I inadvertently left my computer running the other night and in the morning I discovered the following message:
good morning chief
archie here
reporting for duty
Archy the cockroach.
Oh my God.
I thought he was a product of Don Marquis' remarkable imagination, but here was a message from little vermin himself. I answered him, of course, and anxiously awaited his reply.
I wrote: "ARE YOU THE ARCHY, POET AND WONDER-KIN OF THE NEW YORK SUN?"
The next morning, Archie answered me.
sorry chief
im a distant cousin of a distant cousin of a distant cousin
all us roaches are related
that particular archy was something like a hundred generations ago
in cockroach time
which is faster and more insignificant than human time
if that can be believed
every bug around here knows his story
archy mehitabel the new york sun
he was the rabelais of roachdom
the shakespeare of stinkbugs
the voltaire of verbacious vermin
archy was the only one of us to make it big
in the human world of publishing
which is harder than it looks
and not near as rewarding as say
finding a half eaten twinkle in the bottom of the trash bin
hes a legend
thats how we cockroaches
delegitimize the uncomfortable truth
that nobody expects nothing from roaches
we manufacture legends
which is another name for a load of crap
i suppose you want to know whats happened in the meantime
who went where what happened and all that stuff
no really one knows
the reason is that us roaches only worry about today
we consider tomorrow after the fourth cigar
and the third bourbon
on the evening of the day before
As my best friend and garbage can confidant macaruthur put it
you live for a while and then you die
and in-between is anybody's guess
macarthurs only a rat
but as the saying goes
whats true for a rat is true for a roach
and probably for everyone else to boot
thats all for now chief
big meeting in the union hall tonight
we got a list of demands as long as your forearm
and if we arent satisfied
us roaches are going on strike
as soon as we find someone to hire us
