Writing About Lives

On Saturday night I was sitting outside the Hearst Building, at a building across the street, taking a load off when I heard a woman a few feet away from me scream. The scream resonated enough to cause me to get up from my seat. In fact, I knew just why she was screaming.

Anybody who knows me knows I HATE rats, but they are all around this lovely city. I’ve seen big rats in Arkansas, Louisiana and Missouri. The rural ones seem to keep their distance. There’s nothing like a New York City rat. Their presence paralyze me. Walking along the sidewalks on trash night I often opt to take the streets because it’s not uncommon to see three or four digging through the trash. The sound of rustling plastic means take the street or even cross the street. I seem to be a magnet for their presence.

I’ve seen them in my building, (Not my apartment but in the hallways). Look in the subway tracks for about five minutes and one will scurry along.

But when the woman screamed, she might as well have said “A rat!” The vibe from the scream said it for her though. Within seconds, a gigantic, at least foot long gray rat, was exactly where I had been sitting. He didn’t flinch that humans were around.

As I crossed the street I saw the screamer.

“You know, I was just saying to myself ‘I sure hope there aren’t any rats around here.’ No sooner than I said that I see this big thing.”

“I’m glad you saw it and said something. I see them all the time in New York,” I added. “So much for my little break.”