MEMOIR
The UninvitedLOS ANGELES 22 June 2009 |
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One night maybe five years ago, as I was revising, yet again, Banned for Life, I heard a sound: a slight thump, as if a matchbox had fallen to the floor. I stopped typing and, now hearing nothing, decided it must have been my imagination.
Then, the following night, I heard another sound, this one louder. It seemed to come from my bathroom, and when I investigated and found nothing there, I wondered for a moment if my apartment was haunted.
I lived at the time, and still do, in a Spanish-style bungalow that was built in the 1910s in Echo Park. My entire neighborhood is said to have once been the backlot for a movie studio owned by Tom Mix, a great Western star of the silent era, and that’s partly why I thought my place might be haunted.
Let me explain. Like many people, I’ve always thought there's something eerie about old photographs—and that, of course, is what movies are: individual photographs that, run in sequence, give the illusion of movement. And the people in old photographs are either dead or aged so as to no longer resemble the people they used to be, and yet they still exist, or their images do, like ghosts. L.A., meanwhile, is undoubtedly the most photographed city in history, given the countless movies shot there, so in that way it’s been inhabited by more than its fair share of ghosts. I don’t see L.A. as the sunny, seedy, superficial place others do; I see it as haunted.
Not, of course, that I believe literally in hauntings—or do I? I’ve heard a few credible stories, including some from people I know. My neighbors Joe and Heather, for example, who aren’t superstitious types, both claim to have seen a ghost peering in through their window, just as others claim to have seen it, without any prompting from Heather or Joe. I know because I was around when the subject came up: “You never told me this house was haunted.” And now, as I say, I wondered for a moment if my place was haunted as well.
Or maybe it was just a mouse. I’d had a few mice in my old place in New York, but I couldn’t remember them making sounds as loud as the one I’d just heard.
Still, I searched the apartment. The only mouse I saw was the one attached to my computer. I sat down to work again and heard still another sound. I was really starting to freak. It was one in the morning, but I called my on-off girlfriend Kerry, knowing that, as a writer herself, she’d be awake. Besides, she’d phoned me more than once to report strange sounds. She was convinced, for a period, that someone—presumably a man—was on her roof, though why he continued to return was a question she couldn’t answer. I mean, if he were going to rape, rob and kill her, as she was sure he planned to do, why wouldn’t he have done so the first time he scaled her roof? Kerry’s neurosis was one of the reasons we frequently broke up. Yet, even though she expected me to tolerate her neurosis, she was impatient with mine. I told her about the sounds I kept hearing, and, yawning, she said, “It’s probably a mouse.”
“Yeah, but this sound—it’s bigger than something a mouse would make. I wonder if a cat somehow wandered in here?”
I heard the sound again, from the kitchen now, and, walking toward it in the darkness, saw the silhouette of a huge rat strolling nonchalantly across the tiled floor. It wasn’t the size of a New York subway rat—those things are gigantic—but it was still pretty big. I started hyperventilating.
“Oh my God!” I said. “Oh my God, it’s a rat!”
“Well, now you know,” said Kerry, bored.
“What do I do?! How do I get rid of it?!”
“How should I know?”
Bitch. Yeah, you just remember that the next time you call about the guy on your roof. I had no idea how the rat had gotten inside my place, but two things were clear: it had taken up residence, since now I’d heard it two nights in a row, and it was going to die. Oh yes. There was no way I was going to share my place with a rat. Those fuckers bite. They spread disease. They breed and, soon, you’re overrun with rats, who likewise bite and spread disease.
My first thought was to trap the rat in a ground-level cupboard full of pots and pans and let it starve to death. It was slow, cruel death, but it was also meant that I wouldn’t have to kill the rat physically, as I was loathe to do. Plus, poison, for example, might take a while, and the rat would be wandering around the whole time, possibly waking me to complain about a stomachache and ask for a Tums. But, hey, here’s an idea! Maybe I can trap it in the cupboard and go to the store and get some poison and put that inside the cupboard, and that way the rat wouldn’t just starve to death and I could feel less cruel. Of course, death by poison wasn’t exactly pain-free, but I was only willing to grapple with ethics to a certain point.
I opened the cupboard door and got a broom, which I intended to use to prod the rat toward the cupboard and, once inside: Slam! Welcome to your cruel end, rat! Now I just had to find the bloody thing and let the chase begin.
