The fall air is frigid against my scalp; it feels like an eternity has passed since I shaved my head, but then again, everything before Hurricane Sandy feels like a lifetime ago. Before the hurricane, I’d been reading a lot about rats: how they came to New York on the ships, killed one another for dominance, and adapted to the city’s infrastructure to the degree that they’ve thrived in and even overrun some parts of city. Before Sandy, most of my “research” was studying them from a distance, from subway platforms and park benches with my legs pulled up to my chest. But when Manhattan lost power, we were all in the dark together and the differences began to fall away.
Rats and humans split from common ancestors 75 million years ago, and although one took to the trees and the other took to the ground, the two groups share more of a common evolution than almost every other type of mammal, having survived dinosaurs, continental drifts and ice ages. In short, we’re survivors. It’s in our genetic code to thrive.
I lasted in the dark for about a day before fleeing the borough, returning to Chelsea after the waters had receded. As I walked across the Brooklyn Bridge, I certainly felt rat-like: filthy in my recycled clothes, belly full of food and drink, my very being carrying a presence as reprehensible as the bubonic plague. According to a New York Times article, my fears of the hurricane forcing up rats like earthworms after a rainstorm were founded, at least partially: “Pedestrians and bicyclists have reported seeing clusters of dead rats in Riverside Park and isolated victims on the bike path that runs along the West Side Highway.”
On my way there, I stopped by the Arnhold Hall/New School refugee camp to grab a bagel, and ran into one of my suitemates, Will, who was charging his laptop on his way out of town. Giving me the butt of his cold coffee, he described how things at the 20th Street dorm had devolved into a “Shining” situation. I grabbed a free turkey sandwich, and walked to Hudson River Park, deciding to take my chances against piles of dead rats, rather than going back home.
By the time I had arrived, there were no rats to be found by the piers. On the contrary, the sidewalks were empty, save a few employees throwing out goods that the flood waters had ruined: from waterlogged cardboard boxes and gym mats to bottles of wine. Seizing on an opportunity, I grabbed a box, packed up seven bottles of wine (six red, one white) and went back to my room.
As I expected, the room stunk, either from the fridge filled with rotten food, or the window propped open with my dirty sock, which still smelled like the Hudson River. Silently, I wrapped the bottles of wine in my clothes and packed my leather doctor’s bag. Should I have told my still-sleeping roommate about the cache of wine to be had, just blocks away, [so he might be able to take a warm shower and charge his phone,] or at least left him a bottle of wine? Probably. But as I walked back over the Brooklyn Bridge, sweating in the cold gusts coming off the water, I realized, fuck it — I’m a rat.
And you know what? I’m okay with that.