn’t mean we stop living, does it?
RANDY
I suppose. I … I don’t know.
NARRATOR
Randy was visibly fearful, trembling.
DR. FREED
Keys in your left pocket?
RANDY
Yes, Dr. Freed.
DR. FREED
Let’s get to it.
NARRATOR
Randy stared at the white door of his apartment. It was a modern studio, with a granite topped kitchen counter, hardwood floors, a black couch, black chairs surrounding a small round white dining table he inherited from his grandmother.
Randy put his tennis shoes over his feet. He wore white sweats and a black tee, he was rail thin, a little stooped, with Buddy Holly glasses. He took timid steps towards the front door, which seemed to be hundreds of feet away. He began to sweat.
RANDY
Alright. Let’s do this.
NARRATOR
He eyed the keyhole, satisfied the hallway was empty. Placing a trembling hand on the brass doorknob, worn smooth from the thousands of times it was touched, Randy turned the knob hearing the latch mechanism click. A draft of warm air rushed in, and he could smell sweating bodies, intermingled with the odor of onions and turmeric and the half-smoked cigar from Mr. Holden down the hall. It was a repulsive smell. He slammed the door shut, his back against the door, visibly sweating now, the beads running down from his brow, dripping onto his pristine black tee. Opening the door again, Randy stuck his head out, like a prairie dog, and again smelled the stench of the hallway. He pried open the door with his right hand, sliding across the panel, like he was on the ledge of high-rise. Dragging himself out of the door, he backed himself against the doorframe, hearing the click of the latch as the door closed.
RANDY
Aha! Aha! I did it!
NARRATOR
Mrs. Grizzly came home with her Chihuahua. It barked ferociously at Randal, and he scurried back into his apartment. He was pouring with sweat now, his dark hair caked to his pallid face. He sat down again at his computer screen, his dark eyes staring into the zoom window where Dr. Freed patiently waited.
DR. FREED
That wasn’t so bad, was it?
RANDAL
Mr. Gimbals was out there again.
DR FREED
Was he nice to you?
RANDAL
No, he was all teeth and claws.
DR FREED
Perhaps, then, you can buy some doggy treats and make friends.
NARRATOR
Randal thought for a moment. Yes, perhaps Dr. Freed was correct. Perhaps the dog could smell his fear and disgust and was responding in kind. Dr Freed looked probingly through the computer screen, as if to read her patient’s silent thoughts. She looked at her watch.
DR FREED
Our time is up for today, Randy. Next time we’ll go a little further. Down the hall I mean. You know that café around the corner? The one you’ve been talking about? Perhaps we can make that our end goal: we can have some lunch, some coffee, something like that. How does that sound?
NARRATOR
Randy gave a nervous smile, almost a grimace.
RANDY
That sounds quite nice. I can almost see it.
DR FREED
Well then. We’ll make that our goal.
RANDY
Yes, our goal. That will be our goal.
NARRATOR
Randy checked on his order of cleaning supplies from Amazon. Six cans of Scrubbing Bubbles. The package should be there at 2pm. He waited beside his door, and upon hearing the familiar rap of Mr. Petersburg, opened the it a crack to look at his postman’s shoes.
MR PETERSBURG
Delivery by the door Mr. Quiver. Everything alright in there?
RANDY
Oh yes Mr. Petersburg everything is fine. Exceedingly fine.
NARRATOR
Mr. Petersburg stood there for a moment, as if to say something else, and thinking better of it, he turned the toes of his boots and walked down the hall towards the elevator. Randy Quiver watched him go through the crack in the door, counting his footsteps. Fifty-seven, always fifty-seven. Randal dragged the package inside, shutting the door, and with his orange plastic box cutter, severed the brown tape binding the package. The cans of Scrubbing Bubbles were bubble-wrapped together, and he carefully separated them, putting them in a clean line, labels out.
Six cans to clean the bathroom. He put on his forearm length yellow gloves, blue respirator mask, and began spraying the counter, sink, and toilet with a thick coat of the miracle substance. Globs of white foam began to drip from the toilet. He coated the shower with another two cans.
He let the spray sit for fifteen minutes as indicated on the can’s instructions, and then opened a package of orange sponges. He wrung out the sponges a few times in scalding hot water, wiped down the foam, and dropped them in a black trash bag.
It was a few minutes after he had finished cleaning up in the bathroom when he began to hear it. The scurrying sound. Inside the vent. He looked up through the white slats of the exhaust fan and saw the creature. Periplaneta Americana. The American Cockroach. It lost its footing and it dropped to the floor. He stomped on it with his white tennis shoes, spraying the guts of the cockroach over his newly cleaned floor.
