When the Rats Run Away

I woke up, hot, with the dirty film of my own crust starting to melt away on drips of sweat. I thought the sun was starting to leak through the shades; lines of dull orange cut through between the off-white plastic blades, but I focused my eyes and determined it was just light pollution. I coughed a little, caught some phlegm and hacked until it was out, sitting on my tongue with nowhere to go.

At my left, she was lying still. I felt her shoulder; she wasn’t sweating. She wasn’t even warm. I swallowed the shit in my mouth and turned back to my other side. The orange glow seemed to bake on the layer of filth all over my body, so I picked myself out of bed and found my jeans. The oil and dirt on the denim rubbed against the hairs on my naked legs. I zipped the fly and patted down the pockets for cigarettes; I found a pack of matches.

Her skirt had a pocket and I checked it; Virginia Slims. Women’s cigarettes, but I took them anyway.

I cast one last look at the room, wiped a hand across my face to streak the sweat and grime away from my eyes, and stepped out into the hallway.

I didn’t notice the mumbling traffic noises until after I closed the door; there were no windows in the hallway. Just a series of doors, numbered by odds and evens. Presumably, there was a person dozing behind each, but the night felt in tune with my mood. Every door I passed housed another strung out skinny man, unable to sleep for the dirt and the drugs and the orange glow outside their window. There seemed to be a train of men, shirtless and sweating, following me in hopes that I knew where I was going.

I turned around every now and then, but the hall was empty. The stairwell was empty. The little lobby with the bell at the desk and the bars in front of the wall of keys was empty.

And the street was empty; a passing car flooded light over me. I ducked into an alley to avoid the brightness; the morning would be along soon enough. The orange would turn to yellow and eventually bluish grey, but the alleys were dark.

I lit one of her cigarettes and realized how much it smelled like her; or, probably, the other way around. I wondered if she’d still be there if I went back, if she’d ever been there in the first place. I pulled out the pack again to examine it.

Virginia Slims. She was real. I wouldn’t have bought these myself.

My head went dizzy for a moment and I stepped back into a bag of garbage; a fleet of rats scurried away in a hurry. Even my blistered nose could smell the rot of the urine and decay, so I stepped back out into the street and folded my arms over my chest, hurrying towards anything and hoping there was something good at the end of the line. I tried to think of somewhere cool, or somewhere to wash myself off. I found myself obsessing over water, blue water, ice and rain. I looked up at the sky again, and tried to will a rain cloud to gather.

A bathroom somewhere? Or just a bottle of water, I could get one anywhere and pour it on myself and watch the filth run off into the street. Put it back where it came from. I scratched at my chest and left three red lines surrounded by scraped black dirt. I wiped at it and it smeared but it didn’t come off.

I was trapped by the dirt... the city forced it on me and I took it without complaining. I examined my reflection in a passing window and couldn’t tell the film from the shadows, it was all dark and all cast over me.

I walked quickly. Even if I didn’t know where to go, I’d get there faster if I moved quickly. The rain wasn’t coming and the puddles in the streets were just another way to taunt me. I dragged my finger against a window as I walked by, and pulled up a black finger. The whole place was just a haven for grime and corruption. I walked faster, ignoring the buildings around me, until finally, I had to stop, out of breath and wheezing.

“Hey man,” I heard from the city.

“Hey.”

There it was again.

“You sho’ out late.”

I turned, and I turned, and I couldn’t see anyone.

“Down here.”

My spun around and looked down; there, sitting on a blanket against the wall, was a man even thinner than I; his teeth were blacker than mine; he wore no shirt and showed off his dirt without flinching.

“You look like you could use a somethin’ sweeter, man, you got that look in your eyes.”

I sat down in front of him, unable to stand and thirsting for whatever he had.

He reached in his pocket and pulled out a little glass tube with an orange plastic stopper-top. I felt my own pocket, pulled out the Slims, then found a balled up five. He smiled and showed me his purple gums, and we switched.

In the alley, lying against the bags of garbage that I could no longer smell, I tried to think about water. I tried to figure out why I thought I needed it so bad; why the dirt seemed like such a danger? After the rats run away, the filth never really seems that bad.