In fact, it was a chase. I saw the rat and ran at it with the broom, but it wouldn’t simply accept its cruel end, as I’d been hoping, instead running in every direction except toward the open cupboard. It ran more than once in my direction, and I flashed on stories I’d heard about rats scurrying up pants legs and nibbling on the family jewels. I abandoned the chase long enough to tuck the cuffs of my pants inside my socks and again charged at the rat with the broom, trying now to swat it, to hopefully kill or stun it, but the damned thing was too fast. At one point it disappeared through a tiny opening beneath the sink, which I couldn’t believe, since I knew nothing about the elastic skeletal systems of rats, never having been in such a struggle. Finally I managed to flush it from its refuge beneath the sink and, swatting the broom again and again while simultaneously running forward and stepping back whenever the rat darted toward me, I got it to do what I wanted: seek shelter inside the cupboard. I slammed the door. That’s right, fucker. Your cruel end is on its way.
My car had recently been impounded by the city for unpaid parking tickets, and I couldn’t afford the bail, so I had no car. Plus, my bike had been stolen, when I left it unguarded for just a second by the cash register at Pioneer Market. So I had to walk, at three in the morning, all the way to an all-night drugstore a good distance away, much of it uphill, and, after buying the poison, trek home. But it was worth it. Yes, I got home and poured out pellets of the aqua-colored poison into a small dish and, quickly opening the cupboard door, slid the poison inside and slammed the door shut. Now I could write in peace.
I heard munching. Good. It was eating the poison. But the munching was too loud for it to be eating the poison. No, it was eating through the wood of the cupboard door. You never figured on that, did you, genius? You never, as you were devising this scheme, considered that your cupboard is made of fucking wood, did you?
I felt like a character in a Poe story as I listened to that thing munch munch munch, slowly chewing its way to freedom. Stop! Make the sound stop! I ran to the cupboard and threw open the door and rammed the broom inside, poking here and there till rat darted past me and disappeared through another tiny opening.
It was almost dawn. I was exhausted. Maybe, I thought, if I leave the back door cracked open, the rat will leave of its own volition as I sleep. It certainly had to know it wasn’t welcome; that in fact there was a deranged human who wanted to kill it.
But it was a stubborn rat. That night I saw it sitting, without a care in the world, on the arm of my sofa.
I couldn’t call my landlords. They hated me, as I hated them, and I knew they’d find a way to blame me for the rat. I walked again to the store, where I bought traps—huge traps—which I baited with peanut butter, and waited as I wrote for the sound of the trap being sprung. There was no such sound, and the next night I again saw the rat.
I walked up the street to my neighbor Joe, the one with the haunted house, and told him about my feeble attempts to exterminate the rat.
“Oh,” he said, “I know how to take care of them. We had a rat in here one time, and I shot it.”
“You shot it?”
“Yeah, with a BB pistol. Blam. Dead rat. Here, I’ll loan it to you.”
I liked the idea of disposing of the rat with a pistol. It was a lot cooler than traps or poison. Plus, I happen to be a good shot, having grown up with guns. I took the pistol and walked home, followed by a mutt named Roxy. She wasn’t Joe’s dog, but she preferred Joe and Heather to her owner, who lived nearby and let Roxy do as she pleased. She was such a character, that dog. She would sometimes camp outside my door, hoping that I’d take her for a ride in my car, and if I drove off without her, she’d chase me for blocks, as if to say: “Wait! You forgot me!”
Still, Roxy never came inside my place, not even if I tried to bait her with food, which she’d snatch and eat on my porch. My car was one thing, but my apartment was another. And yet this night, even though I’d done nothing to bait her, she immediately entered my apartment and jumped on the sofa, where she curled up and slept. I was crazy about that dog. I was glad she was there. I sat and wrote with the BB pistol beside my computer, just waiting for the rat to show itself, but it never did. At one point my friend Chris dropped by with his co-worker Anthony, both startled by a scene that Chris, every so often, still mentions: “Yeah, one time I went over to the Duke’s place and he was writing with a pistol beside him!” It makes me sound like Sam Peckinpah or Hunter S. Thompson.
Roxy peacefully spent the night at my apartment, and after I’d let her out, I slept with the pistol near at reach, but I didn’t see the rat when I woke. I never saw it again, in fact. For a while I thought it must have died someplace inside the house after eating some of the poison, but not even the corpse materialized. I wonder why it left so abruptly?
It must have been frightened by the presence of Roxy, yes? But why did she follow me and spend the night at my house, which, again, was out of character? She must have sensed that something was amiss and appointed herself my temporary guardian; yet things were often amiss with me—why that night and no other? Did she pick up the scent of the rat on my clothes?