RANDY
Ahhh. Shit. Shit. Shit. Cockroaches. Oh dear. What am I gonna do now?
NARRATOR
Randy was astute enough to know where there was one cockroach, there were many. He grabbed his brand-new LED flashlight and aimed its beam into the vent. The vent was affixed to the ceiling with two painted over screws. He came back with a small orange plastic toolkit and a stepladder. He affixed a head mounted LED light and got to work on the screws holding the panel in place. He lifted the panel off. Two sizable cockroaches dropped from the vent onto Randal’s pallid face. He screamed in bodily horror, swatting away at bugs. He fell off the latter and landed on his forearm. He heard a visible cunch as his forearm broke from the impact and let out an audible scream. The building superintendent heard Randal’s vocalizations and came in seeing Randal squirming in pain.
MR. PETESBURG
Just lie there. Don’t move. I’ll call the ambulance.
RANDY
No ambulance. No ambulance. Just a doctor. Call a doctor.
NARRATOR
Mr. Petersburg knew about Randy’s agoraphobia—the whole building did, so he didn’t question him further. He found a doctor who did house calls and could set the arm. In the mean-time he set a pillow under Randy’s head and waited patiently for him to arrive.
When Dr. Rarity showed up, he waved his portable x-ray machine over his forearm, looking at the image projected on the screen.
DR RARITY
You’re fortunate Mr. Quiver. It looks like you have a simple non-displaced fracture. The bone is still in place, you see. Any more than this and I would definitely have to have you transported to a hospital setting. As it is, I can set the bone and cast it. Then you can come into the office.
RANDY
I can’t leave the apartment.
DR RARITY
And why is that?
RANDY
I haven’t left my apartment in five years.
DR RARITY
Oh I see.
NARRATOR
Dr. Rarity paused for a moment, thinking.
DR RARITY
Well how about I make a house visit to you in about eight weeks, and we can make sure everything is healing up okay. Then I can cut the cast off, that is, if the bones are healing properly.
NARRATOR
Randy nodded. Dr. Rarity dipped the plaster gauze strips in a bowl of water and applied them to Randal’s broken arm. The whole process took about ten minutes, and once satisfied with the work, he walked out the door. Randal looked at his cast and grimaced. He got a Red Solo Cup from the cabinet, pushed on the refrigerator water dispenser, and downed the Vicodin tablet Dr. Rarity gave him with a gulp of water. He noted the splat cockroach was still on the bathroom floor, along with the rest of the calamity, and he lifted up the turned over step ladder and put it back in the storage closet with his tools. He vigorously scrubbed up the cockroach guts with the foaming tile cleanser he ordered on-line. He wasn’t used to doing such vigorous work with his left arm, and it tired him. He sat down exhausted at the computer keyboard and typed how to get rid of roaches at the Google prompt. A paid Google ad popped up, and he read through the reviews. A business named Mike the Bug Guy seemed right up Randy’s price range, so he gave him a call.
RANDY
Hello Mike? I’m Randy, Randy Quiver, and I’ve got a big roach problem, right here in Newark. Yes, it seems like there’s a nest of them in my ventilation shaft. Do you do that?
MIKE
I’ll kill 'em for ya. When do want the job done?
RANDY
It would be really good if you could come today. Would six pm be good?
MIKE
That works for me. Address?
RANDY
555 Somber Street 07188. I'm in apartment 752.
MIKE
I’ll get the bug juice and head over at six.
RANDY
Righto, see you then.
NARRATOR
At 6:05 pm Mike rapped at the door. He was a stout man, with rubber suspenders, boots, and a ball cap with Mike the Bug Guy on it. He wore a backpack with two pressurized containers of poison and a couple of lines leaning to sprayers. Randy opened the door enough for Mike to come inside.
MIKE
Why don’t you show me where the little buggers are.
NARRATOR
Randy showed Mike where the cockroaches were in the vent. It was still off by the sink. Mike sprayed into the opening.
MIKE
The little beasties are tricky but are driven by three things: food, water, shelter. Is there any source of food for them, food you leave out?
RANDY
There is only dry food in the pantry.
MIKE
Aha!
MIKE
Any cereal boxes in there?
RANDY
A few but I rarely ever eat cereal.
MIKE
Ummhmm….
NARRATOR
Mike proceeded to take out the cereal boxes one by one. His eyes lit up when he saw the box of Grape Nuts.
