Friday, May 21, 2004

 

The Night Battle

WARNING: Not for the easily grossed-out.

We have a rat problem in our apartment. In my last apartment, I had a cockroach problem. People tell me it's better to have rats than roaches. I'm not so sure. You kill roaches with poison. They take the bait, share its deadly flavor with other roaches, and all die behind the wall, invisible. If they do die on your floor, it's just a dead bug you need to sweep up.

Rats, it's whole 'nother thing. When you kill a rat, there's a body to deal with, a hairy, flea-ridden body, and a face with bulging black eyes and maybe a tongue sticking out. The only thing worse than finding the rat corpse is not finding the rat corpse. If it dies out-of-reach, it takes about a month for the body to decompose, and so there's a smell, a reminder that somewhere in the bowels of your home, maggots are digesting rat-flesh.

Nevertheless, poison is our preferred method. The rats generally outfox traps. We buy a poison that activates when the rat drinks water. It usually does that outside somewhere, sparing us the mess, mercifully invisible. A couple of times, the rat died inside, which meant a nasty search for the carcass. But we've been lucky.

A few days ago, my wife heard skritch skritch under the floor, like a whittling ghost. That's the sound of a rat trying to dig open an entry into the apartment. I'd done a thorough job of plugging all the holes in the walls with steel wool (rats won't mess with steel wool), so I was confident that it wouldn't be able to get into the apartment proper. We were out of poison. I went down to the basement and laid a few traps. Every day, I'd check them. Every day, nothing.

Two days ago, my wife heard plastic and paper rustling behind the kitchen bar. That's the sound of a rat building a nest. That's where they always build their nest. I guess it feels like they're between two solid walls. There are two escape routes. Most importantly, it has easy access to the rest of the house. Like any rat real estate agent will tell you, it's all about location, location, location.

Before I'd plugged the holes in the walls, the first signal we'd get that we had an intruder was the sound of nest-construction behind the kitchen bar. Rats are fast and clever, but not stealthy. That's the one advantage we humans have over them.

Whenever we heard these sounds, I'd move the bar, and flush the rodent out. I'd always carry the broom with me. I'd always have the idea that when I saw the beast, I'd hit it with the broom handle, killing it with one mighty blow. And I'd always see the rodent, freeze, and let it scurry away without raising my arm. The same thing happened two nights ago.

Normally I'd just shrug, and plan on buying poison in the morning. But we have a toddler in the house now. I've heard stories about rats biting children, about the bites giving high fevers and trips to the hospital. I'd dismissed these as urban legends. But any parent who's reading this knows that the last thing you'll do is make your child a guinea pig for your skepticism. I still planned on buying poison, but I also swore that if I saw the little grey bastard again, I was going to finish the job.

Last night, at 1:00 am, my wife heard rustle rustle behind the kitchen bar. She woke me. I grabbed the broom. I kept repeating to myself in my head: act quickly, act quickly. I tugged one end of the bar out from the wall, peeked behind. An old cellophane-lidded box of plastic silverware, in the early stages of shredding. No rat. Was it under the bar? I probed with the broom. Nothing. I stood back.

On the other end of the bar, I saw it. Big, grey, its front legs clawing rapidly. I realized that, while trying to escape, it got stuck between the bar and the refrigerator. Then I heard someone say, "I got you, you sonuvabitch," and I realized it was me. I struck at it with the broom.

Have you ever had a dream where you try to hit someone, and as you swing, you arm turns into a wet paper towel, slapping ineffectually against the target? My first blow felt like that. The rat certainly responded as if I was Rosie, hitting it with my soaked Bounty. Each successive blow felt stronger, though. My aim became truer. I hit it on the head several times. Then my blows felt weak again. I had broken the broom handle.

I looked at the rat. Blood leaked from its ears and its head. It was twitching. Not dead. I didn't want it to suffer. I picked up a brick and hit it until it stopped moving.

There was blood on the refrigerator, on the bar, on the brick. I went back into the bedroom, bouncing and shaking. I was babbling. Basically I was saying that I had killed it, but I wasn't happy about it. My wife, who had been listening from the bedroom to the action, like a radio drama, calmed me down and helped me clean up.

I'm not a macho man, who looks on these things with a cool thousand-yard stare. In fact, when I bagged the body, I thought I felt it move again. I screamed, dropped the bag, hit it again with the brick. No, I don't handle these things well at all.

When I lay down in bed again, I couldn't sleep. Part of me was elated, jacked up on endorphins. Part of me was a shaking leaf.

I kept thinking of my dad, how he would've managed the situation. Better than I, I'm sure. Not that he relishes killing. But dads always seem to -- at least in memory -- handle the fundamental masculine impulse to protect with a greater degree of calm. It often seems like, when faced with a crisis, I'm faking being a man.