Anyway, it was gone. And so is Roxy now, and so is Kerry. Roxy was struck and killed by a car a year and a half before Kerry died of cancer: two more ghosts in a city that teems with them and among the many that haunt me.
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Duke,
I love this story but it breaks my heart about Roxy and Kerry.
I hope the rat lived to annoy someone else. I’m very fond of rats.
I’m glad you didn’t shoot it, though I have to say, the image of you writing with a pistol by your side, armed and dangerous, all because of a rodent is pretty funny.
I guess it is, yes, though I didn’t think so at time.
I took a great picture of Roxy that I would love to have included in the piece, but I didn’t have a copy. Someone else who does have a copy has said he’ll give it to me, so maybe one day I can include it.
I like rats, too, by the way, in theory. But I don’t want to share my place with one.
I found a rat in my bathtub not so long ago.
I hope you get the photo of Roxy, I would like to see her in your post. She sounds like a dog who deserves a picture.
I’ve just noticed that we are both touching our heads in our gravatars. I wonder what that means?
That we both have concussions?
But in your case it appears to be more an earache — your neighbors, possibly?
And that sounds like one very perverted rat.
The rat wasn’t perverted, it was half drowned. I had to rescue it and even then it still tried to bite me. I’m lucky I don’t have the plague.
You see? They’re mean. But I suppose some quarter should be given, seeing that it was half drowned.
By the way, that pub we went to when Simon was visiting the Gypsy, did that have photo’s of Tom Mix in it? Or am I mistaken?
The Edendale, it’s called.
You know, I’m not sure if there are any pictures of Tom Mix on the walls, but it would make sense for there to be. I’ll have to make a point of checking the next time I go.
Don’t know how I missed this story but so glad I’ve found it. [Must be the new TNB layout perhaps.]
Anyway you had me right with you in your efforts to rid yourself of the horrible vermin thingy. I loved the ‘chase’; I loved it that you stopped in the mayhem to do something as sensible as tucking the cuffs of your pants in to “protect the family jewels”, and I loved the trek up the hill at 3am. I could almost imagine a slightly deranged man muttering to himself as he made the long walk, “kill the rat, kill the rat”!
And what a great ending about the dog coming to your rescue. Ah… dogs are wonderful, are they not? Man’s best friend…And in your case, Roxy was a saviour.
Great story Duke. Now I have to go and catch up with all the other ones I’ve missed.
Are they now easier to find? This is a question of great interest, given the move. And I daresay I was pretty deranged as I walked to the store, and I knew even at the time how ridiculous I looked, even to myself, during the chase.
Roxy was a great dog. A lot of people wanted to adopt her on sight. She looked a little like a dingo, except smaller.
Did you know that dingoes were domesticated dogs turned wild? I didn’t until very recently.
I think the writings are now easier to find - I know they were grouped before but I like this new layout complete with graphics.
I’m enjoying going through your archives and catching up on stories I have missed. I really should be working - and I am intermittently - but I just can’t resist the urge to read more…
The funniest story I have heard about dingoes was a few years ago on an island called Fraser Island - just off the Australian coast. It’s a holiday resort and being a hot day there were a lot of people on the beach. Suddenly from the bush came a huge group of dingoes, intent on corralling up all the potential ‘victims’ and driving them further and further into the sea.
What would have been worse - eaten by sharks or devoured by dingoes!
But I thought one of the reasons that Aussies were so skeptical of Lindy Chamberlain’s innocence was that dingo attacks on humans are rare to the point of non-existent?
I like the graphics at the new site too, which is why I’ve chosen to go with photos to represent all my stuff. I put more time than I’d care into admit into selecting them.
I should be working too, but the urge to play at TNB is always a danger.
Surprisingly, the entire near decade I lived in NY, I never had a rat in my apartment. Knock on wood. But I’ve seen enough in the subway to know I never want to tangle with one.
Great story.
Thanks, Ducky.
I only had a few mice in NYC, as I mentioned in the piece. I once caught one in a trap, unhurt. I had to hurriedly leave for an appointment and wanted to release it, but where? I ran up to the roof, thinking it would find a place to burrow there, and it promptly ran over a wall and fell to its death.
It wasn’t a very good idea take it to the roof, obviously.
