Mickey, Pinky and Jerry

I have waged war with rodents in both of the apartments where I've lived here. This is much less a testament to my own cleanliness as it is to the ago of the buildings where I've lived, and in the second case the oversight of the contractors who redid my kitchen. I was one of the first two tenant to live in my brownstone after a fire. As a result almost all of the walls had to be replaced.

The fellows who did my kitchen, anticipating the installation of a gas stove left a 12 by 12 hole in the kitchen wall for a 4X4 valve, which meant that it was only a matter of time before critters found their way through the neighboring wall and into my life. As I didn't grow up having to deal with rodents (though living in a basement apartment roaches were a slightly different story) I suddenly found myself at war with creature who were faster, more agile and, according to zoologists, almost as smart as I was. But folks who know me know that I don't like to lose.

I trapped, poisoned, stomped, bleached and hit one with a knife until they knew I meant business. Then, on the advice of seasoned veterans, I plugged all the holes with steel wool an considered myself to be totally and completely safe...until a few nights ago.

Much like an incident in my Pop's first house years ago, I got up to make a sandwich one morning to find a hole clear through my entire loaf of bread. And that was when I knew. Remembering how good of a job I had done plugging that hole behind the stove I knew it couldn't have been there. So I went back through all the other holes, filling cracks and crevices, reassuring myself that there was no way they were every coming back from the dive house next door. But as I was on the phone last night, I came into the kitchen to find a little homie chillin on top of my toaster (the only thing in the house I couldn't sufficiently bleach down. I jump. He jumps. And it's on again. But nowhere near like the last time. Turns out they had eaten the drywall around the steel wool to give themselves another space to squeeze through. So after midnight I was back there with rubbed gloves on, sweatpants tucked into my boots, stuffing steel wool into my kitchen wall again. And now I'm waiting...just in case I have to do it all over again.

Years ago I read a piece in the now defunct George magazine where it was explained that at any given time there are as many rats in this town as there are people and that every exterminator in town knows that they're fighting a losing battle. My godmother told me that there are certain sections of Bed-Stuy where the rats actually feed on stray cats. That's scary. I'll never forget the one night that I came home years ago to find a pregnant one sitting on my stoop, not even moving, as if she wanted to welcome me home. I picked up a loose piece of plywood and stomped on her. Sometimes you gotta make an example to keep the rest of the brutes in line.

This brings me to sunny point number two about my current housing arrangements. I have been in the same place for going on seven years, which is saying something in a town where most of my friends have moved once every few years. The roof is starting to have issues and my new neighbors (There are five of them including a toddler living in a one-room apartment) have conversations at a volume so loud that I can hear nearly every word at every hour of the day. But my rent is so cheap. And I like the neighborhood. And I told myself that the next time I moved it was going to be something I owned. So I'm going to try and ride it out. It's either that or get ready to drop 1200 a month on a studio. And that ain't happenin'. I got into Bed-Stuy before it was cool to live there and now I ain't leavin' until somebody makes me. Out.