What Happened To You?

This is the question I’ve been asked more than any other the past few weeks. It’s taken me this long to saddle up enough again to tell the tale. So, here we go.

I will begin this saga by explaining that I LOVE to jump. When I was a little girl, nothing made me happier than jumping on my bed. My mother was constantly yelling at me, “Are you jumping on that bed again? Stop jumping on the bed!”

When I was about six or seven years old, a momentous event occurred in my young life. It started out like any other spring day. Then, my mother pulled me aside. I was told to sit down. I was about to be given some very important instructions.

“Now honey, I’m going to go to the store.” This seemed like a normal occurrence, but I could tell by the careful tone of her voice that something was different.

“Now, I’m going to leave you here. You’ll be all by yourself. I’ll be back in half an hour.”

What? This was unthinkable! I loved going to the store. I particularly liked to make sure I got to pick out the breakfast cereal. As much as I loved my Mom, she had lousy taste in breakfast cereal. Grape Nuts? Hello! Not only did it taste like a bowl of rocks, there was no prize in the box!

“Now, Aunt Joyce and Uncle are right next door. So, if you need anything, you just give them a call and they’ll be right over.”

Wait a minute. She really WAS leaving me.

“Don’t open the door for any strangers. And if anyone calls and asks if you’re home alone, you just say that your Mommy is in the shower and can’t come to the phone.”

A moment later, she picked up her purse, walked out the front door, got into her red Pinto and drove away.

Wow.

It took a moment for it to sink in. I was alone. Completely alone. For the first time in my life. There was only one thing I could do: I ran to my bedroom and jumped on my bed.

I must’ve jumped on my bed for ten minutes. Laughing, giggling, half out of breath. Jumping, bouncing, up and down, up and down. Ridiculously silly bouncing. A jumping giggle box. Wheeeeeeee!!!!!!

It was the best moment of my life!

At some point, I stopped bouncing, crawled off the bed, settled myself down and got out my crayons. By the time my Mom walked in with the groceries, I was completely focused on a connect-the-dots page in my activity book.

To this day, I don’t think she knows that when she gave me my first test in maturity and independence---I jumped on the bed.

But this is what the approach of spring does to me. Every year around this time I find myself wanting to---well---Spring! Sometimes, I have so much bottled-up winter energy that I just have to go off to a quiet corner and jump up and down.

This year, I felt the jumpies coming on again. Luckily, in New York City, there are all sorts of amazing ways to get Spring Fever out of your system. There are trampoline classes down at Chelsea Piers, mini-trampoline pilates classes at a studio on 5th Avenue, and (if you really want to get in the air) you can take a trapeze class downtown just like Carrie in Sex in the City.

My friend Nicole seemed eager to do some jumping as well. I looked at everything online and sent her links to all the jumping classes in Manhattan.

The next day, on a day trip to the Ikea in New Jersey, I called my aunt. I was still all over the whole jumping thing.

“Oh, honey. Be careful. You can hurt yourself on those mini-trampolines.”

Blah blah blah. For godsakes, it’s pilates. The usual caution of the elders.

“You’re not too coordinated, honey. You’re all arms and legs.”

No matter how old you are, they still think of you as six years-old. I re-assured her that I was INDEED coordinated, and quickly looked around the New Jersey Transit Bus for some wood to knock on. Looking back, I remember that there was nothing but hard plastic and pleather. I hadn’t knocked.

A few days later, I was rushing to work. Our GM seems to be giving the fish eye to people when they walk in five minutes late. And I have that strong Mid-Western work ethic that always seems to bite me in the ass. As I walked thru the subway tunnel, I heard the train pulling into the station. I did what pretty much any New Yorker would have done---I ran.

I ran thru the tunnel as the train was pulling into the station. Swiped my card as I heard it pulling to a stop. Ran down the stairs as I heard the doors open. And when I heard the beep signaling that the door was about to close, I looked down at my feet. I was three steps away from the platform. In less time than it takes to write all of this----I quickly calculated that if I JUMPED down those three steps (instead of simply continuing my swift pitter-patter) I could beat the clock. And I was all about jumping. I would jump down those three steps and then make a flying leap onto the train. Very Jackie Chan.

Unfortunately, my feet didn’t catch up with this mental plan. And when I jumped down onto the cement platform, my feet buckled and I fell face first onto the train.

The front half of me landed on the floor of the subway car. The back half of me was lying on the hard cement.

And then, the doors closed.

Before I list my injuries---may I say---I made that train.

At least one half of me did.

Numerous urban myths tell the tale of the person caught in the doors who got dragged thru the subway---eventually being chopped in half as the train rushed forward into the tunnel.

I have to admit that these thoughts did occur to me as the doors locked somewhere around my upper torso.

Then, what happened next took place in about ten seconds---several beefy guys stepped up and pried open the doors. I remember hearing, “Are you okay? Are you okay?” I felt a lot of pain in all different places, but knew I had to get up on my feet. I quickly stood up. Then the doors shut. I saw huge drops of blood on the floor of the subway car. I felt my chin. Blood dripped thru my fingers.

“I have to get off,” I remember saying somewhat in a daze.

The doors mysteriously opened.

I stepped off the train and stood there alone on the platform pretty much in shock.

The train sped away.

I felt the warm blood trickle thru my fingers as I held onto my chin. A piece of my back molar fell onto my tongue and drifted around my mouth. And then, as I tried to keep the blood from pouring out of my chin and all over my clothes, I heard something horrible---the sound of my jaw going “Eee-ern, eee-ern, eee, ern”. This was not good.

What did I do then? I started walking home.

A good friend of mine says that this seems to be a phenomenon that often occurs after accidents. After a sudden trauma, people just want to get to a safe place. Of course, I knew I needed to get to an emergency room. But before I went to a strange, scary place---I just wanted a few moments of comfort at home.

By the time I walked in my front door, I was pretty sure I had done some pretty serious damage to myself. I was nervous, shaking and scared out of my mind. I dreaded looking in the mirror---but that’s the first place you go. Right?

My hands were shaking as I took off my coat, turned on the bathroom light and geared myself up to view the damage.

Well, I was definitely going to need stitches. My chin was split open pretty bad. Oddly enough, at this moment, I looked down at my blood-covered white shirt, and Hints From Heloise kicked in. This shirt was going to need to soak in some cold water. Why I was so worried about staining my nice white shirt is completely beyond me, but this seems to be the way the mind works in these situations. I took off my shirt, put the stopper on the bathroom sink and swished it thru the cold water and Woolite. However, while this may seem like a calm, homespun, cleaning moment---what was going on in my head was, “Shit, shit, shit.”

Because by this time, I was pretty sure I had broken my jaw. Not only was there a horrific sound (as well as pain) emanating from that corner of my face---when I would try to put pressure on my chin to stop the bleeding, I could literally FEEL my jaw shoving back into place. I can only describe the feeling as sickening.

