Translucent Rat

June 17, 2004

Translucent rat. I think it’s a rat. It has no eyes, fur, stomach, ears or tail. The elements have washed all pigment away. It lies on its side on the wet asphalt with its “glow in the dark” whitish green rubber skin and feet. The viscera that is exposed seems to have all turned to gray pudding the texture of the wet pavement itself. Today the whole city takes on this palour. Not even appealing enough for scavengers to eat. Gulls, raccoons, cats, dogs and other rats have all passed on this ghostly morsel. The city announces with every sigh that it was sunny just yesterday. The homeless have fallen asleep exposed and shoeless on a muggy June night only to wake up wet and cold. Sidewalk sale wardens have pulled their “3 for 1” tourist t-shirts and last year’s jeans in tight under the awnings of storefronts. Pigeons puff out ruffled, rumpled and looking mildly drugged. With the dank day comes a grumpy wariness. It would have been easier to catch one with your bare hands yesterday. The heat forces the nordic world to take small chances. It calls out the smaller inhibitions. Those who do not comply suffer discomfort. Open a window. Spill out onto the street. Take off a layer of clothing. Drink a cold beer before 7pm. Eat a meal out in the open air. Laundry flies like so many flags along ships lanyards and all these lonely brick walkups once again join the fleet.
Today the lines are drawn back in and the moles are in their holes. The fleet has disbanded and taken shelter in remote ports. Cloud cover rolls in and obscures all but the first six stories of downtown skyscrapers. Garish phalluses of human achievement are deflated effortlessly by a yawning mother nature who drums her fingers and stifles a cough with her free hand. Incandescent and fluorescent light turns sexuality toward the pornographic rather than sun dappled naturally nude. Yesterday’s potential office trysts are consummated under more forced and cloistered circumstances. It would have seemed natural to pursue animal urges when the sweat helped obscure moral boundaries. Now there are no excuses. Guilt is a cold hungry weed. The dead translucent rat seems like the only one at an advantage today. He isn’t immediately recognizable as a rat. In his decay he could be something more elegantly tragic. He could transcend class. I couldn’t tell at first glance. I thought maybe a kitten. I thought maybe a bunny. I thought maybe a marsupial. In those moments of zen unfocusing and focusing the rat became, at least in perception, more worthy of genuine sympathy. There was no focus on his beady eyes, nasty needlish over bite, bubonicly radiant fur or earthworm tail. This is a day that gives the rat back some dignity. Translucent rat.