Below is the original comment thread:
Comment by Simon Smithson
2009-06-22 18:58:38
1. I would have loved to hear about you being haunted by the ghost of Tom Mix.
2. As always, well-written.
3. The rat seemed to show the same kind of tenacity and chutzpah that we applaud in others. It’s too bad that the two of you couldn’t have been friends, but, I guess with the threat of it taking a sudden bite out of your junk hanging over the two of you, the relationship may have been strained.
4. That last paragraph is going to stay with me awhile.
Comment by D.R. Haney
2009-06-22 19:09:12
1. Me, too. In fact, I’ve always wanted to see a real ghost, and an old movie star would be the best of all.
2. Thank you, kind sir.
3. I agree with you about the rat. I really had to admire it, in a way. And I ordinarily frown on doing any kind of harm to animals, but I didn’t want more rats to materialize, and it wasn’t like it was going to just leave, even though it mysteriously ended up doing exactly that.
4. Thank you again.
Comment by Lenore Zion
2009-06-22 19:13:03
oh man. i once had to beat a rat to death with a metal pole in a friend’s apartment. it was awful. i felt so guilty, but the rat was stuck to one of those sticky traps, and there was no way i was going to let it starve to death. so i figured i was doing the right thing. and he went down after only a few thwacks, and he died, much more quickly and probably a better death than he would have.
poor little guy.
i like rats.
but i don’t like unexpected rats.
nope.
totally, Poe, btw. right on.
Comment by D.R. Haney
2009-06-22 19:18:49
I like rats in theory. I mean, I like most animals, and as a kid I had pet rabbits and hamsters, and I would lose it when they died, which happened routinely. But, yeah, like you say, unexpected rats — no, I’m not down with that.
Sorry you had to kill one. I’m sure I’d have felt awfully guilty if I’d managed to kill mine. And I may have done it without my knowing — i.e., the poison.
Comment by Kimberly M. Wetherell
2009-06-23 05:16:16
munch munch munch, munching on your cupboard door.
excellent tale. unexpected ending.
good stuff.
Comment by D.R. Haney
2009-06-23 06:22:55
It was an unexpected ending for me as well. I’m glad that seems to have translated.
Comment by Marni Grossman
2009-06-22 20:00:38
I couldn’t even look at the picture of the rat. Nothing freaks me out more than the idea of a rat-infested apartment. This is, perhaps, because I live in New York and all I’ve ever seen are the huge subway rats of which you speak.
But I’ve had nocturnal visitors much better than rats or ghosts: bats.
When I was little, we were visited on two occasions by bats. And once, my babysitter and I were rescued from a bat by the police.
I’m curious about this whole “growing up with guns” thing… It’s not something Jews do. We prefer noshing to shooting.
Comment by D.R. Haney
2009-06-22 20:17:21
Subway rats are terrifying. And bats, as you know, are like rats that fly. Except bats do a lot of good, with all the bugs they consume. Rats barely contribute a thing, though they’re useful to scientists. They’re kind of like the weeds of the mammal world.
I come from a farming family, and many farmers own guns, even if they’re not hunters, to protect their stock from predators. I never hunted much, because I was the sensitive please-don’t-hurt-any-animals one in the family, but I did go hunting a few times, and I have to confess that I had a great time. I think men in particular are probably hard-wired to enjoy hunting, even when it goes against their ethics. That’s the only way I can account for my reaction.
Oh, and one of my brothers used to own handguns, and we were always target-shooting. I don’t care how you feel about guns, there’s nothing quite like blasting one, especially when you hit your target squarely.
Comment by Simon Smithson
2009-06-22 20:41:10
If any of the TNBers are in Australia any time soon (and by soon, I mean, forever), I’ll take you down to the Studley Park Boat Park, where there’s a giant bat colony. As soon as the sun starts to set they fly out to feed. It’s an amazing sight; the whole damn sky black with bats.
Comment by D.R. Haney
2009-06-22 20:44:45
I would seriously love to hit Melbourne. I have a friend who lives there, and another friend is now visiting. Both rave about it. But you’ll surely eventually return to SF, yes?
About bats: when I was in Austin a few years back, I was promised a sky full of bats at sunset, but they weren’t in the mood for a stellar performance, I guess, so the promise was unfulfilled. Another reason to go to Australia.
Comment by Lenore Zion
2009-06-22 21:00:57
i want a bat!
Comment by D.R. Haney
2009-06-22 21:16:37
Oh, baby, do I have a bat for you.
Sorry. It was sitting right there. Couldn’t resist.
Comment by Lenore Zion
2009-06-22 21:29:28
i still want a bat, anyway.