However, once the shirt was soaking in cold water, it was time to deal with the situation at hand---I needed to call work and let them know I wasn’t going to make it in tonight.

It was Old Fish Eye who answered the phone. The call was nothing if not simplistic---I fell in the subway, split open my chin and think I broke my jaw and I’m off to the emergency room and I won’t be in for work tonight. I don’t even remember what he said. Frankly, I didn’t care. I needed to figure out where the nearest emergency room was.

Luckily, I have health insurance. Any emergency room in Manhattan would surely be happy to help me. I remembered that there was a huge hospital about twenty blocks away on 168th St. With my shirt soaking in cold water in the sink, I somehow figured I had taken care of all the details, looked in my wallet to make sure I had my insurance card, soaked a rag in cold water to take with me to help stop the bleeding and walked out the door.

I walked to the corner and stood there on Broadway holding my bleeding chin as I tried to hail a cab. I remember consciously trying to look well and fit---why? I don’t know. My deluded mind somehow thought that a cab driver might not stop for a bleeding, pathetic-looking woman. So I held my head up, gave a little (if slightly crooked) smile, made every effort to look full of energy, life and vitality, and blithely waved down a cab. Phew.

Within moments, I was at the Columbia-Presbyterian Emergency Room door. I walked into the emergency room, bleeding, broken, insurance card in hand and ready to tell my tale. Then I saw the line. Damn.

I think this is a good time to mention that I had done something wonky to my knee. Come on, I fell on cement!

I stood in that line for an hour---yes, a full hour. On a wonky knee. The only person who spoke to me was a nurse encased behind plexiglass. After about half an hour standing in the line, I peered into the plexiglass and asked if I was indeed in the proper line.

A nurse squinted at me thru the scratched two-inch, bullet-proof plastic, “Yes. This is the line.”

Then she did what can only be described as a double-take.

“Here, honey,” she said as she pulled a few paper towels out of a dispenser. “This is for your chin,” she added as she slid the paper towels under the metal bullet-proof barrier. I guess I was bleeding pretty bad.

I stood in the line for another half an hour. No one talked to me. No one even asked my name or what was wrong with me. I looked around the crowded emergency room. It was a madhouse of sick people. None of whom appeared to be getting any immediate care. Then, the person a few ahead of me in line was a middle-aged woman trying to get care for her older husband. Being a polite mid-westerner, I didn’t try to listen in; but being a person in severe pain, I was certainly interested in knowing how soon I would get some medical attention.

She said she’d been waiting for over two hours---she pushed her husband and his wheelchair up to the attending nurse and began the litany. It began with his heart problems.

AAARRRGGGHHHH!!!!!!

Okay. Not that I don’t have compassion for this man’s heart problems. But when the nurse in charge of triage left her station and immediately began a thorough examination----well, let me just say, I realized a couple of things. First of all---this man should NOT have sat there for two hours trying to get treatment for a possible heart attack. Second---I should not have to stand there bleeding for an hour with a broken jaw before anyone even speaks to me. Third---I had to get the hell out of there.

A decision like this only comes when one is almost in tears. But I looked around that emergency room. It was packed to the brim. And when I heard an old woman walk up to the plexiglass and complain that she’d been waiting for FOUR HOURS!---well, I figured it this way: If this was the sort of treatment one got while waiting in the emergency room, I can’t imagine what the rest of the hospital was like.

I walked out.

Walked out of there crying.

Frankly, I didn’t know where else to go.

Damn me and my jumping! Damn that Fish Eye! This was terrible!

So where does one go an hour and a half after a horrible accident still bleeding and with broken bones?

I went home.

Yes. I walked over twenty blocks back home. Uphill. They don’t call it Washington HEIGHTS for nothing.

Well, what was I supposed to do?

As I walked home, I pulled out my cell phone---beyond the last-minute call to say I wouldn’t be able to make my shift---the first call I’d made since the accident.

I called my friend Timmy. Thru a series of odd misfortunes, Timmy had had the opportunity to visit just about every hospital in Manhattan and Queens in the past year. Surely HE would know where I could go.

Unfortunately, he was currently the picture of health and blissfully away from his cell phone. I left what was surely the most pathetic message in the history of the world.

I don’t remember much of what I said on his machine. A few days later, Timmy told me he felt HORRIBLE when he hadn’t chequed his messages for a few days and hadn’t returned my desperate cry for help. At the time, all it meant to me was that I was no closer to an emergency room than I had been almost two hours earlier.

I called my friend Nina. She lived in the Upper West Side. Maybe she knew where I could go. Another answering machine. Another pathetic message.

My knee was starting to buckle as I walked up Broadway. Then a few blocks away from my building, I saw a neighbourhood health clinic. Sure, this was the sort of place where women went to get their annual pap smear and brought their kids for immunizations---but it was health care. I dabbed at my still-bleeding chin to look presentable and walked in the door.

A moment later, I stepped up to the counter and explained to the nice lady, “Hi. I know you guys can’t help me here. But I fell in the subway and I think I broke my jaw. I just came from the Columbia-Presbyterian Emergency Room and I waited for over an hour and no one would even talk to me. I have health insurance. Where can I go?”

She looked at me with the most sympathetic face I’d seen in almost two hours.

“Okay, sweetie. I’m going to give you this card here, and I’m writing down the address of St. Luke’s. We’re affiliated with them and they’ll get you in right away. They’re right down on 114th St. You can take the train down there and it will let you off a few blocks away. Or you can take a cab. But they’ll take good care of you.”

I thanked her SO much and walked out. You’d think I would walk across the street to the 1 Train Station to St. Luke’s. Or at least hail a cab. But where did I go?

Home.

To this day, I don’t exactly know why. I had the address in hand. But I was only two blocks away from a safe, comfortable place.

I walked in the door. My cat Bessie (17 years-old and counting) was doing her usual activity of sleeping on my bed. She looked up and meowed at me as I walked in. The white shirt was still soaking in my sink. I swished it around a bit and then I did something that only my family and close friends will understand.

Okay, bear in mind that I had just spent an hour in an emergency room where no one paid any attention to me. I was about to go to another strange emergency room. And, despite the kind face of the lady at the neighbourhood health clinic, I had no guarantee of anyone even asking my name.

What did I do?

I made a cup of tea.

I can only explain this by saying that the pain was SO intense that all I could focus on was the fact that I could not sit in an emergency room for another hour without a cup of soothing, warm, safe and comfortable hot tea.

I usually keep a few empty Starbucks cups on hand for… Well, tea emergencies. With my jaw still shifting around inside my head, I boiled a cup of hot water, popped a Twinings English Breakfast tea bag into the mix and let it steep for a few moments while I Googled “St. Luke’s Hospital” to make sure I had the correct address.

Five minutes later, with the milk and sugar added, I grabbed my cup of tea and headed out to Broadway to hail another cab.

For some reason, everything seems better when you’re holding onto a cup of tea.

I made every effort to look fit and healthy for the cab driver and, within moments, a Yellow Cab pulled over to the side of the road and whisked me to St. Luke’s.