Not that this was a particularly horrible crisis. Anybody reading this that grew up on a farm, or served in war, is probably laughing. Every day, most men in the world do bloodier things in the way of survival or even pleasure. But for those of us who live in safe havens, the little battles take on greater magnitude.

My wife told me all the right things: that I'd done what was necessary, that this is what men do, what women want men to do. Protect. Bring death to threats. But was it a threat?

And so, for an hour, my apartment was a silly microcosm of humanity's history of killing, of the necessities, the failures, the justifications, and afterwards the silence we try to sleep through.

posted by Dan 12:13 PM
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Wednesday, May 19, 2004

 

Forgive Me, Father, For I Have Flamed

So a Christian Magazine and the UK Methodists, with the help of the the Bishop of London, opened an online, 3-D virtual church. This was a good idea, because it's hard to find a real church, especially in London.

The avatars appeared as cartoon characters, and they chatted with each other in thought bubbles. This was a good idea, because nothing bespeaks spiritual truth like a balloon popping from the head of what looks like Beavis's well-bred cousin.

The faithful could wander about the whole church, exchange spiritual gems, and preach to the assembled. This was a good idea, because internet conversation is just like a Quaker meeting, full of politeness and sober reflection.

As you can imagine, the peaceful sanctuary of reflection lasted the space of half an hour. Foulmouthed trolls inundated the churches with expletive-riddled messages, appearing faster than the web pastors could smite them. I'm not using the word "smite" idly, either. That's how the web pastors kick a visitor off the server, with a "smite" button. Old Testaments die hard.

I am shocked, shocked, that such a thing would happen. Who doesn't love Christianity? Certainly, all of the congregants would have something positive to say, because no one, BUT NO ONE, has a bone to pick, especially not the legions of internet satirists, raving blogging atheists, or the angry, alienated 12-18 year-olds that make up 65% of all virtual-world aficionados, the ones with "KRIST SUX" tattooed in the small of their back. They'll just looooove it.

(And with that extended looooove I buried the needle on my Sarcasmeter)

So now, less than a week after this open Christian forum launched, the honchos have revoked the laity's ability to speak to the congregation, and only approved speakers are allowed near the pulpit. It took real-world Christians 300 years to achieve the same restrictions, but everything happens faster in cyberspace.

I wish I could've sat down with the Bishop and his team of designers when they first started hammering out this idea.

DAN, DISGUISED AS A BISHOP:
Fellow Christianitists, there's a little play I saw about cyberspace. It taught me that, when freed from the restrictions of reality and palpable consequences, people really do let their inner jerk run free. I love the idea of gathering our flock on the web, but let's remember that, on the net, the wolves run the show.

Therefore, we must be the greater wolves. My dear Angli-cantaloupes, we must revive the Catholic tradition of The Inquisition. Anyone spreading heretical messages in our churches must have their IP numbers tracked to the source, their foul computers burned, and their mouse-hands cut off and fed to the kites. Bring out the virtual racks! Make my avatar look like F. Murray Abraham in The Name of the Rose! What say you, Bishop of London?!

Okay, maybe that wouldn't be a good idea.

UPDATE: I wrote that the Bishop of London had started the site, but he just gave the first sermon, as a sort of celebrity guest. My apologies for the error. I blame the liberal media.

posted by Dan 12:07 PM
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Tuesday, May 18, 2004

 

Brook No Lies

I'm working on the rough spew draft of a new one-act. It goes surprisingly well. The playwrights in my workshop say they enjoy it, that it holds their interest, that it is compelling. Who would have thought that a first draft could go so well? They are supportive, my fellow dramatists...

Too supportive. I see their plan. Lure me into a false sense of trust and then BAM smash the delicate dramaturgy of my work beneath their critical boot-heel.

Well, I say FIE UPON THEM. I shall turn their gambit to a boondoggle.

I have but ten more pages left until I am finished. I shall fill these pages with a long monologue, rife with pauses, delivered by a shabby old man in a suit, played by a sophomore in a university acting conservatory, one that fears being cut from the program. The monologue will be delivered to an old clock, that ticks menacingly! It shall be a rumination on War and Solitude! Such a dull, long monologue it shall be, with empty promises of female nudity at the end. It shall be so interminable, my foes will be forced to PRAISE ME, thinking I shall submit this first draft to Humana, thus ruining my non-career! Well, we shall see who has the last laugh, or understands what the hell I'm talking about! HAHAHAHAHAHAHA!

posted by Dan 11:50 PM
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Monday, May 17, 2004

 

Stumblebum Frenzy

Some minor format changes going on here. If things look weird, that's why. Also, I'm adding individual links for individual posts -- if this messes up a previously existing link, again, my apologies. The thing is, I don't know what I'm doing.

posted by Dan 10:17 AM
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