Comment by D.R. Haney
2009-06-22 21:35:55
Simon, could you please pluck one of those bats out of the sky and present it to the fair Lenore?
Comment by Simon Smithson
2009-06-22 21:46:25
Duke: Come on over, man. If you’ve never eaten kangaroo, you’ll get the chance. It’s delicious. I’m not sure when I’ll be back in S.F., but I like the way the grocery aisles in the States rumble and then mist the vegetables too much to stay away for long.
Melbourne is similar to S.F. in a lot of ways, actually. Fitzroy, in particular Brunswick Street, is our version of Haight-Ashbury, and yes, we too have trams.
Lenore: By God, I’ll get you that bat. Or die trying.
Comment by D.R. Haney
2009-06-22 21:58:30
That misting thing only started a few years ago, I think. I like walking past it and getting hit with tiny droplets. Kind of refreshing. Which is, I guess, the whole point.
If I had a wad o’ dough, I would undoubtedly book a flight. Alas, I remain impoverished.
I’ve got to run now and see if this crazy Australian dude has responded to my last tweet. Seriously, the dude is so funny! And you know what’s weird? He looks exactly like you.
Comment by Simon Smithson
2009-06-22 22:19:51
He sounds awesome. I wonder if his godfather went to high school with Olivia Newton-John, like mine did?
Comment by D.R. Haney
2009-06-22 22:23:26
I don’t know, but it’s weird that you say that, because he’s been tweeting a lot about Olivia Newton-John lately. I guess all you people over there are kind of obsessed with her, what with her being one of your biggest exports. But, hey, America’s exported a lot worse.
Okay. Running back now to check for more ONJ tweets. This is too weird! It’s like you guys are twins or something!
Comment by Simon Smithson
2009-06-22 22:28:05
We’re even worse. At least you guys acknowledge Canadians. When we like something from New Zealand, we just steal it and say it’s ours. Like Russell Crowe.
Admittedly, we tried to give him back later.
Comment by D.R. Haney
2009-06-22 22:36:48
Yes, the English are that way with the Irish: if it’s good, it becomes a product of Blighty. Hence that most famous of English writers, Oscar Wilde.
Good luck with Russell Crowe. I know an actor named Mark Boone Jr., who appeared in a movie with Crowe (The Quick and the Dead), and we were nearly thrown out of a coffee shop when I said something good about Crowe’s performance and Boone proceeded to loudly denounce me for it, as well as to loudly denounce “that fucking asshole.” A cop appeared at our table. It was that bad, and it possibly suggests something about RC, that he could create so violent a reaction. Violence begets violence, I guess.
Comment by Simon Smithson
2009-06-22 22:40:07
Are you fucking kidding me? You’re friends with Detective Flass?
Comment by Lenore Zion
2009-06-22 22:44:06
simon, are you cheating on me with duke?
cause it’s totally okay if you are.
Comment by D.R. Haney
2009-06-22 22:49:16
I had to Google your reference, Simon, because I never saw Batman Begins. I mean, I knew it must be one of Boone’s roles, but I didn’t know the role exactly. But, yeah, I go way, way back with Boone. I think he’s thanked in Banned. And, interestingly, he used to live in a cabin behind Joe and Heather, who’re mentioned in the above piece. I’ve butted heads with Boone as I’ve done with few others. But I don’t see him that much these days — not since he moved (though he still lives in Echo Park) and started working on some TV show about a biker gang.
Comment by D.R. Haney
2009-06-22 22:51:52
Wait. My last remark didn’t place as it should. And, Lenore, I was part of a three-way once. I was just kind of trying to get it going again.
Comment by Simon Smithson
2009-06-22 23:07:10
Lenore, it’s cool. I’m just using Duke for the sex. With you it’s love. And sex in a cowboy hat.
Comment by D.R. Haney
2009-06-22 23:18:19
Oh, sure. I make a joke about dressing up like Sandra Dee, and suddenly I’m being used for sex. Men. We’re disgusting.
Comment by N.L. Belardes
2009-06-22 21:31:24
I feel like I am reliving the very Ancient Tale of the Samurai Rat. Amen.
Comment by D.R. Haney
2009-06-22 21:46:01
That’s what I get for not being acquainted with your full archive.
Your rat account is much funnier. I especially liked the bit about Minnie Mouse’s shoes.
Comment by Irwin
2009-06-22 22:06:48
I like the part about ghosts and photographs, and how it comes back at the end. Old photgraphs fascinate me and creep out a little.