This was a different sort of Emergency Room. As soon as I walked in, a woman greeted me with a clipboard and asked my name and ailment.

Ten minutes later, I was called in to see the doctor.

“What happened to you?”

This was the first time anyone had asked me this obvious question in almost three hours.

I quickly explained my fall and began to detail the possible damage.

“Oh my god,” the nice female doctor said. “What time did this happen?”

“About three hours ago.”

She stopped writing and looked at me.

“What took you so long to get here?”

I started to explain my trip and long wait at Columbia-Presbyterian---a little too embarrassed to mention the time it took to make my cup of tea, which sat nearby on the floor next to my coat and warm wool hat.

“Well, that’s typical there. They’re great at gunshot wounds. If you ever get shot, it’s the place to go. But other than that…”

Good to know. I guess.

Moments later, I was whisked to an examining room where she got to work. As she asked more questions about my fall and the possible damage, she seemed particularly interested in my jaw. Not that I wanted anyone touching it at that point, but that’s what they always want to do. I submitted to the painful touching, only to hear her conclude, “I’m going to send you for some x-rays.”

She also asked about my last tetanus shot. Frankly, I don’t remember ever having one. So in came the guy with the syringe who warned me that it wouldn’t hurt that much, but would probably be sore the next day.

Honestly, the next day, I was in so much pain, that the tetanus shot was a pretty big nothing.

Then, she shot my chin up with Novocain, placed a paper towel with a hole cut out of it on my face, and began to stitch up my chin. The shots were painful, but at least bearable. I must’ve had about five shots before it was numb enough for her to begin.

As she stitched, I tried to think of happy things. My cup of tea sitting on the floor. My favourite vacation to Paris. The cute red seat cushions I’d recently purchased from Ikea.

But all I could think of was that my face was being stitched up. For godsakes, it’s your face!

As I laid there encased under the paper towel, I began to explain to the emergency room doctor that I’d never had any kind of an accident. Never had stitches. Never had surgery. Never had anything like this happen to me ever. Happy place. Happy place. Swedish meatballs and lingonberry jam at Ikea.

A few moments later, the paper towel was pulled off my face. I was stitched up and, for the first time in three hours, felt I was in good hands.

She asked me where else (besides my tooth, my chin and my jaw) I felt I’d been injured. I had a cut-up knee. That much I’d discovered while I was waiting for the tea to steep. I mentioned my knee as well as my elbows---which, by now, were all adding to my pain. But after three hours, my knee wasn’t swollen and my elbows just looked a little red. I was a little sore all over, but hey---I fell.

A few days later, I would discover that my elbows had turned horrible colours of black and blue; I had ripped a ligament in my knee and also cracked a few ribs. But, at the time, the pain in my face didn’t even allow the other pains to assert their viability.

Did I want x-rays of any of these other trouble spots? I had the chance and I said, “No. I think I’m okay.”

Oh well.

Then came the guy with the little cup. Could this experience be any more humiliating? I guess they have to make sure people aren’t high on crack before they send them off to surgery or the next round of tests. I didn’t think I had anything in me to get the job done, but it was at this moment that I was thankful I’d finished almost half of my tea. English Breakfast saves the day!

As soon as I handed my cup over to the technician, an x-ray guy pulled me aside and started positioning me for a series of photoshoots. I don’t think I’d been that posed and maneuvered for photos since an embarrassing family portrait at Sears years ago. Nevertheless, I persevered thru the x-rays, only to be told a few minutes later by my physician that she really didn’t even need to see the x-rays. It was a foregone conclusion. The x-rays only proved it. She pulled me aside and informed me in what can only be described as hushed tones that I had broken my jaw.

Despite my now four-hour ordeal, I can only describe the news as shock.

Honestly, I don’t know what I thought the outcome would be. Maybe that I’d simply dislocated it and a chiropractor or something would be on the way down to snap it back into place?

But upon hearing the news, I was suddenly in shock. She informed me that a specialist was on call and was on his way down and that I should just take a seat and wait.

“Okay,” I said numbly as I sat down on one of the four waiting chairs nearby. As I sat down, I was so much in shock that I turned to the guy next to me and quietly muttered, “I broke my jaw.” As if it were a question more than a statement of fact. I was just stunned. The guy looked at me and nodded in silence. But frankly, he didn’t seem too concerned. But why should he? He didn’t know me. He was just another guy who had something freaky happen to him that day that sent him to the emergency room. We were all a bunch of misfits. Broken people waiting. That would make a great name for a band, I thought. Broken People Waiting. I tried not to cry, but I just couldn’t help it. I started to sniffle.

And then, the specialist showed up.

At this point, may I say that two weeks later, my friend Nicole asked the question that every single New York gal wanted to know about my experience, “Did you get any cute doctors?”

Yes ladies, I did. As I was sitting there sniffling, scared and in pain---a REALLY cute doctor walked up and introduced himself.

Oh great.

First of all, let me explain that I have that pale, Eastern-European skin that, when I cry or even start to sniffle, does NOT make me look like Julia Roberts in a lovely dramatic moment. I simply turn red and blotchy. So there I am, red and blotchy, broken jaw, in such pain and fear that I haven’t even powdered my nose or re-applied my lipstick in almost five hours, and… The Big Finish: I now have about ten big black stitches in my chin that make me look like a fourteen year-old boy trying to grow his first goatee.

And I get Dr. McDreamy about my age and no ring on his finger. Great.

Honestly, I was too scared and in too much pain to even worry about anything other than what was about to happen to me. And what was about to happen?

My adorable doctor explained.

I broke my jaw. It was pretty serious. I had two options. They could try to re-set my jaw and I would be wired shut for six weeks or I could have surgery where they would go into my jaw and install a steel plate and a screw.

Frankly, none of these options sounded particularly appealing.

And no matter how cute the doctor, I had no idea what to do here. If ever there was a dilemma, this was it. Since neither option sounded very tempting, I simply started to sniffle again. Well, I realized was I doing more than sniffling when the tears started to fall down my stitched-up face. Getting even more red and blotchy.

“I don’t know what to do. This is the worst thing that has ever happened to me.”

Dr. Handsome gave me a little re-assuring pat on my arm.

“Well, that’s good. It’s going to be okay,” he kept telling me as the tears embarrassingly flowed down my broken face.

He discussed my options a little more in-depth, but I still wasn’t coming any closer to a decision. Wow. I had to make a decision.

If you ever break your jaw---well, first of all, my sympathies. I learned later, via a Google search, that it’s the worst bone in your body that you can break. Second, the doctors will explain it to you thusly:

Wired shut means exactly that. You will be eating out of a straw for six weeks. You’ll be able to talk, but you’ll look and sound like pretty much like a beginning ventriloquist. The problem there being that sometimes after six weeks, the bone doesn’t set properly and you have to go back in and they have to re-break the jaw and start all over again. That’s what’s behind Door Number One.