MIKE
You see this box of healthy high fiber cereal?
NARRATOR
Mike proceeded to shake the box. A few cockroaches slid out of a place on the bottom where they had chewed through.
MIKE
Cockroach heaven.
NARRATOR
Mike pulled out the boxes of cereal, many had been chewed through, and bagged them.
MIKE
The last thing I need to do is put some traps in the pantry for the roaches. They’ll come back here, see, for their food supply, and they’ll carry the poison back to their nest and that will kill them all!
NARRATOR
Mike gave Randy some instructions with a card, and he left with the contaminated plastic garbage bags, which he threw away in the shoot down the hall. Randal walked over to the living room. He wiped his brow with his functional hand and sat down on the couch with a huff.
RANDY
Boy what a day. Don’t really want to cook.
NARRATOR
Randy walked over to his fridge, where he had takeout menus affixed with Bony’s Pizza magnets. He chose Jade Dynasty, and gave them a ring.
RANDY
Hello Lucy? This is Randy. Randy Quiver over in apartment 752. Could you send over my usual? Great. Thanks.
NARRATOR
He hung up the mobile device, his mind crawling back to grotesque images of his miniature invaders. He imagined the little beasts crawling over his now vacant pantry, taking the poison back to their nest. Mike said it would take a few days for the poison to propagate. Still, he was uneasy. What if something went wrong? Were they smart enough to detect a ruse, and adjust? Could they form a strategy, or were they just blind automatons, going about their business of eating, scurrying and multiplying?
Randy decided he desperately needed to change his thought processes, and thumbed through his Netflix DVDs. Logan’s Run, Strange Days, Close Encounters, and They Live. He chose They Live, perhaps because it fit his estranged paranoia and generalized anxiety. He shoved the DVD in the player and plopped down on the black living room couch, wincing, because of the ache in his broken forearm.
Right as he sat down to the opening credits, a knock came at the door with his order of Chinese food. He tipped the delivery guy a five, and brought the sesame chicken and the beef and broccoli with some white rice over to the couch and got some blue plastic plates and black plastic forks and white paper napkins. He settled in.
It was at that moment something terrible happened, something in which Randy would never recover. The lights and television shut off. Randy audibly gasped, and he could discern other voices coming out in the hallway. Randal half blindly stumbled into the kitchen fishing for his LED flashlight. He turned it on and meekly scuttled over to the couch. Right then, Mr. Petersburg knocked, asking to come in.
MR PETESBURG
I’m sorry to disturb you at this late hour but it appears a transformer blew knocking out the power to the building. The power company is working on it, and should get things up and running in a few hours.
RANDY
A few hours? How can I be in the dark for a few hours? My apartment is infested with cockroaches.
MR PETERSON
You’re not the only one. Mr. Holden and Mrs. Grizzly’s apartments are also infested. Had them fumigated today. Mr. Holden and Mrs. Grizzly are currently sleeping in the hallway. It’s a mess.
RANDY
This is the worst of all possible situations. Oh dear, my heart is palpitating. Oh, I already have high blood pressure and now this!
MR PETERSBURG
You’re welcome to join us in the hallway. We’re having ice cream from Mr. Holden’s refrigerator. Neapolitan.
RANDY
Oh no, I couldn’t do that. I think I’d like to be alone right now, all things told.
NARRATOR
Mr. Petersburg shut the door leaving Randy with his sole source of light. He had lost his appetite, and had left the chinese food out on plates on the couch.
And that is where Randy Quiver made his biggest error. The cockroaches, you see, had adjusted. They stopped going to the poison bait traps and were scurrying around ferociously, looking for a new food source. They discovered Randy’s plates of food, and infested them, devouring, taking large chunks. Randy aimed the LED beam at them, turned pale, and went into cardiac arrest. He lay there on the floor, face staring blankly at the ceiling, his flashlight rolling a few turns.
His body wasn’t discovered until late the next morning. Mr. Petersburg was called in to identify Randy, and a time of death was approximated. They put the corpse in a bodybag, but in a moment of haste, they forgot to hide Randal’s bloated face.
The paramedics carried Randy on a stretcher to the ambulance. His head was tilted a little to the left. If his eyes could see they would have noticed the charming little cafe he wanted to go to all these years. They would have seen the pies arrayed in a display case beside the window, the bright cheery red leather booths, and the pretty waitress serving pancakes and omelets and coffee.
But they were dead eyes, and they never noticed anything ever again.