I nearly wrote about rats a few days ago. We have them among the walls. We suspect they come from next door, because next door is a dive with about 4 different families, most of whom definitely do illegal drugs because I’ve watched them deal in the back garden. Every so often they have immense yet pathetic parties.
And the rats dart over through the garden, up through our floor and into our walls. We found a half eaten rat corpse in the attack. One time I got my dog a biscuit, thought it looked a bit horrible so I went to get him another. I picked up the box and it started shaking violently. Then a rat leaped right out of the box and scuttled off.
When they’re in the walls it’s like Aliens. You can just hear them crawling around menacingly.
Although I like them. I like their ‘we’ll-eat-though-anything’ attitide.
Comment by D.R. Haney
2009-06-22 22:17:09
Yes, they’re commendable in that way, as I somewhat said. And they are scary, the way they’re seemingly invisible.
I’m glad that someone else at TNB shares my attitude about old photographs. The ones that my grandparents used to have on their walls really did a number on me when I was a kid. And here I’m changing the subject, but I once played a recording I’d found on the web of the great actor Edwin Booth doing a speech from Othello, and that creeped me out big-time. Edwin Booth died in 1893, okay? His voice was recorded in 1890 — almost 120 years ago!
Here’s a link, if you’re at all interested:
http://www.archive.org/details/OthelloByEdwinBooth1890
Comment by Irwin
2009-06-22 23:01:00
That is pretty creepy, I think largely because it doesn’t quite sound human.
I’ve heard a recording of Florence Nightingale, her voice was pretty harsh!
Comment by D.R. Haney
2009-06-22 23:03:39
Wow. I’ll have to look for that! Somehow it makes sense that Florence Nightingale’s voice would be harsh.
Have you ever heard the recording of Virginia Woolf? Weird in the extreme! She sounds like Queen Victoria, or in any case the way I’d imagine Queen Victoria to have sounded.
Comment by josie
2009-06-22 22:10:59
That is mysterious that Roxy would enter for no apparent reason and that the rat would disappear ever more.
The last paragraph came about rather suddenly. It was like being bashed with a broom. Tragic and sad.
Ghosts haunt us both good and bad.
I’m glad you didn’t have to kill the big furry critter.
Comment by D.R. Haney
2009-06-22 22:19:32
I’m glad I didn’t, too. Unless I poisoned it. And very mysterious, yes, about Roxy. But, you know, it isn’t always such a bad thing to be haunted. I’m glad that Kerry haunts me. I think about her every day.
Comment by Zara Potts
2009-06-22 23:57:32
I’m glad you didn’t kill the rat, Duke. The story wouldn’t have been as good. I wish that Roxy hadn’t been hit by the car though and that Kerry didn’t die. I wish that everyone in your story had a happier ending, except for the prick who stole your bike outside the Pioneer Market.
Comment by D.R. Haney
2009-06-23 00:06:32
Oh God, Zara, you have no idea how angry I was about that! Thieves used to be served with the most severe punishments, as you know, including death, and I never understood until my bike was stolen. And I only left it unattended for, literally, thirty seconds — at six in the morning! Who expects to have a bike stolen in a store that you think is free of any customers save for yourself? And the idiot clerks, who’d seen me with the bike, just stood there and watched the guy, who was a gang member, walk right off with it. By the time I came back, even though it was only a few seconds later, he was history. I couldn’t catch up to him, not on feet with him riding my bike.
Comment by Irene Zion
2009-06-23 02:42:57
Duke,
You and simon can both marry Lenore. But you both have to change your name to SZEJN.
We have tree rats here in Miami Beach. I used to feed them on the huge ficus tree outside the kitchen window. That way we could watch the babies scamper and play.
Everything was fine until we got Beulah, our rescue Greyhound. She would suddenly become a streak of movement and then return with a dead rat to put at my feet. She was one a fast dog.
Goldens are the slowest dogs in the world. They can only catch things that are already dead.
Comment by D.R. Haney
2009-06-23 02:59:22
From the little I know of Lenore, it may well take two husbands to handle her. However, in the unlikely event that such a thing should happen, I’ll change my name to Zion, thanks, to make up for the gap in your family due to the sudden appearance of Lenore Howeveritsspelled.
Greyhounds are curious dogs. I know nothing of their temperaments, but their looks are certainly striking. They’re designer dogs, like something off a Paris runway, and for that reason I would never own one. I like beagles, which I’m sure reveals me as the prosaic man I am at heart.
