Excavation

by Deirdre Abrahamsson

It was the year of the rat. And of the mosquito. Of the West Nile variety. Quite a long distance for it to fly all the way to NYC. But why not? New York was booming, and the city was teeming with all sorts of representatives along the evolutionary scale. Construction was rampant. But before new structures could be built, old ones had to be torn down. Torn down to make room for taller, sleeker, more modern buildings. Lower Manhattan was awash with gated fencing and scaffolding. And rats.

Big rats. Little rats. Grey rats with dirty noses and long tails. Black rats with wire-brush whiskers and sharp teeth. Brown rats with beady red eyes and vise-like talons. And these unwelcome guests were not shy. They were sighted in trash cans and dumpsters, scurrying through alleyways and along curbsides, along subway tracks and on the platforms, all hours of the day. There were even reports that some were playing stoopball on the Lower East Side and sunning themselves on lounge chairs in Battery Park. Like all immigrant groups, they had quickly assimilated themselves into the New York fabric.

"Rats On Parade!" the headlines shouted. "Mosquitoes Snare Their Fourth Victim." What were those seven plagues that God sent down to punish the Israelites? A hailstorm of frogs and a rash of never-ending boils? Surely these were modern versions of the curse! These were just the tip of the iceberg. The signs were evident. It was time to go.

"What?!" Tom sputtered, choking on his coffee. "Surely you're joking! That's great man, but you can't leave. Not now. Not yet. You're not even married yet for Chrissakes. People move out of the City when they have kids. When they want better schools and lower taxes and less crime. And when they're not from here! But you are! You are home-grown. The city needs you. You can't leave now. Not yet. Maybe not ever!"

Tom's voice was rising continuously and he shouted at the waitress as she walked by. "Hey! Can you bring me some napkins please!"

She returned momentarily with a stack of napkins and refilled their coffee cups.

"Thanks, Merle. You're a sweetheart."

"Watch it," she growled at him. "Next time you yell, I am pouring your coffee on your head."

"Ok, ok, sorry." Tom wiped up the spewed coffee in front of him, then leaned over and wiped Jack's shirt.

"Sorry dude. But don't leave, man. Where else will you find a friend who you feel so comfortable with that they can spit all over you? Huh?"

"You can visit and slobber all over me all you want!"

"Visit you? You don't even know where you're going!"

"When I get settled, I'll send you an address."

"Yeah, whatever."

"I've been thinking about this for awhile, Tom. It is time. Remember what that girl Alycia was saying at Fred's party in April? How you change dramatically in your 28th year because everything in the sky is in the exact place it was when you were born? It's gone through a complete cycle or something like that? Well, that's what happening. It's like I just woke up one day like Gregor Samsa. Metamorphosized. I don't fit in where I am at anymore. I have changed, and I need to leave here. Before something horrible happens. Like the change isn't permanent and I will slip backwards and join the club of vapid stares and empty souls and meaningless existence that permeates here."

"What!! Whatever, dude. New York is where it's at. You can change and still be here. That's what NY is all about. Look at Trump. Look at Madonna. Look at Giuliani for fuck's sake. And don't forget Latrell. New York IS about change, about reinventing yourself. You can be seen. And you can hide. You can stand out. You can blend in. You can be a star. Or you can be part of the herd. New York cannot be done. It cannot be mastered. Ten new restaurants open up every day and ten more shut down. One day you earn a killing on the market. The next day, you lose it all right back. Everything is here. Change is happening here. New York is the pulse. Can't you feel it?"

Tom was getting excited again and his voice was rising. "You Jack Kennedy O'Connor, son of James and Clare O'Connor, the pride of Blessed Sacrament in Richmond Hill, the Molloy boy and Fordham man, the advertising guru extraordinaire, you are going to walk away from all of this?!"

He flung his arms wide and knocked over the ketchup bottle. As if on cue, and, as had an uncanny way of happening around Tom, thunder boomed outside, louder than an M80.

Jack jumped.

"Yes. If that's the case. I guess so."

With that, the clouds broke and rain started to beat down on the city, cooling the pavements outside, taking the pedestrians and cab drivers, school kids and business men, rats and mosquitoes by surprise.