Door Number Two? Well, they make an incision right underneath the jaw. Occasionally, they have to make an incision alongside the ear, as well. They place the steel plate and screw inside, stitch you up and you’re done. You’ll be able to talk and open your mouth right away. You’ll be on mushy foods for a few weeks and have to do a little bit of home-based physical therapy to get things all working again. You might lose some feeling and movement in your face for a few weeks, but that’s normal and will eventually heal. Unfortunately, there’s a nerve right there where they do the work, and there is the possibly of nerve damage. It’s slight. VERY slight. They monitor the nerve throughout the surgery, but there is a slight risk of permanent damage.

So, what do you want to do?

I had no idea. All I could do was to sit there sniffling. I looked at my now cold cup of tea sitting next to my coat on the floor. I was going to have to check into the hospital. I had no overnight supplies. Sure I’d gone back home twice. But I’m not very good at things like Emergency Preparedness. I wish I were the type of person who actually had that “Go Bag” the government agencies are always telling you to have ready-at-hand. But I’m not. I’m a slightly quirky artist/waitress who can’t even leave for work early enough to make the train. Well, half of me is. I remain extremely proud of the fact that one-half of me was on that damn train.

But the tea? What was I thinking?

At the very least, I could have thrown some contact lens solution, deodorant, shampoo and a pair of clean underpants into my bag. But apparently it was more important that I have a cup of tea!

And what about my kitty? Sure, I filled her dish with cat food and gave her nice, fresh water before I left for work that day. But why didn’t I think to throw down an extra dish of food? Why didn’t I throw a few extra pellets into the bowl for my betta fish? All I could think about was that cup of tea!

I asked the handsome doctor for a moment to make a phone call to help me make a decision. He smiled and said that would be no problem and patted me again saying that he would give me a moment alone. One more re-assuring pat and this would’ve been the best date I’d had in months. Well, except for the pesky broken jaw thing.

I got out my cell phone and called the one person who’d had more slips and falls than any other person I know. She was also possibly the one person I knew who would always be there for me and always at home this time of day---my Aunt Joyce.

I turned on my phone and immediately realized one other horrible thing---I was almost out of battery power. Damn that cup of tea! You’d at least think that while the water was brewing I would have thought to grab my charger. Luckily, a couple of bars began to pop up.

I tried to sound as calm as possible when she picked up the phone. I started by apologizing for waking her up. Despite my pain and the obvious emergency, the Catholic Guilt thing always steps in. Then I quickly told her what happened. Re-assured her that I was being well taken care of and I now had a decision to make. She sounded half-asleep as she rendered her decision.

“Well, honey---you just listen to your doctors and do what they tell you to do.”

I guess it was going to be up to me. And the bottom line is, as much as I love to write---damn, I love to talk. I just couldn’t see myself barely able to open my mouth to speak for six whole weeks. Not only that, but I certainly couldn’t work during that time. Not as a waitress. Sure, most of the time you’re just walking back and forth. But at some point, someone’s going to ask you the soup of the day. And if it healed wrong? Well, I’d have to go in for the surgery anyway.

I made my choice. She told me that she would give my Mom a call at work and let her know what had happened, told me she loved me, and said to listen to my doctors and she’d call me in the morning.

A few moments later, I informed my good-looking doctor of my decision. I would do the surgery. However, despite my pain and fear, I kept thinking of the little things. How much food was in the cat food dish? Where was I going to put my contact lenses? And, while I was currently wearing a clean pair of underpants---what would I wear tomorrow? Without bringing up my underpants (after all, despite the re-assuring pats, we weren’t quite on a first name basis, yet) I asked my cute doctor if there was any way I could go home and come back. I’d only be about an hour.

“What do you need?”

It was all so stupid. I muttered something about my cat. My cell phone. I even got up the courage to let Dr. Perfect-Perfect know that I wore contact lenses. He re-assured me that I would be taken care of and that there would be a phone in my room. And surely I could call a friend about my cat. He certainly couldn’t recommend that I leave. And stressed that if I left, it would be against doctor’s orders. I have to admit, he looked extra cute when he was scolding. Well, doctor’s orders. The cat was just going to have to fend for herself.

The handsome doctor took me by the arm and led me to a chair. Under any other circumstances, this sentence would sparkle with the anticipation of wonder and romance. Unfortunately, the chair was a wheelchair. AARRRGGGGHHHH!!!!

The indignity of it all! There I sat. Broken. Confused. Scared of out of wits. And with tufts of black string growing out of my chin.

Then they told me to lie down on a gurney. My wonderful doctor gave my chart to the processing people, told me he’d be back to see me soon and gave me another little re-assuring pat.

“You’re going to be okay.”

He was really going to have to stop that.

A few minutes later, a nurse came by to get a blood sample and then came back to stick an IV thingy in my arm.

Could I have any more pieces of medical equipment jutting out of my body? This was certainly not attractive. And then my doctor came back.

“Now, I’ve scheduled you for surgery tomorrow,” he began to explain. The most important thing was that I get a lot of rest.

“I really want you to get some sleep tonight,” he wagged a finger at me. So cute!

“And you can’t have anything to eat or drink after midnight. So you’ve only got one hour left till then. Okay?”

“Okay,” I said softly. This shouldn’t be a problem. After all, how much could I eat with a broken jaw?

As he gave me another one of those pats, I suddenly realized something awful. I turned to him and said, “I’m sorry. But is there any way I could get a cup of tea?”

Stay tuned for Part Two!

The Rats, Pt. 3

If you are reading this and you work in a restaurant and you ever get rats in your restaurant---I will warn you now, you will NEVER get rid of them. They hunker down tighter than a rent control tenant.

A few weeks ago, a certain Broadway personality was dining in our restaurant when a rat literally dropped from the ceiling in the kitchen, jumped down onto the fire extinguisher, fell to the floor and raced out into the dining room. As the cooks and bus boys chased it thru the bar and into the dining area like a scene out of Ratatouille, this particular Broadway actress looked to our Assistant Manager.

“What’s going on? Is it a mouse?” she asked him.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said with a straight face.

She paused and then asked, “It’s a RAT?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he insisted.

“Well,” she shrugged like a true New Yorker, “the chicken was good.”

This particular rat got away. Sure, we’d hear about the occasional late-night or early morning sighting. But the General Manager seemed to be content to believe that the rats were gone. In fact, he really seemed to be sick of hearing about the rats.

You see, about eight months ago, he was given a promotion and sent over to our store to be the new General Manager. He was anxious to get started working on all his great corporate motivational ideas---like the sign he put up detailing the particular qualities that make for a great employee. The numbered list included revolutionary ideas like Knowledge of Your Job, Timeliness, Cleanliness---and was photocopied with the name of his previous restaurant simply crossed out and the name of our restaurant written in with a Sharpie. Guys like that want to start firing. They want to start their reign with a clean house. But nothing ruins the potential for a clean house more than rats. Before he could get rid of any of us, he would have to get rid of the rats.

