So there I go after that rascal Lewis and I’m just too fat for this kind of thing nowadays. Crazy Lewis and his tomfoolery are always getting me into some kind of mess. If you want to know my opinion he’s breathed in too much of that boric acid. I tell him to keep clear of that stuff but he won’t listen and I think that dust has given him brain damage. How else can you explain his jackass ideas and stunts he’s always pulling?

Since we moved into the Roosevelt, Lewis and me have been living high on the hog, I tell you what. The grub here is top notch, the carpets are velvety soft and the tile is nice and cool. But I say to Lewis, I say: “Lewis, we got to keep a low profile here, buddy. One look at a pair of jokers like us and the management sends in the chemical warfare units.”

Everyone knows the Roosevelt is a ritzy joint. A far cry from the Ambassador across town where one of the sleazebag owners has to see a whole bunch of us before he does a damn thing. And that “damn thing” usually amounts to no more than putting a few traps behind the toilet that none of us are stupid enough to go into. At any rate, I’m saying the Ambassador may be a lot safer but the amenities leave a little to be desired as does the clientele who frankly make my thorax creep.

But does Lewis listen to me? No.

There I was enjoying breakfast in front of suite 209 where a guest had put a room service tray out the night before. Like I said, I am getting fat living here. This was prime rib and I was working on a nice scrap of pink flesh still on the bone when up pops Lewis over the crust of a dinner roll. He says to me, “Jimmy, I got an idea for some fun.” His antennae start bouncing every which way when he gets excited about something, especially if risk is involved.

Lewis finds out there is going to be a big fundraiser in the oak ballroom for the mayor. They’re charging a thousand clams a plate so you know the hotel is going to be lousy with politicians, celebrities and captains of industry types. His big idea for fun is to run out on the guest of honor table just after the main course is served. 

I say, “Lewis, have you lost your mind? That’s suicide or, at the very least, our eviction.” 

But he doesn’t listen, and before I have a chance to argue the elevator down the hall opens and out comes housekeeping so we scurry off, toot sweet.

Well, the night of the big event comes and, despite my better judgment, we head down to the oak ballroom. Beneath the crystal chandeliers the upper echelon of society are seated around enormous circular tables facing the stage at the head of the ball room. The zeitgeist is dressed to the nines in black ties and pearls and sipping top shelf booze. Behind a long table on the stage the honored guests are positioned in order of importance from both ends to the middle where the mayor sits beside an ornate lectern fixed with a couple of microphones. Lewis climbs up the white table cloth to take a peek with me right behind, all the while trying to convince him to reconsider. Just as everyone starts to chow down on the main course Lewis takes off, making a beeline (Ha! Yes, I know: beeline. Very funny.) for the far side. 

Of course, this night of all nights, the Roosevelt decides to serve broiled lamb chops and two places down from the mayor, a careless diner lets a dollop of mint jelly slide off her spoon right onto the nice, clean table cloth directly in the path of a lunatic cockroach named Lewis. In his frenzy to cross he doesn’t notice the sticky, green gelatin until it’s too late and he plows headlong into the goop. Now he’s stuck and the lady beside the mayor is pointing and screaming and the mayor is motioning for a waiter and somebody else is hammering away with a teaspoon trying to kill poor Lewis.

I do my best to reach him before the spoon hits home but my extra weight has made me a lot slower than I used to be. At this point the whole table is on alert for creepy-crawlies and my presence does not go unnoticed. Every few inches some yahoo is trying to brain me with a water glass or a piece of cutlery. I was almost skewered with a fork before I got to helpless Lewis. I gobble up enough jelly around his big, empty head to get him loose and we take off together over the edge of the table.

The situation on the other side of the lectern is a little less frantic and we have a little time to catch our breath in the shelter of saucer. Lewis is enjoying all of this, mind you, and is giggling away while he licks the mint jelly out of his leg hairs when a big hand lifts our cover, leaving us wide open for a coup de grace from a rolled up copy of the Daily Herald.

This time we take a stealthier route, scuttling sideways along the front of the tablecloth to the horror of the entire assembly. The free flowing material is a difficult terrain compared to a flat table top and we struggled over the folds like hikers over a wilderness of snow drifts. We make it to the floor and don’t stop running until we reach the kitchen and sanctuary beneath a freezer unit. Lewis is in hysterics, rolled over on his wings and beating his abdomen with all six legs laughing like a loon on the floor of an asylum. 

The very next day , as I predicted, there is an army of goons hosing the joint down with liquid death while the Roosevelt’s assistant manager follows them around with a clipboard carrying on like it’s the end of the world. I tell you what, one day I’m gonna have to cut that Lewis adrift, but as for now I guess it’s back to the Ambassador.