This Charming Rat
Programming note: Back from a short break with some flash fiction
My friend Amelia moved away to New York. I should have seen it coming - everyone in this town is in various states of moving to New York.
One month ago I met a girl at a party. There were several people there who had a band - just like all parties in this town. The girl told me all her friends had moved to New York in the last 6 months. She was friendless at a party where people traded potential names for their bands. That’s where I introduced her to Amelia, whose band was named Eastside Tapas. "In this town, everyone needs a friend that plays in a band," I told her. She seemed hopeful of making a new friend in Amelia. Then, one day, Amelia told me she quit her job at HEB. She told me she was moving to New York. I never heard from the friendless girl again.
I went to a bar to console myself after the news about Amelia. I also needed to make a new friend - someone who had a band, dressed in all black, collected VHS tapes, and had a mullet. I scanned the crowd and found several prospects, but my eyes landed on a man and a woman standing by the bar.
The woman called to the bartender, "Two Lone Stars and two shots."
"The usual shots?" the bartender replied, and the woman nodded.
They took the shots, looked at each other, and now the guy spoke up, "We should move to New York." I washed down the bad taste in my mouth with gin and tonic and exited that bar.
I follow the friends who have left me behind on Instagram Stories. They are always walking in these pictures. The phone is always at a more acute angle than when I knew them in my town. I assume this is because there is not enough space in New York to extend your arms all the way out. There is always a lot of movement and drama in the images they post. The lighting is sharp, and the colors are bright and uncoordinated. Then, one day, they post pictures of their apartment with the caption, "Sublet my lovely NYC apartment." After that, they are never heard from again.
I need to find out where they go. My neighbor John tells me that people who move to New York eventually become rats. I don't know if I trust John. He is old and tends to embellish. When I met him, he enquired about my job. I work as a software engineer for an app. The next time he saw me, he trotted across the yard gently like a duck and said, "Ah yes, you are the maker of all apps, aren't you?" I didn't correct him. " I've been using this app to call a cab. Thank you for your service," he continued. Since all my friends have left for New York I don't know who else to trust.
Amelia posted her apartment in New York for sublet. I've been waiting to hear from her since. That's when I decided to go to New York for the first time. I stayed in a hotel room that was a coffin with a bathroom attached to it. I walked around the subway on Spring Street from where Amelia had posted her last Instagram story. Curiously enough, there was a rat in the background of the picture.
Everything in New York looks like it has been worn down. I suspect that every photo taken in New York captures a bit of its soul. Pixel after pixel, its soul has been worn down. The rats feed on what is left. People wear sunglasses on the subway to avoid the hypnotic glare of the rats. They want to keep the last bit of their souls to themselves. I put on my headphones and played The Smiths because John told me that's what people do in New York. The rumbling rhythm and the muffled sound of Morrisey sounded exactly like the New York subway. Many of my friends grew up listening to The Smiths. I imagine they were drawn to New York to be closer to something that sounded like that. Maybe the rats were behind The Smiths, too. The rats ran New York.
I noticed a rat following me. I stopped and stomped my foot in its direction but to no avail. Maybe they were on to me now. When I couldn't shake my tail, I spoke, but the tremble in my voice gave me away: "Do you know where my friend Amelia is?" The rat glared at me as it had never been spoken to before, then his features softened, and his whiskers lowered. He scurried in the opposite direction, and I followed him. He took me to a part of SoHo that looked like the SoHo I had seen in a movie from the 1970s - gritty and full of rats. It still looked old. It seemed to me that New York has never been young. I thought I had lost sight of the rat, but he waited in front of a door for me. The music coming from inside sounded like The Smiths. It was a bar, and there were South Africans everywhere. They spoke in a thick South African accent that I was familiar with from watching cricket. I sat at the bar and asked for a gin and tonic. I scanned the place for Amelia, first with my eyes and then with ears - her accent would be easy to pick out from among the South Africans. No luck. I was just lost in a sea of rolling r’s and short vowel sounds.
I pitied myself for listening to my neighbor John. I needed to get out of here. I dropped a packet of cigarettes as I reached into my pocket for my wallet. I don't smoke, but it went well with my New York look. I bent down from the bar seat to pick them up and noticed a rat, this time by the kitchen door.
We stared at each other. This one had dark eyes, and the fur on its head had the contours of a familiar mullet.