Eight months later, he hadn’t been able to fire anyone. But boy was he itching to do some write-ups. Anything. Unfortunately, the rats kept coming back. After stacks and stacks of sheet metal were drilled into the walls, holes boarded up, nests cleaned out and things seemingly back to normal---he probably felt good. Felt confident that he could finally begin his reign of terror.

And then, just as he was starting to put up notices that had the air of the Nazi “Verboten!” signs…

A lady walked into the restaurant. I just happened to be standing near the front.

“Hi. Are you here for dinner or drinks?” I asked.

“I’m the Health Inspector,” she said as she flashed her badge. Apparently, I was told that they have to flash their badge. I think it’s a bit of overkill for someone who walks around with a thermometer as a weapon, but that’s just me.

Nevertheless, I quickly walked into the kitchen to get our GM.

“I’ve got bad news. The Health Inspector’s here.”

No words will send a restaurant into a tailspin faster than, “The Health Inspector’s here.”

Within seconds, counters were wiped down, sani-gloves were donned, hats were put on, raw meat put away---because the one good thing about a health inspection is that they give you a few minutes to prepare. As for myself, I quickly threw tongs into the bar tray, got rid of dirty dishes, wiped down the counters and immediately grabbed a red plastic bucket (known as a sani-bucket) and filled it with warm water and bleach. Every restaurant is supposed to have a sani-bucket out at all times. I’ve never worked in one that did. But the health inspectors demand to see one out---even if it’s never used.

An hour later, we got the word that we failed our Health Inspection. Failed Big Time. Nothing on the server side---thanks to my quick thinking. Give this girl a raise.

We were fined for a whole load of things the GM should have taken care of had he not been busy making signs telling us not to switch our shifts without permission and putting odd-shaped pieces of plexi-glass all over the place. Frankly, none of us understand the plexi-glass, but it seems to be an obsession with him.

The next day, he was royally chewed out by the higher-ups. His response---take it out on the staff. Little by little he began enforcing long-out-of-date rules and regulations that every GM before him had realized are both unreasonable and/or unworkable.

And then, the rats came back. And we’re due for a follow-up Health Inspection any day now.

Last week they were running between the kitchen and the bar playing some sort of rat game. And it was definitely more than one.

“One of them doesn’t have a tail,” a friend of mine explained. “He looks like a potato. We call him Potato.”

But it was Potato’s tail-enhanced friend who was running back and forth last Thursday night.

“You do realize,” I said to the Assistant Manager, “that he is running thru the kitchen at the exact same time the Health Inspector came in.”

He knew. We all knew. And we all knew that he would most likely try to run out into the dining room. Especially when we saw a group of ladies come in after the theatre. One elderly lady was in a wheelchair. The Assistant Manager and I just looked at each other and had the exact same thought. It’s like in those Laurel and Hardy movies when you see the guy with the gouty foot---you just know something is going to fall on his gouty foot.

And our keen eye for the inevitable just knew that the rat was going to run out right in front of this old woman and give her a heart attack. We did the only thing we could do---we positioned a dishwasher with a broom to stand at the kitchen entrance. A sentry, if you will. It was all we could do.

Luckily, the rat stayed in his hole that night. The Assistant Manager called the extermination company after close and begged them to come down.

“So, if a rat runs across the Health Inspector’s foot,” I asked him, “how many points is that?”

“I think we’re shut down.”

Honestly, it seems it’s all up to the Health Inspector. If they see rodent droppings, they certainly give you points. But if they see the real thing live and in-person? Well, it could mean curtains.

The GM, meanwhile, seems to think we’re all against him and are HOPING the place gets shut down. Where he gets this paranoid delusion, is anybody’s guess. After all, it’s not like getting a Snow Day. If we get shut down, we are all temporarily unemployed. But, as much as he likes to think he’s progressive, he’s certainly an old-school manager---the sort who thinks the employees are out to ruin everything and don’t care at all about the restaurant. Frankly, it’s not that we want to care. I certainly have other things I’d rather be investing my energy in other than a waitress job. But unfortunately, we have to care. And, as far as restaurants go, there are way worse places you could work. I know. I’ve worked in them.

The latest news on the rats came the other day. A bit of sad news.

“We got Potato. Early this morning.”

I was sad. But it’s them or us.

Meanwhile, we’re all starting to place bets on how long our GM will be around. I give it another two months, tops. After all, he’s the tenth GM we’ve had since I’ve been there. They never seem to last long. Only the rats remain.

Christmas Trees

Nothing depresses me more than the Curbside Christmas Trees. Every year, the week after New Years is like walking thru a Civil War battlefield. Dead trees litter the curbs as far as the eye can see. As if the holidays weren’t depressing enough…

I have a hard time with the Christmas tree thing to begin with. Don’t get me wrong---I love Christmas trees. Fresh, beautiful Christmas trees, bursting with pine scent, sparkling with lights and tinsel, and sprinkled with colorful ornaments full of memories and joy. They’re so wonderful---in other people’s homes.

In mine, not so much so.

The problem is me. I’m one of those Charlie Brown Christmas Tree People. I will invariably find the worst looking tree on the lot and drag it home. If there’s a tree that’s thin, scrawny and half dried out---that’s the tree that seems to speak to me.


Now, I’m perfectly aware that trees don’t have feelings and emo- tions. But, in my over-sensitive holiday frame of mind, I will give these trees more emotions than a character in a Made-For-Oxygen-TV-Movie.

To be honest, it’s embarrassing. I am a reasonable, commonsense person in every other aspect of my life. But put me on a Christmas tree lot, and I become a blithering idiot.

First of all, I have to go alone. Not only do few people understand my Christmas tree issues, but other people tend to discuss and evaluate the trees.

“This one looks scrawny. This one is ugly. This one doesn’t smell as nice as the other one.”

This will not be tolerated. Because in my deluded mind, the trees can hear this and will feel bad about themselves. After all, their only goal in life is to get picked and have the opportunity to spend Christmas in someone’s lovely home.

Second, as I will undoubtedly pick the worst tree on the lot, I don’t want anyone around who will laugh or make fun of the tree. There is no talking about the tree in front of the tree. All Christmas trees are beautiful. Even the tree I picked up a few years back. I spotted the poor little guy in the corner, half-hidden under some old pine roping and castaway bottom branches.

“How much for that tree over there?”

“Where? Over there? Oh, that’s not a tree. That’s just a bunch of old branches.”

“No. There’s a tree under there.”

Sure enough, there was. He dug it out and I took it home, decorated it and gave it The Best Christmas Ever.

And then, after New Years, the time came to take it out to the curb.

Now, I will admit something rather embarrassing---I have never been able to take a tree out to the trash without shedding a little tear.

Taking the ornaments off makes me sad. When the lights come off, I feel like I’m pulling the shoes off a corpse. And when the tinsel comes off---well, I might as well be pulling the gold fillings out of a dead man’s teeth.

And then come the goodbyes.

