Th' Christmas Rat: Part I

Hallo, cher, this is Miz Gator Ethel Thibodeaux here with a heartwarmen Christmas tale that's true mostly, which parts exackly I no longer remember, but they's truth in what I say, if not always in how I say it. But you been polen yore Cajun ass away in th' joints I've worked over the past thirty years, it's almost been, an' you forgive youself the details you forgotten. Now Whiski Rae got herself outta th' business in time to salvage that smart mind a hers, thank God! That is one sharp femme, a premier proctodermatologist, I think I got the spellen right, my protege one time an' now our roles is reversed, ever since I agreed to spend most a the year up North at th' Balzac Institute a Partial Recovery, where I am chief cook an' menu planner an' she is co-director with that wild man a hers, Dusty. But if you read this blog (and God bless you if you aint been spenden yore time better an' wiser) you know all this already. So, to the story of th' Christmas rat.

I was fresh outta th' bayou back in th' late 1970s when I ran away from my family such as they were. Now I aint about to tell you a sob story about my life growen up with the dumbest group of scumbag dirtball cockroaches ever the swamp spit up then swallowed again, though they was all that an' less. Uncles married to cousins who birthed they own grandmas. A kidnapper so dumb he put a ransom out on his own head, then cut off his fingers an' toes an' mailed it to hisself as a warnen against what? Suicide? My mother meaner than a stuck wild pig, an' longer tusks, too. My dad th' drunkest man in Louisiana, he was even born drunk thanks to my grandma, who then bottle fed him malt liquor mixed with molasses for th' first several years a his life. Weighed over two hundred pounds by the end a his five years in third grade! Time I left th' swamp the sugar beetus shrunk him down from a top weight a four hundred pounds to less than a quarter a that. Nickname a Cornstalk at th' time a his death. Ma danced on his grave then married Dad's own sister's mother-in-law's niece's stepson. Meaning her half-brother. Held th' ceremony right at th' funeral. Voodoo priestess officiaten. I aint seen none a them since that time. Whole goddamn mess a nutjobs.

So I snuck away after th' wedden an' made my way to th' Crescent City. I'd hardly been to a town before, so to see this fabled city for th' first time was a treat beyond compare. I might as well landed on Mars it was so unusual to see all them people, especially ones with teeth that closed flush with each other. My God but the variety of persons I saw was amazen as well: peoples of all colors an' races an' about five or six different sexes when I thought they was at most 2 1/2. I saw Cajuns like me staggeren around mouths draggen open like they was inviten a pigeon to lay her eggs in the hole, an' jazz musicians a all hues standen in the streets tooten they horns an' fiddlen they fiddles an' dancen an' singen an' bangen spoons on they knees an' strummen banjos an' guitars an' some magick men with card tricks to cheat you outta money an' a legless gent with a shaved head who owned a little monkey he kept on a leash, that monkey was dressed in sparkly finery and he had a little lasso he twirled over his hairy ape skull. Throwed the loop at crickets, mice, june bugs whatever strolled by. Caught them more often than not--includen somethen that monkey and Mr. No Legs came to regret: a big ole sewer rat about th' size of a lamb.

I aint kidden you neither. I was maybe fifteen, an' it was December the week before Christmas an' I was hungry an' cranky an' wet an' scared. Not scared like I couldn't take care a myself, for what else had I done since Mama pulled her nipple outta my mouth when I was six years old? But scared cause I'd hardly ever been to school an' I didn't really have any city work skills. Now, they need someone to kill a nutria with a thrown rock at twenty paces, or tame a cottonmouth down to chase it outta yore skiff, or dive deep into th' swamp waters to catch a snappen turkle for supper, or gut rub a gator an' put him to sleep, or brew up some Bayou Booze so powerful you numb yore tongue for a week just sippen a little a it, or take out a pendicks from yore little brother when it's just about to explode, then I was the girl for them. But so far in my week in New Orleans, sleepen on a bench in Jackson Square in front a that big goddamn church, the lights shinen on it throughout the night so bright I had to pull a bag over my head, nobody asked me to do none a those things, cher, no way. A few men wanted sick favors from me but once they saw the sawed off ten gauge double barrelled shotgun that hung round my neck from a lanyard and was hidden under my coat, they backed away fast. Not that I couldn't a torn them in two just with my fingers. Like I'd never had to do that to some randy old buck before! I knew how to keep myself safe from twelve foot gators, after all. Some horndog with the syph an' the clap wasn't no challenge to me.