Comment by Irene Zion
2009-06-23 06:51:15
Greyhounds are wonderful dogs. They don’t bark. They actually don’t need much exercise. They are couch potatoes. They know who likes them and will approach those people. Those who don’t like them the dogs will stay away from. Good with children and old folks alike.
They are not watch dogs, insofar as they will only watch while someone robs you.
People “design” them for speed so they dan make money on their racing. When they are no longer fast enough or become injured, they just up and kill them. That’s why it’s important to rescue as many as possible. There are greyhound rescue groups all over.
Comment by D.R. Haney
2009-06-23 09:39:26
I always found it odd that the greyhound was the symbol of a bus line, since buses are hardly known for speed — but, actually, that’s the very reason, it now dawns, that such a symbol was used.
As to the murder that follows injury or general decline, that’s, alas, all too characteristic of the human race.
Comment by Megan DiLullo
2009-06-23 11:23:52
Me likes this.
Funny you should bring up rats. I was just telling my friend last night a story about an old roommate I had when I was 18 or 19 and rocking a pink mohawk. She had a pet rat named Rat Bones. Rat Bones was an alcoholic and would sneak up on you and spill your beer then proceed to drink it. Sometimes she would walk off with the whole can her mouth. Other than stealing your booze and term papers (yes, this was back in the olden days of writing on paper, back in the dark ages when there only landlines and internet didn’t yet exist) she was a very sweet rat and a good pet.
Great post.
Comment by D.R. Haney
2009-06-23 17:56:27
As much as I love and appreciate this comment, Megan, I have to confess to the guilt it brings on, because it forces me to acknowledge that rats have, or can have, lovable personalities, and I was trying to kill one. Rat Bones sounds like my kind of rat.
Have you ever seen “Time of the Gypsies”? Great movie. And in it, there’s a turkey, and I fell in love with the turkey, as did almost everyone who saw the movie, I’m sure. I won’t tell you what becomes of the turkey, but, still, I’d never once considered, before seeing that movie, that a turkey could be cool.
Kerouac did the same for me with a chicken in “Tristessa.” And there’s a movie called “The Wild Parrots of Telegraph Hill,” I think it is, that can potentially blow your mind, to hear the central figure in it lay out his take on parrots.
But I think I’ve digressed.
Comment by Megan DiLullo
2009-06-23 20:11:25
Don’t feel guilty. Rat Bones was cool, yes. And so was Percy, my pet rat that lived in my t-shirt that I took to school with me. She was named after the tranny that got evicted across the street.
But just like people, some are cool, some you get along with, some you want to stay the fuck away from you and some should just be shot.
Guilt is useless. Plus nothing happened to that rat except that your guardian dog on watch swung by and kept it from chewing your nose right off while you were in a deep slumber. And, after a satisfying meal made solely from your face possibly stealing your nose-free soul.
Things have a way of working out.
Comment by D.R. Haney
2009-06-23 22:38:44
Thanks. I feel better now.
My friend Monica, who now lives in New York, loves rats, and she’ll break down sobbing if she hears of anyone trying to harm one, so I hope she doesn’t read this.
Oh, and Marlon Brando once said exactly what you just said: “Guilt is a useless emotion,” was his quote. Isn’t it cool to know that you and Brando are, in at least this one way, of a similar mind? Even though his mind is now gone, with him being dead and all. But, hey, maybe his spirit lives on! Through you, now that I think of it.
Comment by Oksana Marafioti
2009-06-23 18:13:59
Well. I’d say that the rat must’ve been possessed by a ghost of some archaic boom operator who’d died in a tragic accident during a filming of some forgotten Western, and that Roxy was acting as your guardian angel that night. Who knows, maybe the rat would have bitten you and given you rabies or something like that. But…that could just be the Gypsy in me talking.
Very cool story.
By the way, I loved that turkey too!
Comment by D.R. Haney
2009-06-23 18:25:17
I must say, I like the Gypsy in you. And thanks for confirming me about the turkey.
I’m thinking what you just posted must be another excerpt from your memoir, yes? I must rush off on an errand, but I look forward to reading it when I return.
Thanks very much for commenting! And that goes for all.
Comment by Stefan Kiesbye
2009-06-24 07:26:47
Yikes, rats. Although the cockroaches here are almost as big as rodents…
Comment by D.R. Haney
2009-06-24 11:54:23
Alas, New York’s got LA beat in the cockroach-size department, as well as the rat-size department. However, LA is filled with black widows, which I see constantly, and even has scorpions, and I heard some ugly stories about people getting bitten by brown recluses. There’s no end to the fun-loving creatures that can invade your home or otherwise delight you.