It’s humiliating. I once took a tree down with a friend and stood there talking to the tree like an idiot. Talking to plants is one thing---talking to a dried-up old pine tree… Well, it was possibly the least intelligent conversation of my life. Telling it what nice Christmas we had together. And thank you so much, little tree, for coming into my home. Now is the end of our journey together. You’re going off to a better place…. Sniff. Sniff.

Could anything be more pathetic?

Or borderline insane?

I don’t know what comes over me. I think it’s all the books I read as a kid---The Velveteen Rabbit and that sort of thing. And those goddamned Disney films that tugged at your heartstrings. And that tiny part of me that once believed that stuffed animals had human emotions boils up to the surface every Christmas.

It’s a real problem; because I really like Christmas trees.

I don’t care for artificial trees. And, living in a Manhattan apartment, there’s no place to store one anyway. I would definitely consider getting a living tree---but anything big enough to really hang some ornaments on would be too big to keep in the apartment year-round. The ideal situation would be to have a balcony and just drag the tree inside once a year. But so far the closest thing I’ve come to a balcony is my metal fire escape. And the FDNY tends to frown upon blocking the fire escape with a pine tree.


One year I had a great solution. I decided to build a wooden tree frame. Stay with me here…I built the frame out of plywood in the shape of a tree trunk with branches. Then, I painted it red and green. And then, I purchased pine roping and branches and tied them with string to the tree. It had all the wonderful pine scent of a real tree, without the emotional baggage. Brilliant!

The problem was, my woodworking skills were pretty non-existent. And the tree was prone to falling apart and collapsing. It was a real mess with all the lights and tinsel---not to mention a fire hazard. And with no water to sustain the life of the branches, they quickly dried up and left pine needles all over my rug.

Not only that, but in order to purchase the branches and pine roping, one has to visit a Christmas tree lot. Kind of defeats the purpose. And, of course, while there, I spotted a sad-looking tree that no one would ever take home---this time, not even me, as I had already built the frame. Poor little tree.

Since I’ve come out about my Christmas tree problem, I find that there are more and more people like myself. I’ve discovered that I’m not the only Charlie Brown Christmas Tree-Buyer in the world. And, like any other support group, once we start opening up, we all feel better about it.

Today I Googled “anthropomorphism”---the delegation of human feelings to animals, plants and non-living objects. Apparently, there have been studies done on just this subject. Some genius scientist was able to get a grant to study idiots like me who give human emotions to Christmas trees.

The result? Well, basically they discovered that people like me have empathy for other beings. We recog- nize that other living creatures might feel pain. And, according to this study, that’s a good thing. We're compassionate people.

Of course, the study was pretty broad. It covered animals, plants, rocks---pretty much anything. Just sort of lumped it all together.

But do I feel the same way about cut flowers? Or broccoli? No. But, for some reason, the Christmas tree gets me every time.

Although, I will admit that at the wrong time of the month, I could probably ascribe human emotions to a pot holder.

However, this week is definitely the worst of all. I’m forced to see the piles of the dead lying at the side of the curb. Unloved. Used-up. And dropped on the side of the road. At least an abandoned animal has a chance. It can fend for itself for a bit and hopefully find someone nice who will take it in. Who’s going to take in a dried up old tree?

No one but the mulch guys.

They come by once every few days to pick up the dead and toss them into the back of a truck---like those medieval guys with the wooden carts picking up bodies after The Plague.

So today, I went out with my camera and walked around Manhattan taking pictures of old trees. This has become my project for the next few days. I’m like Matthew Brady---only my battlefields are the curbs of Manhattan and my daguerreotypes are digital.

In this way, I’m able to distance myself from the dead. Like a reporter in a war zone. Today one of my fellow Charlie Brown Christmas Tree friends marveled at my ability to get out there and document the situation on the ground.

“Do you ever get used to it?” he asked.

I took a reporter’s thoughtful pause, felt a lump in the back of my throat and softly replied, “No. You never do.”

Bengali Cooking

Some people think that Muslims don’t have a sense of humor. But nothing makes my Muslim friends laugh more than my appreciation of the Holy Month of Ramadan.

No, I am not a Muslim. I was raised Catholic. But I love Ramadan.

For those of you not familiar with Ramadan, it basically involves a month of prayers and fasting. And the fasting is pretty intense---no eating, drinking, smoking or sex from sunrise to sundown. It is all about personal discipline, obedience and being a good Muslim.

For me, it’s all about delicious Indian food.

You see, I work with quite a few Muslims. Most of them from Bangladesh. And all of them very nice and generous with their nightly feast---a community meal fondly referred to as Iftar. All of them are men. And all of them have wonderful mothers and/or wives who spend all day in the kitchen preparing glorious curried dishes that their husbands and/or sons pack up in Tupperware and bring into work to eat at the breaking of the fast. This year, Ramadan started around 7:00pm New York City time.

A few minutes before the appointed hour, the smell of curry and spice wafts out of the microwave and thru the kitchen of our otherwise American-themed restaurant. All of the Muslims working that night begin to scurry around the kitchen---opening Tupperware containers, setting the table, and chopping vegetables for the salad---the Middle Eastern version that involves no lettuce, but lots of chopped tomatoes, cucumbers, onions and the dressing a mixture of freshly squeezed lemon and spices. While this nightly ritual goes on, they begin to call the Iftar to my attention. Because somehow, I have become a part of their Ramadan.

My Ramadan feasting began a few years ago. One of the bus boys was eating his Ramadan feast alone in the kitchen. I made an innocent comment about the Indian food looking tasty, and next thing I knew, I had a huge plate of rice, goat meat, bread and some sort of coconut dessert in front of me. Sure, I’d eaten Indian food plenty of times before. But this was different. This was the equivalent of somebody’s Mom’s pot roast. It was amazing.

Last year, I noticed plates of Indian food suddenly beginning to appear before me.

“Is it Ramadan?” I asked with glee.

“Yes,” one of the bus boys replied, “Enjoy.”

Enjoy I did. Thank you Allah.

Of course, the Catholic guilt immediately began to creep thru. After all, they’ve been fasting all day. They haven’t even had a sip of water. And here I am eating their dinner. Don’t think I didn’t try to refuse. I’m nothing if not polite. But the Bengali’s explained to me that Allah gave them extra blessings for sharing their food. And there sure was a lot of rice and chicken curry. Well, okay. Twist my arm.

This year, I was immediately included in their Ramadan feast. There was always an extra plate and an extra chair. And all of my little Muslim boys immediately called me over to join in their feast. They know there’s no hope of converting me. They’ve heard me spout too much feminist propaganda to even try. And there’s no talk of Allah or The Koran. Only a discussion of how wonderful the food is. How delicious the feast. They do take the time to explain all the dishes and how they’re prepared. They also answer my questions about the holiday and the particular peppers used in the chick peas. And, for a few moments every night, I’m eating in the best Indian restaurant in town.

