My Thousand Angels
If there’s one thing you should know about me, it’s that I’ve always, always been blessed. It all started thanks to my grandma, my first guardian angel. She’d pray with me every night before bed. She’d kneel beside me and ask the lord to watch over us, reciting El Padre Nuestro every night. I never learned how to speak Spanish, but I knew every word by heart—I still know it to this day—I still do it every night. A few years later, when I was all grown up, when she got cancer, I’d be the one kneeling down beside her, spending every night in the hospital, counting the beads of a rosary together.
She died in the Spring of ‘08, swooping up to heaven with the angels. I was a custodian working evening shifts at the Morningside Heights campus at Columbia University. I cleaned Schermerhorn Hall every night, coming home smelling like bleach and nitrile gloves, just how grandma used to smell, like hospital.
Every Summer, they’d offer some extra shifts for the custodians to take care of the Psychology Department’s rat colony, used for research and behavioral training. I wouldn’t say no to some extra cash, so I took the job and handled the rats; feeding them, changing their water, helping with enrichment—that’s fifteen minutes of daily playtime—so they get used to being around humans. I always liked the female rats a little more. They never nipped at my fingers when I’d pick them up by their tails.
When the school year started, they kept me on a little longer to assist with a few experiments. I never really understood what it was all about—something about calcium and their taste buds. I’d just watch them through the one-sided glass panels while I mopped, hoping the researchers weren’t hurting my rats—my babies.
By the end of the semester, I’d named all of them. There was Chester, Chuckie, Caesar, Papa John, and Big Cheese; those were my boys. And below them lived Pebbles, Rosie, Sweetie, Shortcake, and Lourdes, my favorite, whom I named after my grandma; those were my girls. I always stayed later than I needed, looking for excuses and things to clean. I didn’t want to go home. The colony room felt like the only place in the world where the smell of hospital wouldn’t follow me around like a ghost. It smelled like wood shavings and Corn Flakes.
One night, while I was filling the cages with fresh shavings for the weekend, I overheard the Animal Coordinator speaking with the incoming teaching assistant. He was talking about flying in a fresh shipment of young rats from upstate New York for an intro-level course. I snuck closer and heard him explain how they’d replace the old rats with new baby rats since these were already comfortable with strangers. I heard him talk about a CO2 chamber and how they’d euthanize the rats over the weekend to make room for the new ones. I heard him reassure the student that they usually fall asleep, but sometimes they start twitching. I heard him laugh and say: ‘Don’t worry, you won’t have to look at them if that happens. We cover the chamber with a towel.’
Not even exaggerating, I refilled the bottles and changed their food three times, just to look busy until they left for the night. I swept the floors until I got to the storage room and saw the CO2 chamber. It creeped me out, and it didn’t help that they kept the jarred sheep brains in a glass cabinet right next to it. The room smelled like formaldehyde; ten times worse than hospital.
I imagined them putting my babies in the gas chamber and I couldn’t help but tear up. I just finished giving Chuckie a wooden block to shave down his overgrown teeth. Pebbles just learned how to twirl around my finger on command. Papa John just got over an eye infection that I helped treat with a Q-Tip and saline solution. They couldn’t die yet… they had so much more to live for. Besides, I always thought Shortcake and Papa John would make a cute couple. So that night I tucked my jeans into my boots and I stuffed my babies into my pants, buckling my belt tight and walking slowly, trying not to gain any unwanted attention. I felt them crawl around my ankles and climb up and down the inside of my jeans, tickling me as I rode the 1 train down to Loisada Avenue. I walked by a few restaurants, looking for the biggest, freshest pile of trash, untucked my jeans, and watched them sniff around and climb into the bags, getting their first taste of real food. I didn’t know how long I should stay, so I waited until they were all safe and hiding in some hole or corner. I swear I saw Lourdes turn around and look at me one last time before she disappeared, never to be seen again. I didn’t know if they’d be alright here, but I knew it’d be better than dying in a cage, choking to death, next to a jar of sheep brains. That’s no way for a rat to go in dignity.
***
It goes without saying that I got fired. I didn’t deny it when I got questioned the next week at work. I just crossed my arms and said it was fucked up what they were doing to my babies, and that I had to save them. I slammed my employee I.D. on the table and walked out.