Comment by Brad Listi
2009-06-24 09:37:53
Here I’m reminded of two rat stories:
1.) My buddy comes home from a week in Toronto on business and he needs to take a shit. Badly. He gets outta the cab and goes inside and races into the bathroom and lifts the toilet seat, only to find a giant rat doing circles around his toilet bowl. It crawled in through the pipes and had been in there for god knows how long. My buddy (who is gay and not at all comfortable around rats) shrieks and closes the lid and runs outta the bathroom and calls his friend (also gay) who grew up on a farm and is comfortable around rats and animals, etc. The friend says: “I’ll be over in five minutes. And I’m gonna need duct tape, a plastic garbage bag, and a hammer.” And indeed that was the case. And indeed the rat was taken care of.
2.) The one and only time I’ve ever consumed absinthe. My next door neighbor is very drunk. He comes over. A buddy and I are sitting on the porch at about 1am, and we’re pretty schnockered on absinthe. We give my neighbor some absinthe. He begins to behave strangely. His cat shows up with a rat in its mouth. We’re all laughing…disgusted. My neighbor, out of nowhere, grabs his cat, removes the dead rat from its mouth by hand, and begins chasing me around the house with said dead rat.
No ghosts, though.
Comment by D.R. Haney
2009-06-24 12:02:02
1. So the second friend got all medieval on that rat’s ass. I’d meantime forgotten that rats can swim. This is a good reason to always glance in the toilet bowl before parking oneself on it.
2. This has nothing to do with rats, but a friend of mine (one of The Assholes) always used to have a bottle of absinthe around, because he’s Czech and his mom would always pick up a bunch of bottles on her frequent trips home to the old country, and he once picked up a dead cat and began swinging it at his friends, which for some reason seems to me worse than swinging a dead rat.
I still hope to encounter a ghost one day.
Comment by Megan DiLullo
2009-06-24 17:06:50
Thank you for reminding me I have a fear of monsters in the toilet.
Comment by D.R. Haney
2009-06-25 06:08:36
This provides an intro to so many shit jokes that, if I allow myself to start, I’ll never stop.
Comment by Aaron Dietz
2009-06-24 17:55:28
Not to get sidetracked from your awesome rat story, but…Tom Mix: supposedly a pen pal of young Ray Bradbury. Wooo! Of course, I got to shake Bradbury’s hand once at a book signing and I asked him about it and he completely didn’t hear me at all. So, eh.
Tom Mix also was a friend and pen pal of Wyatt Earp’s, so he’s gotta be the most cool-connected pen pal ever.
Comment by D.R. Haney
2009-06-25 06:12:33
Wyatt Earp spent his last few years in L.A., where he apparently knew a number of people in the film business. Maybe his wife, being a former showgirl, was the one who brought him to L.A.
Bradbury, alas, is in very poor condition from what I hear. I know a couple of people who recently interviewed him, and they relayed some very sad anecdotes.
I’m amazed that you know about Tom Mix. I didn’t think anyone would! He’s all but forgotten now.
Comment by Elizabeth Collins
2009-08-11 11:47:24
A month a half late, I finally read your piece. Sorry about that!
I have comments in several categories:
Rats. That photograph of the NY subway rat shocked me into a memory of when one of those giant subway rats ran right over my foot! I can still feel it.
Also–after I had my second baby, I walked down the stairs in our rented house in Iowa, holding the baby, only to see a giant rat coming up the steps! There had been a storm, and the rat had apparently come in through a broken window in the basement. Needless to say, I completely freaked out, could barely sleep, should have moved into a hotel…and thus began WWIII with the landlords. Rats scare me to death.
Bats. I love bats. Except when they fly into my head, which seems to happen nearly every evening when I am walking my dogs.
Three-ways. Funny you mentioned that. A man fantasy. I actually had a student who wrote me a really sad (but true) story about this–two friends betraying her with her boyfriend, and the shame of it all, the ruined friendships, the heartbreak, etc. So, I told my husband about the story (never mentioning names, which I can’t remember anyway) and quite uncharacteristically he just smirked and said, “That boy deserves a round of applause! Tell him congratulations. Good work!” I thought that was pretty callous.
But the point is–I don’t think anyone wins in the 3-way situation. I think it’s just asking for lots of trouble.
Nicely written, as always.