For those of you in parts of the country without a significant Muslim population, may I say---I feel sorry for you. I really do. The stereo-typical view of the Muslim as serious and brooding, is not what I know. In fact, I’ve never seen grown men giggle as much as these fellas do. Seriously. Giggle. My friend Kabir has the cutest laugh you’ve ever heard. And he giggles at virtually everything. If anyone ever pulled him aside at an airport, he’d probably start giggling. They wouldn’t know if he was an uncomfortable terrorist or just ticklish.

They all laugh constantly. Maybe it’s because they’re from Bangladesh. It’s not exactly Saudi Arabia over there. But here they are, fasting all day, and it’s 6:30 and they’re starving and they’re laughing their asses off watching me trying to interpret the Ramadan calendar---a chart listing all the dates and local times for each part of the fast.

“So, Iftar is the meal---and after that it says it’s time for Isha. What’s Isha? Dessert?”

Oh, how they laughed. Apparently, Isha is more prayers. They found this extremely amusing.

So this year, for Christmas, one of my managers gave me a copy of a book called “Bengali Cooking”. And, once again, the Bengalis laughed. Though they certainly don’t doubt my cooking abilities. A few times, during Ramadan, I even brought in a few dishes of my own. Of course, the meat thing’s a little difficult. Especially during Ramadan---it really should be halal. But I haven’t the slightest idea where one goes to buy halal meat. Instead, I opted for vegetarian dishes. I made one with couscous, zucchini and an apricot chutney that went over well. They also enjoyed my spicy green beans. And coconut macaroons are always a hit. After all, blessings from Allah or not---I just didn’t feel right eating all their delicious food.

And it’s amazing! I told the Bengalis that if they opened up a restaurant and sold this food---they would make a million dollars. It’s really that good. My favorite dish is the chick peas. The Bengali chick peas are slightly different from your standard garbanzo beans. They’re darker in color and about a third of the size. They even wrote the recipe down for me. It’s so simple. A little onion, a little pepper and some spices. Mmmm. I could eat it everyday. And all the curried rice and the thin breads that seem to be practically fried in something resembling a flavored lard---yeah, I know, lard doesn’t sound appetizing, but just think what it does to a pie crust.

At work tonight, I began skimming thru the Bengali cookbook---which is more than just a cookbook, but also a history of the country and its dishes. The author immediately explains that Bengali cooking is never really found in restaurants---why? Because, for Bengalis, it’s considered simple fare. It’s the sort of thing that is best served in the home. Something that involves love and care. Not the slapdash way food is generally prepared in restaurants. It needs time. And, according to the author, Chitrita Banerji, even restaurants in West Bengal and Bangladesh generally serve your standard Northern Indian dishes.

Bengali food, she explains, “…is not easy to reproduce on a mass scale, nor does it maintain its nuanced flavors after repeated heating or long hours in storage.” She also party blames the Bengalis themselves, for not realizing that the simplest dishes, tried and perfected over centuries, are suitable for more than just their daily meals. According to Ms. Banerji, they would never dream of serving their simple meals to guests---whether in their home or in a restaurant. It just wouldn’t be fancy enough.

As I skimmed thru the book tonight, I began asking questions. They were particularly helpful when it came to the hilsa---a fish. They were all eager to remind me that hilsa is The National Fish. If you mention hilsa, this is the first thing they will all say, “It is our National Fish!” This seems to be something they are extremely proud of---their National Fish. I’ve heard of the phrase “National Dish”, but never “National Fish”. If other countries have a National Fish, I don’t think any of them are as proud of their fish as the people of Bangladesh.

I hear about this damn fish all the time. In fact, I actually tried the National Fish this past Ramadan. It was good. It was fish---what can I say? It did have a lot of tiny bones you have to be careful to pick out---a fact they reminded me of this evening, should I attempt to cook their National Fish.

Frankly, I have no more idea where to get the National Fish than I have of where to pick up a case of halal meat. But I suppose I could give it a try.

“But be very careful,” they warned. “You have to cook the fish. Not like in American where you don’t cook the fish all the way. You must cook this fish properly, or it will make you sick.”

Maybe I’ll stick with the chick peas for a while. But I will definitely be making a trip to the Indian groceries in Jackson Heights soon.

The Rats, Pt. 2

Yes, once again, we have rats in our restaurant.

For awhile, they appeared to be gone. At first, no one believed the General Manager’s pronouncement that we were now “rat-free”---perhaps because he’d made the announcement at least seven times before. In fact, no sooner would he announce a “rat-free zone” than one would scurry out from under the prep area. He was the manager who cried “No Wolf”.

However, after two weeks of not even a telltale sign, everyone on staff seemed satisfied that we were indeed “rat-free”. Yes, there had been causalities---although no one but me seemed to feel bad for the little guys. But mostly it was the sheet metal that seemed to do the trick. Lots and lots of sheet metal. One wall in the basement was entirely covered in sheet metal. Extra boards were nailed onto baseboards, holes were plugged up with everything from steel wool to a spray-foam, and every nest was cleaned out, boarded up and shut down for rat business.

Personally, I spent several hours online looking for ways to get rid of the rats without harming them. I even went so far as to spend twenty dollars on bobcat urine. Yes, dried, crystallized, bobcat urine. The online testimonials were fantastic. Apparently, the rats smell the bobcat urine, sense that there’s a large predator nearby, and quickly leave the area. My manager looked at me funny when I walked into work with a jar of bobcat urine, but agreed to give it a try. However, it seems that New York City rats have not seen a bobcat in about 200 generations. I might as well have sprinkled dinosaur urine around the place.

Around Halloween, we joked about getting an owl. We could just put it on a pedestal and if customers asked why there was an owl in the dining room, we could just say it was a Halloween decoration. The General Manager laughed a bit, but he seemed to be getting sick of hearing about the rats. In fact, we all sensed that he possibly wanted to do some firing. However, when you have rats, it’s kind of difficult to fire your staff. You just know the first place they’re calling is the City Board of Health.

But sometime, shortly after Halloween, the rats suddenly disappeared.

I have to say, I kind of missed the little guys. Well, not really. But the place did seem kind of empty without the rats. They’d kind of become a part of our day. Something to take the monotony out of restaurant life. Oh, we all had so many rat stories to reminisce about: The time one of the rats dropped from the ceiling and landed on the manager. Then there was the time one of the cooks came in in the morning and a rat was sleeping on top of a bin of dried mashed potatoes. Then there was the time one of the rats was still awake in the morning and the cook came in and saw the rat just walking around the kitchen. The rat saw him, then kind of looked like he went, “Oh geez, is it eight o’clock already? Ooops. Time to go to bed.” And then just casually sauntered off with a little wobble like Fred Sanford.

No matter what we did, the rats just kept coming. We seriously began to wonder if every week, someone wasn’t dropping off a bag o’ rats. In fact, Bag O’ Rats quickly became our favorite catch phrase.

Oh, we have dozens of rat stories. One of my personal favorites was the time a rat ran into the dining room during the dinner rush. We saw it, but none of the customers seemed to notice. I motioned to our manager, letting him know there was a rat in the dining room.

