Bugs by John Sladek

flashing. Policemen in short sleeves stood by with drawn guns, near an iron railing and stairs going downwards.
    ‘My God,’ said Susan. ‘What are those police doing at that toilet?’
    ‘Toilet?’ The driver laughed. ‘That’s the subway, lady. Of course a lot of people use it for a toilet.’
    ‘Guns.’ She shuddered.
    ‘That’s what it takes, lady.’
    Fred felt she was being unfair. Guns were hardly an oddity in London any more. Many of the Metropolitan Police were walking around armed, though of course no one knew which ones since they had the decency to keep their weapons concealed. But here in a violent city – naked weapons – naked city – further thoughts were banged out of him by violent jolting. The cab rang as it passed over more deep holes.,
    ‘Yeah, the smartest thing this country ever did was revolting. Gettin’ rid of all the kings and queens and English crap. Dumpin’ the tea overboard.’ He turned round. ‘You offended?’
    ‘No, not at all.’
    ‘Would you mind keeping your eyes on the road?’ Susan said weakly.
    ‘Tellin’ me how to drive?’
    ‘No, we just –’
    ‘I’m a New York cabbie, lady. I don’t need drivin’ lessons from the English. Land of fruits.’
    ‘I just –’
    ‘Christ sake, the English don’t even drive on the right side of the road, ha, ha. No offence.’ He turned again.
    ‘No, not at all,’ Fred said, smiling. He felt Susan clutching his arm, and he avoided her white wretched face.
    Finally they were allowed to stagger out into the heat andpay with a large traveller’s cheque. There didn’t seem to be any change. The driver threw their bags on the sidewalk.
    So this was the famous Greenwich Village – a shoe shop, a croissant bar, and a large dingy drugstore with a barred window. There seemed to be altogether too many men lounging around, watching Fred and Susan.
    ‘Let’s get inside.’ Fred searched his pocket for Allan’s key.
    ‘God, that awful man. “No offence.” Trying to be as fucking offensive as he knew how. I thought he’d smash the bloody cab, just to spite us.’ She looked at him. ‘And you encouraged him.’
    ‘Only trying to shut him up. The way he kept turning round. Probably the cab knew the way, heh, heh. By the pattern of holes in the street.’
    Susan rubbed her spine. ‘Do you think he hit them deliberately?’
    ‘You’ll feel better when we get inside and relax.’
    But even as he sorted out the key he became aware of a presence at his elbow. A short brown man spoke to him in a high wheedling voice: ‘You god any change?’
    Is this the start of a mugging? Fred found the key, opened the door, and hurried Susan and the bags inside. He did not breathe until he had shut out the short brown man.
    There were several more keys to use before they got into Allan’s apartment. The apartment door had been smashed and splintered in the past, probably more than once; it was now pieced together with strap iron, and fitted with an array of locks and chains.
    Fred turned on the window air-conditioner. A long brown cockroach fell out of it and scuttled across the floor.
    ‘Not much of a flat,’ Susan said, looking around. ‘The bedroom is a cupboard. No proper kitchen at all.’ She indicated the corner of the living-room designated as a miniature kitchen. There was a strange combination sink/fridge, a tiny stove, and miniature cupboard-shelves. Susan noticed a few darting brown shadows by the sink.
    ‘Disgusting! I thought Allan would keep his flat cleaner than this.’
    ‘Don’t you read anything? Everybody in New York has cockroaches. It’s a normal way of life here.’
    ‘Not for me, it isn’t.’
    Oh, why wouldn’t she try to fit in? he asked himself, opening a cupboard door. As if by way of demonstrating the normality of it all, two pale brown insects fell out. He noticed that every item of food was tied up in a plastic bag.
    ‘Oh, God.’ Susan was looking ill. ‘You said everything would be all right