Homer’s raging temptation was to slam at the wheel and kick the throttle as if the bulldozer were alive and had purposely let him down. Instead, he murmured at the machine. It was a huge and hulking contraption, but he had always referred to it as his baby. He forced himself to work it gently, almost cooing to it, disregarding the roaches biting at his cheeks. Finally, pressing the accelerator tenderly, he brought the engine to life. Its new roar shook the whole machine, and the man could sense confusion in the swirling insects as the great coughing vibrations blasted the air. It came to Homer exultantly that for the roaches the noise and the diesel fumes pouring out now were what a savage cyclone would seem to a man caught in its funnel. The roach swarm veered away as Homer gingerly increased the power. He continued to keep his eyes glued shut against the insects still probing his face but he could feel the machine climbing up the garbage and he knew exactly where he was. Steering with one hand, Homer pulled away more of the avid, clinging insects. He could feel that he was tearing away bits of his own flesh with each roach he flung out of the cab. For the first time since he started the job, Russell Homer was glad for the stinking fumes the motor discharged. The thick smoke was blowing directly into the cab. It made him choke, but it kept the roaches at bay, and dazed the ones he was pulling off like ticks.

The bulldozer rode mightily over the garbage and started majestically down the far side of the heap. Wreathed in the engine exhaust, feeling no more pricks and bites, Homer dared a glimpse at his hands. He saw the blood and open bites, and felt sharp pain, but no roaches! His fingers flew to his cheeks, his ears, his hair. No roaches! He could thank God, too, for his beard. People had smiled at it, he knew, but today it had protected him.