“Where?”

“Right there----under table 28.”

Luckily, I’d learned how to think like a rat. “Look,” I explained, “the rat has a nest downstairs and he’s just trying to get back to his nest. If we open the basement door, the rat will try to run against the wall and sneak downstairs.”

“But there are people sitting at the tables against that wall.”

“The rat will run against the wall and unless he screws up and runs across their feet, we should be okay.”

He quickly ran over and casually opened the basement door. Then we waited. A few moments later we watched the rat slowly make his way underneath the tables where people were obliviously having dinner. Ladies in expensive designer dresses nibbling on their Caesar salads before going to see a Broadway show---completely unaware that a rat was crawling at their feet. One of the Bangladeshi bus boys noticed the manager and myself standing there trying to act casual.

“What’s going on?” he asked.

With customers within earshot, I simply muttered the magic word---“Edu.”

“Oh, Edu,” he said knowingly. I think it’s safe to say that the nearby family of four from Ohio did not know the Bengali word for “rat”. And then another Bengali bus boy walked up to the first one. I heard the first one say “Edu”. And next thing you know, the entire Bengali bus staff was clustered around each other, muttering “Edu” and staring at the tables against the wall.

“Hey, you guys---stop staring. They’re going to figure out something’s wrong.” Whether you speak Bengali or not---when five Bengalis are all staring at you, it’s safe to say something’s up.

Within a few seconds, the Bengali huddle broke up with them all snickering and muttering about Edu. And moments later, Edu made his way, undetected, down the basement stairs and crawled into his nest. Tragedy averted.

Needless to say, after two weeks with no sign of Edu, we all breathed a sigh of relief. And then, as we exhaled, someone said, “I smell dead rat.”

We all began to sniff.

“Do you smell that?” one of the bartenders asked.

Apparently, one had died somewhere behind the bar. The bartenders were pissed. And then, we began to smell something in the dining room.

“What’s that smell?” one of the waitresses asked. “That’s awful.”

Booths were pulled out, tables overturned, all miscellaneous furniture was moved and looked behind, under, inside, everywhere. Even the dishwasher---notorious for fixing, finding, or taking care of any problem with anything---could not find the dead rat.

You didn’t always smell it. Sometimes, you would be going thru your day like nothing was wrong. Everything nice and rosy. And then you’d breathe in and catch a whiff.

“Someone has to do something about that dead rat.”

The manager went out and bought a can of air freshener. So now it smelled like gardenia and dead rat. It was not pleasant.

Eventually, the smell went away. The dead rat’s still there---buried somewhere in the wall or inside the heating vents. Who knows? But at least the smell was gone.

And then, once the smell disappeared, the rats came back. It started on a Friday night. I wasn’t there, but the girl at work who is the most terrified of the rats was leaving for the night. She left her bag in the back room and as she went to retrieve it, saw a rat scurry across the room.

The next day, around ten o’clock that night, the same girl was in the hallway ringing up some items at the register when I looked at the floor and saw a rat scurry up right next to her foot.

She’s terrified of rats. So terrified in fact that she swore that if one ever got close to her, she’d probably have a heart attack and told me that if she died, I would have to take care of her daughter. And, frankly, her six-year old daughter is kind of a shitty kid. I took a heavy step towards her to frighten the rat and watched it run in front of her foot and into a corner about a foot away. I called her name and she looked over.

“Hey,” I said casually, “come here.”

“What? Why?” she asked as she stood there with her notepad.

I grabbed her arm lightly and said, “Just come over here.”

She immediately guessed what was going on and jumped straight up in the air, let out a stifled scream and ran away from the register. “Where is it? Where?”

“There it goes!” I whispered with intensity as the rat took off into the side dining room. One of the bus boys noticed the commotion and walked over.

“Edu.” I explained, and nodded my head discreetly towards the empty side dining room. I quickly ran to the kitchen and grabbed a huge trash can. The bus boy grabbed a broom.

“Oh no, “I said as I pointed to his broom. “Don’t hurt the rat.”

I spotted the rat in the proverbial corner and quickly placed the trash can in front of the rat. I told the bus boy to go behind the rat and try to sweep him into the trash can. The rat would most likely run into the dark trash can and then I could scoop it up, quickly close the plastic bag with my hands, take the trash can outside and release the rat. At this point, not one customer had even noticed.

Unfortunately, the bus boy either didn’t understand my English instructions (I really need to learn more Bengali) or decided to take matters in his own hands. Next thing I know, I’m in front of the trash can and he’s behind it and the rat is screaming. I mean SCREAMING. “Don’t hurt it!” I cried out.

At this point, he appeared to have stopped doing whatever he was doing, but the rat continued to scream bloody murder. Then the rat ran off. Another Bengali spotted it behind a podium and grabbed his own broom. I don’t think he even touched it, but the rat must have gotten caught on something and started screaming again. By this time, six Bengalis were on the case and were yelling things in Bengali I couldn’t even begin to understand. I couldn’t stop them. I felt bad for the rat, started to cry, and walked away. Whatever they were doing, I couldn’t watch.

And, may I say---I was discreet. The Bengalis---not so much so. They don’t seem to realize that trying to kill a rat in front of customers is not such a good thing. By now, a party of six in the bar and my party of two at a nearby table are onto us. As I walked away with tears in my eyes, the young couple at the nearby table asked, “Are they trying to kill it?”

“I think so,” I sputtered as I felt my face getting red. “I can’t watch. I tried to save it, but… It makes me too sad.”

They seemed to understand my feelings towards the rat. They seemed like nice people. And it felt good to be so candid with them. I’d been lying to customers for months. I felt free. Open. Honest.

“I’m sorry,” the guy replied. “It’s a little mouse, isn’t it?”

“Yeah,” I replied without even missing a beat. “It’s a mouse.”

The rat got away safely.

After several months with the rats, we now realize that they’re eligible for the union. And once they’re in the union, you can never get rid of them.

If we can't laugh about the rats, we'll all go a little crazy.

We’re not infested, like before. But every so often, one of the little guys pops out to brighten our day. This year, I even made a Christmas card for the staff. On the front, a drawing of a bunch of happy rats decorating a Christmas tree. And beneath the picture, it reads, “From all of us to all of you…” Inside, it says, “Have a Very Merry Christmas. Love, The Rats.”

Of course, we can’t put this on the bulletin board with the rest of the Christmas cards from the produce distributers, the former employees and the pickle delivery guys. But it was passed around discreetly at the company Christmas party. As the big wigs sat around feasting on lobster tail and prime rib, getting drunk on expensive liqueurs at the open bar, and watching us all clean up their cocktail napkins filled with shrimp tails and empty skewers---it was fun for us to imagine their happy little party broken up when someone opened up the latest Bag O’ Rats. Unfortunately, the rats were a no-show.

The morning after the company party, one of the cooks found a rat sleeping on top of the refrigerator.