Most Rats Die Outdoors

Splayed over the living room rug, like a toad awaiting vivisection, I peer into the long lost corners of my living room floor. A world of perpetual dusk, doomed since the straddle of furniture over it. Evidently, few have ventured here, even less set sight upon. An ecosystem unspoilt by broom or mop, the natural mustiness makes this home to creatures that send my spouse on hysterical shrieking spells.

I might have liked to mention that, precisely in those moments, she resembled a teenage groupie tickled by the sight of a favourite movie star. Replace spider/rat/lizard with Pitt/Cruise/Hanks. You get the picture. But then, discretion being the better part of humour, I desist. Being of the tactical bend of mind, the better half opts to booby-trap every nook with rat-kill. That sure went well. That is, save for a tell-tale whiff of eau de rat, source unknown.

 Thus, the man of the house finds himself on the front, more like a Private doing Dubya’s bidding in Iraq. Ducking dust bunnies and stray cobwebs, a flashlight in one hand, broom in the other. Vainly hoping to sweep darkness and dust away in equal measure. The beam rolls on, leaving the dust bunnies at the mercy of a sideways punt/drag onto a scoop. The scent gets stronger. Now the space ensconced at the junction of long sofa & ornate bureau sees light. 

A rather tidy dust bunny catches my eye. Almost immediately, a near blinding burst of stench catches my senses. Eyes water. It burns like a punch to my nose. An expert turn of my battle axe follows. Stubborn. One more, as I try and inch closer. Just then, the supposed bunny spins around to face me. Resting on my chin means the jaw may drop no more. I manage a gasp. For at that point it was as if I was the one stunned by the light; a reddish reflection from the twin headlights of the rodent. 
Now, I am all for chores, and small rodents, especially the stuffed variety. But I never bargained on an animal safari of this sort while serving mandatory weekend husbandry. 

Another prod, but not before I’d worked on my posture. No longer prone, I was up on one knee, upper body contorted to level with the rat. In this advantageous position, flight was not an option, it was reassuringly guaranteed. But it still seemed all of this counted for no more than a rub down for the little punk.

As I lower myself to take another look, a dull grey fur ball whizzes past, bisecting the living room and headed for the farthest corner. Didn’t miss by much, the broom doubling as projectile. Expertly launched from the commanding heights of the nearest chair, attained a fraction of second earlier. I disembark, go the other way, hoping to take the animal (on a hunt, remember) by surprise. Or at least, leave enough space to bolt, just in case.

I need not have bothered. At the doorway to the next room, a little away from the curtains, Mon. Rat lay in repose, a slow tremor of the feet as the poison finally caught up. Its last gasp spent in the rush from darkness to light. Way to go, Sundance Kid.

Long after the body is interred to trash, I carefully put away the tools of the trade. As I dispatch the rat-kill to the top shelf, I spy a helpful hint on the carton: "Most rats die outdoors"

It’s 5 'O clock somewhere

Six pairs of hands stare down from the wall, all tied up in various states of separation. Their faces united in their banality; a city name and flag pin is all that distinguish breakfast at London from sundown in Sydney. Pity, but the prime movers of a business model would have but little personality to share. Oblivious to the many minions, collared to monogrammed blue lace dangling a non-descript access card, racing them at every turn. Doors open. They sweep through. Unbeknownst, so does time.


A siren might have been the prop for Means of Production. But, here we make do with lot less dramatics. Of course, we are not hoisted onto a caged car down a barely lit shaft. Seeking veins for precious, while letting ours waste for nothing. Washing with our sweat what is no more than rock, for the sparkles belongs to somebody else. Neither do we emerge, awash in soot, grime, and early twilight, to the accompaniment of a wailing siren. Nor is the emolument a fistful of dollars, black lung and a lifetime of under achievement. Yet, the more things change..?


There are bills to pay. And few amongst us are destined to sing, soldier or create acts of beauty (and survive on the pension). So we head for the mines of this millennium.


Here, the ceiling is high, the Lumens set to light meters and the air monitored for bacterium. Murals, birthday lists, and at places, faux graffiti. The mice on the wheel are sated, flush and needless to say, dispensable. The job is monotonous, mind numbing & venal. Hazards of the Industrial Revolution reinvent themselves.


It is our souls that are mined of their creativity, often leaving behind a hollow, long drained of its precious lightness. For many, it’s a waste land that no rain may revive.


The wheels need to keep turning, at any cost. By the way, I’m off at 5.

Water Under the Bridge

It must be said that the most pivotal moments of our lives often occur in the most mundane of settings. No drum-rolls, no cheering crowds. An envelope slipped under the door, a terse phone call, first born cuddled against the chest. For a moment that denotes liftoff, the culmination of a seemingly endless countdown, there is no voice-over, much less a sonic boom. No joining of hands, as you the truly takes a giant leap on Fate’s hoist. Alas, O Fortuna might have been just right as accompaniment.

Some might have come sooner. Or so you wish. All your dreams were spun for a spring time. A lot flattered to deceive, yet eventually spring does arrive. For real this time, and you are all about to live the time of your life. “About time”. Yet, a passing thought, a whiff of a what-if. Surely you realize that the winds of fortune don’t do your bidding. Though rankle it does, over time that passed. Forks on the road, left behind, for want of.

It is a slow realization. That a lot would, or already have, changed forever. And at times, for only you know the truth, a sigh escapes your grateful yet weary soul.

