Rats: Redux
It was a night like any other. Except for the fact that it was raining in Los Angeles and it never rains in Los Angeles. But, other than that it was a night like any other.
As I began my last chores for the night I heard that all-too-familiar command from the woman in my life - “Before you go to bed, take out the garbage.” This is why she lives here. Otherwise the garbage might pile up to the ceiling. Of course, she makes more garbage in one day than I do in a month. But, I digress.
It was raining. I didn’t want to take out the garbage. I especially did not want to take out the garbage in the rain. Why don't women ever take out the garbage?
I glanced outside at the trashcan, wondering if (hoping) it could go another night without my attention. It was, after all, raining. No one wants to take out the garbage in the rain.
Unfortunately, the trash was entirely too full, having piled a bag on another bag on top of the full trashcan. Crap, I had to take it out. I had to take it out in the rain. That sucks.
Gathering myself, I put on a light jacket (it wasn’t really raining hard) and sallied forth into the great darkness of my back patio, loaded the trashcan onto a hand truck, piled the two bags on top of the trashcan and headed out towards the dumpster at the end of the community driveway, pulling the hand truck behind me.
As I strolled down the community drive towards the garbage bins, trash in tow, I felt an odd sensation on the top of the hand that was pulling the hand truck. Of course, I ignored the odd sensation, believing it to be the plastic tie from one of the bags.
I was about half way down the drive when that odd sensation moved a bit suspiciously. And so, looking back to see what was on my hand, I saw it!
Sitting on my hand, staring directly into my eyes was a rat! But not just any rat. This was my rat. This was the clever little taunting rat that I had managed to catch and then made the mistake of setting free in my neighbor’s back yard (I don’t like that guy). He was back and he was sitting on the back of my hand.
So what did I do? I did what any other man would do when surprised by taunting vermin. I yanked my hand from under the little beast and said, “Gahhhhhh, you god damned little bastard!” Naturally, I followed up my outburst with an Irish jig right there in the middle of my drive.
The rat - my rat - was nowhere to be found, having scampered off into the damp night.
As for me, I looked around to make certain that no one saw my special little moment. Of course, one of my neighbors was looking at me with an interested confusion.
I looked down, embarrassed. Then I saw the nice little mess that the rat had caused. The trash bags that were formerly on top of the trash can were now on the ground. Only now, instead of all the trash being in the bags it was on the ground, a scattered and dirty mess.
And so, embarrassed, irritated and damp, I proceeded to pick up the garbage that had gotten scattered while thanking the spirit world that I did not make “jazz hands” during my moment of intimacy with my vermin companion. I didn’t make “jazz hands”, did I?
After I had cleaned up the rat-assisted mess in the drive and deposited it into the large garbage bin, I had the pleasure of returning down the drive past my curious neighbor.
And, as I passed him by, he retreated into his garage, his eyes filled with suspicious curiosity. Somewhere in the dark of the night I knew my rat was watching, laughing and snickering.
“It was a rat”, I said to my neighbor. “A rat jumped out of my garbage and onto my hand. That’s why I did that little dance and made woman noises.” I said. He nodded, doubtfully, smiling and backing away, slowly. Defeated, I slunk away, pulling my hand truck, muttering to myself.
Once into my home I proceeded to the bathroom to wash up. "I hope I didn't make "jazz hands". And then I sat down on my couch grabbing my telivision remote.
There, before my eyes, for the first time on network TV and with limited interuptions was the movie "Willard".
I hate rats.