After that, I felt depressed for a while. I just laid in bed smoking weed, listening to the sounds outside my window, covering my face and huffing my hospital-smelling hands. I hated that smell so much, but I’m not gonna lie; it was addicting, too. At night, I’d close my eyes and pray to God. I’d ask him to let me talk to my grandma, like an operator making a connection. I’d squeeze my hands together and ask her: ‘How could you clean away something that’s already clean? How much cleaner could I smell? How could I bring some dirtiness back to my life, to smell more like a person?’
She never picked up, at least while I was awake. But I know she heard my voicemails. Or maybe it was God listening the whole time. I couldn’t tell you. But what I do know is that someone heard me. And that someone’s been listening to me ever since.
Rent was past due, and I didn’t have enough cash. I was still jobless, eating cup noodles and ketchup packs when I got hungry. My landlord would bang on my door every day asking for his rent money, but I’d stay as quiet as I could, closing my eyes, praying for this to all end. And that’s when it started, the rat favor.
That’s what my friends called it, at least. I like to keep it simple and call it a blessing. What’s rat favor, you ask? They say rats can talk to each other. That there’s a whole network underground where they help each other out. Things like where to find food and where to keep warm in the Winter. They tell each other which humans to look out for—the good ones and the bad ones. Some say there are organized rat gangs under there, protecting their turf. But I don’t know the details.
All I know is, the next morning I woke up and found a crumpled wad of cash on my desk, a gold ring, a watch, and some old coins. I couldn’t believe my eyes. I would have thought I was tripping if I hadn’t seen a rat slide behind my nightstand as I reached for the cash. I knew it was them helping me out. I took the stuff to a pawnshop on Rivington Street and scraped up just enough to pay my rent. I always knew I had a guardian angel, my grandma, looking over me. But now? Now, I’d say I have a couple thousand of them.
It didn’t end there, though. One night I was walking home at night from my cousin’s place up further uptown, when some guy pulled up trying to rob me. I sucked my teeth and looked around, digging in my pockets for my wallet, when suddenly I heard him scream. I saw a rat dangling from his ear like an earring as he tried to smack it away, when more rats started crawling out from the street grate beside us and climbing up his legs. I turned around and ran as fast as I could and booked it home. Again, I knew my angels were watching out for me.
I stopped feeling alone. My hands stopped smelling like hospital. I landeded a custodian job at a high school in the Lower East Side. Things were looking up. When they’d make us put up rat traps, I’d load them with fresh cheese and intentionally break the springs so they wouldn’t hurt the rats. These city rats weren’t my babies, but I knew I had to watch out for them, too; it’s not their fault they got hungry and wanted to look for some food. I could only say my rat favor improved from there.
The rats never stopped leaving my presents on my nightstand. They’d bring cash, jewelry, knickknacks, candies, you name it. The best thing they’d ever bring, by far, was the famous Rat King Kush: a marijuana strain of unknown origin, usually covered in a bright yellow powder with a slightly cheesy aroma. To me, it smelled like the dust you get on your fingers from eating Cheetos. But let me tell you, that was the best weed I’ve ever smoked in my entire life. To quote my friend, “That Rat King Kush… it’ll have you tweakin’ and squeakin’, man. Squeak, squeak, squeaaak!” I’d say it was highly addicting, if only I knew where to actually get it. But maybe some things in life are better that way. Maybe it wouldn’t be as good if I could find it whenever I wanted. I guess I’ll just keep leaving it up to the rats to leave me little treats from time to time.
It’s been a few years now without my grandma. A few years away from Columbia. A few years of building up and keeping my rat favor. I couldn’t tell you what happened with the psychology department, but I guess they’re still doing their thing. I hope some other custodian or student keeps helping the rats from time to time. As for myself, I’m still cleaning schools and leaving phony mouse traps up for appearances. I leave out hunks of cheese on my nightstand. I pray every night for my babies. I talk with God. I talk with my grandma, still reciting those lines in Spanish just how she taught me. All I can say is, next time you feel a rat brush on your legs, don’t flinch. And don’t even dare think about kicking them, because they’ll remember it. They’re just trying to survive out here like the rest of us. They’re part of your community, too, whether you like it or not. Next time you’re out, especially at night, try bringing a little piece of cheese in your pocket. Maybe a bag of shredded mozz’ if you don’t want to get your hands dirty—whatever you like best. The rats are nicer than you think; sweeter—more vengeful—than you think. Do it just because, do it just in case, because you never know when you might be the one needing some rat favor in the future.
