Oh, Rats!
By Summer Bacon
Joe and I have an interesting relationship. We are about as compatible as two pit bulls in a fighting ring. Still, we have this strange adoration and respect for each other.
I met Joe about a month ago when I took a journey to Los Angeles. We met at a Tuesday night gathering of couples who enjoy playing volleyball and drinking lite beer together. When we were introduced, his blazing blue eyes locked with my granite green ones. There was instant soul recognition. I liked him, but I felt uneasy.
He didn’t say anything. He just stared at me hard, and I could feel him send a scope of intuition into my soul. I resented it.
“You’re too serious. You need to lighten up,” he said in an immediate and accurate assessment of my mood. I was in a deep evaluation about the last twelve years of my life, and I WAS serious. And exhausted. And moody. And on the verge of tears. His words bit at the thin membrane of strength that walled in my emotions.
I turned away from him, blinking hard. I was in no mood for his truth. He saw my vulnerability and pounced. He made one cutting joke after another, trying to pry me out of my intensity. I swallowed hard. Every word stung. I wanted him to go away. He finally sat down next to me, and said, “Boy, you ARE serious.”
“You know, Joe, before this evening is through, if you don’t let up, I’m going to kick the shit out of you,” I retaliated coldly. How’s that for the renowned trance medium and humanitarian Summer Bacon? I couldn’t believe my own mouth. Man, we must have had one heck of a past life together, and I must have been Attila the Hun.
“You know what,” he said gently, “I’m going to lay off of you. Sounds like you need to be left alone.”
It was in that instant that I realized that the heart I had felt when we first made eye contact really did exist. When the chips were down, Joe was actually a really cool guy.
He was unusually quiet and pensive for the rest of the evening, and his friends wondered what I had done to him. He wandered the darkened backyard, and was in deep thought. Before the night was through, we hugged and apologized to each other.
It was another month before I saw him again. Another volleyball night. Another crisis for me. The attack on the World Trade Center had occurred that morning, but everyone agreed that the game and Tuesday festivities would continue.
While they drank beer, I was in the car attached to my cell phone trying to solve problems with my children and their respective fathers, and was very concerned about how and when I would manage to get out of LA. My tears were flowing without restraint.
I finally returned to the gathering, and everyone was already playing volleyball, except for Joe. I heard two gunshots, and saw him cock a pellet gun and place it at his side.
“What’re you doing?” I asked casually.
“Shooting rats,” he said nonchalantly.
“Did you get any?”
“Naw...those were practice shots.”
“Oh. I don’t see any rats,” I said.
“Yeah, well, there were lots of them here the other night. They get into the rabbit food,” he said.
“Oh. Well, they’re pretty smart, you know. They probably feel you out here. And, they probably also heard your practice shots. They know you’re after them,” I said matter-of-factly.
He swung around to face me, “You think so? Do you really think they can vibe me out?”
“Yup.”
Joe grew very thoughtful. “Hey,” he said, “YOU’RE not vibing them away from here or something, are you? I mean, you can do that kind of thing, can’t you?”
I giggled. “No, I’m not vibing them away. I have no need to interfere. If you want to kill rats, go ahead and kill them. But you gotta think like a rat. You gotta outsmart them. It’s like fishing. You gotta figure out how to trick the fish into making a mistake.”
“You think they’re smart?”
“You bet.”
“You like rats or something?”
“They’re great. I mean, they live outdoors, and they know that the good eats café is at the rabbit hutch. That’s pretty smart, don’t you think?”
“You don’t want me to kill the rats, do you?” he asked, suspiciously.
“No, honest. I don’t care. That’s entirely between you and the rats. You know, Joe, I also believe that if a rat shows its face tonight, it wants to play. It has a choice in all of this too.”
“Play? What do you mean?” he asked, now so perplexed I almost felt like I should give him a hug to help him relax.
“I mean that if a rat shows its face, it wants to play the game ‘Shoot the Rat a.k.a. Catch Me if You Can.’”
“You really believe that, don’t you?” he asked.
“Yes, I do.”
Joe’s little three year old son Jackson came over and pulled on his daddy’s shirt. “Did you kill any rats, Daddy?”
Joe stood there in the fading light of the sunset, his pellet gun clutched at his side, and he just stared silently out into the yard for a moment. I could swear he winced back a tear, and I watched him swallow hard.
“No, son. I’ve been converted.”
Joe walked into the house and put his gun away.