Did someone say ‘half-empty’?

I of II - A Twenty Year Sentence

The grocery aisles, all awash in tube light, crisscross over a few hundred square yards. Not a soul in sight, being a dull mid-week afternoon. My sweaty palms grease the push cart handle, empty but for assorted knickknacks. The air conditioning has failed me miserably. I feel an embarrassed burning around the ear lobes and a rush of blood to the jowls. In addition to a nauseating static, all I sense is the aching thud of my heart. I feel parched. An in-store promo chimes in the distance. For its déjà vu, at the corner of Staples and Salsa.


Those eager eyes have always been the give-away. Still crowned by increasingly arching pencil stroked eyebrows, contemplating the small print on a pickle bottle. The hair, held in place with a sport band, has the odd grey that might have escaped your habitual left-handed smoothing. Your choice of ear rings haven't changed yet, generic silver trinkets of course. You don't ever seem to give much for accessorial fashion, do you? Sporting a miniature duffel bag that was passé for the 90s, and I'm afraid to say, this decade as well. Maybe you'll try the next! I catch the delicate profile as she moves on to peer over stacks of half-price Colombian, much like me, out of place in that aisle. I spy crow-feet, or maybe I don't. Small faced Citizen on your wrist; as is your fashion, should be ten odd minutes ahead. Got you earlier to class, so you claimed. Faded denim, crumpled cotton. You still carry grunge as it should. Lightly.


Two decades and half way around the world later, memories flicker away. Youthful fancies had shriveled and crumbled in the harsh seasons that followed me into later youth; your memory but a bittersweet reminder of an innocent, carefree time. When, smitten and at a loss of words, I proposed, via snail mail. At the very mature age of 17. You were considerate, to haul me aside one memorable evening, even while declining. Must have been hard, considering the prospects this no-job, no-spunk, mealy-mouthed avatar had offered. Since then, I’ve been around, you know. Navigating the shallow social prerequisites of college, more college, jobs, and then, family.


Do I say 'Hi'? That was always easy; it's the follow on conversation that I stumbled on. Or should I let her and the moment pass; that'd be easier and time-tested. What I knew I couldn't do any more is stay there, frozen with stage fright. Twenty years, God. I ply a resume that trumpets my calmness and communication skills. All lies.


I make my move. A half-turn. The other way. My life can do with what it had, or never did. My heart, whatever, could not take a snub. Not from her. Some memories are best left untouched, unrevised.


Just then, she moved too. Sans cart. Right my way.

II of II - The Fountains of Miramar

A quizzical look, followed by that lopsided smile. She stepped forward briskly, side stepping my push cart, with a loud, pleasantly surprised "Hey". I mumbled something to the same effect in return. She grabbed my arm and almost gave me a hug, giving me a once-over even as I recover poorly from shell shock. A torrent of queries followed. Of her friends, some common, most I had never noticed back then. Note to reincarnating self; pay attention to beings accompanying, yet not including amorous interest. Of places she left behind. Of chumps that went for my friends, still my friends, chumps nonetheless. She smile on their mention, a chuckle a split later. I might know what that was for, oh dear. I spy a sparkle in her eye.


For all that I left unsaid, it seemed she'd the most to share. Almost catching up for lost time. Eagerly waiting for answers, prodding when I groped for names, an old affliction. Even a sly poke at the little chubby I had become. She spared the baldness, thankfully. I dare say I got to know her more in those few minutes, than ever I'd done before. It wasn't crow's-feet by the way, my eyes might have aged. The odd silver strand does her some credit too.


Of course, 'how have you been' is no question. But since you ask, do I mention the numbness, the drift, the unkempt beard kept only as long as I could take the teasing? Sighs unseen and sobs, a few? Life threw greater twists in your wake. I stopped remembering out of preoccupation, so to speak, and not because I didn't miss you any less. Not that I've wondered about what would have been. Those ghosts have long hushed; too busy completing the chores of life. Am I happy? Sure. What else would I be.


We reached an awkward pause, as I fumbled without anything more to say. Then it popped. Not, I swear, by design. "I missed you". I groan inwardly as it slips past. Twenty years to say this. Half a lifetime to inherit the earth. I wish all would go away. I so badly wanted my life from a quarter hour ago.


The lines harden around her eyes, the lips purse. I feel my eyes moisten, a tingle on my nose. What have I done? She winced, and then straightened herself. As if reeling from a jab. Now intently peering at my face, she’s probably toying with the idea of just moving on. Regretting ever stayed. I cannot but find my sorry self looking down, pinching my palms, fighting tears, pain, anger and years of whatnot. All I can manage, as a mid-life crisis-ridden grownup, is a blurry sounding "Sorry". "I must go now", I add.


"I know" she said. I look up. A slow, weary smile creased her lips. She seems to have aged a bit. A shadow falls across her face, as her eyes look into the distance. She sighs. I guess it's been all about me, all this time. And at that moment, I wished none of this happened. The single silver strand has raised itself, only momentary; the long fingers on her left caressing it out of sight. “You haven’t changed”, she chuckled. Or grown up, for that matter. We say our goodbyes soon after. I'm an invitee to a dinner.


I lug my carry bags out the front door. The fountains at the mall entrance gush skywards, dancing to a hummable symphony playing somewhere nearby. As their mothers watch, toddlers scoot around in the mist. A rainbow plays peek-a-boo. High amongst the spray muddying the west bound amber and purple Florida sky.


I am parched no more.