But seen that roped rat made me feel vulnerable. The noleg man yelled at his monkey to let it go. "Beauregard, drop the lariat! Boy! Let him loose!" But th' little monkey seemed to think it was a game, he chattered away an' hopped up an' down an' peed himself he was so thrilled, I could see the dark seep in the crotch a his fancy pants. The rat, as I said, was huge! An' he was an albino, so as I said he seemed like a little lamb to me, only not very gentle. Now rats they dont usually bother me, we kept them for pets as kids, as dogs an' cats dont last in th' swamp, as they's dumber than the natural critters that tend to see a meal they see Rover or Fluff. This rat was twice th' size a most bayou rats, which I suspect had to do with all that fine food the Big Easy's known for, you just know you walk by trash bags outside a restaurants they bound to be full a munchen rodents. An' I could see by th' way he set his eyes on that monkey an' tensed his hindquarters he was about to pounce an' kill th' fellow. Eat him, probably, for rats aint choosy.

So I stepped in. No, not with my ten gauge, either. The rat sprung, the man cried "No!" The monkey shit himself. I snaked a hand out an' grabbed that rat by the tail. Must a weighed a good eight, ten pounds, too, he did. I gave the rat a few swings around my head, the monkey as well, he was either too scared or too dumb to drop his lasso. But this is the way we put babies to sleep in th' swamp, singen a lullaby to them while they's twirled. Such as I sung:

Twirl, baby, twirl.
Twirl yoreself to sleep.
Spin an' swing around
an' round.
Spin yoreself to sleep.
Dont puke while you do whirl,
Just whirl yoreself to sleep.
Dont wake up till my bottle's drunk,
An' I've drunk myself to sleep.

Bye and bye both animals stopped they strugglen an' I layed them down at th' feet—excuse me, the stumps—a the man, who introduced himself as Professor Dandelion Horatio Longacre, IV. I looked at him an' said since he obviously was fibben me—no way he weren't some fool by th' name a Robideaux or LeBoeuf—I'd just call him Dandy. He said fine.

But I did soften to him some as I watched him cradle his monkey an' stroke its head an' coo to it. Meanwhile I kept an eye on th' rat an' cinched the lasso tight around its neck an' looped the cord around its legs to hobble it. An', yes, I found myself scratching it behind its ears an' smoothen its coat down an' flicken fleas off a its back. An' he sneezed an' opened his eyes an' stared at me a little nervous first until I hummed the lullaby to it an' fed him a boiled crawfish I found in th' gutter. He chewed it carefully an' flashed me a little rat grin. I knew then we was gonna be tight.

"Chazz," I said softly.

"Pardon?" This from Dandy.

"I'm callen my rat Chazz. After my favorite brother."

"Yore rat?"

"Yes."

"Okay," he said. "Just dont let him kill my monkey. I paid lots a money for him. We performen on th' streets a this town for over three years."

"You do well?"

"It's a liven. Cops watch out for me."

"You got a home?"

"A shed back a this builden, in th' alley, all the home I need."

I stood up an' looked where he pointed an' saw an old rusted dumpster turned upside down with a door an' a couple a windows hacked outta the metal. "That's where you live?"

"Yeah," he said, an edge to his voice. "Where you liven?"

I swept my hand back an' forth.

"So you on the street?"

"For now. How'd you lose your legs? Or didn't you ever have any?"

"I did. A German 88 millimeter shell tore through my tank in Belgium duren World War II an' took my legs with it."

"I'm sorry. How'd you live?"

"The cold froze the bleeden vessels shut until a medic found me."

"Did it hurt?"

"No."

"Really?"

"Course it hurt, but it don't now."

"Well, I guess that's good. I suppose I should be getten on now."

"You got an appointment somewhere?"

"You know I dont."

"Then wait here an' have supper with me. The restaurant owner feeds me an' th' monkey every night."

"That's nice a him. Why's he do that?"

"He fought in the war, too."

"He was yore buddy then?"

"Not exactly. He served in th' German army. For all I know, he might a been shooten at me."

"You think?"

"I dont, but it's possible. We were in th' same area at th' same time."

"An' now you friends?"

"An' now we friends. Here, give me a little tug so I can wheel over back a th' alley to the restaurant's kitchen door. He let's me eat inside."

"I can go inside with you?"

"I dont see why not."

"What about Chazz?"

"Hell, long as you keep him on you, I dont think Klaus would care. They's rats in every restaurant in th' Quarter, includen th' fancy ones."

So that's how I come to meet Dandy, his monkey, Captain Crocker, the restaurant owner, Klaus von Reinkampf, and how Chazz an' me came to play big roles in th' Christmas paegant Dandy put on every year in Jackson Square—except never after the one Chazz an' I was in. More a' that story to come later, cher.