Rat Bohemia Read Free Page A

that matter. But I was raised with some kind of naïve expectation that saying “Yes, sir” would take care of all of that some day. I was never expected to see my family’s own stake in racism. How mediocre we really were and how much we depended on it to be able to put food on the table. I mean, how many white people would own cars today if merit was the only thing that mattered?
    Killer was brought up to be a racist. One night I went over to her place to watch TV and her parents brought over some food. Next thing you know the news came on and it was all “nigger” this and “nigger” that. Her parents had these sharp teeth whenever they said that word. They scrunched up the skin around their eyes. It wasn’t said calmly. Killer knows better but when she gets emotional, that’s what she falls back on.

    Like one time some Puerto Rican guy was beating up his kid in the hallway and Killer said, “Look at that low-rent over there.”
    â€œShut up,” I said. “You haven’t had a job in two years. If you had enough patience to stand in line you’d be on welfare yourself.”
    â€œI’d be on welfare if it wasn’t for the strength of the Eurodollar,” she said as some blond couple rolled over in the bed. That was the way she looked at things.
    God that summer was hot. There’s that way that Puerto Rican girls sit close together on the stoops. They have skinny arms and those ten-dollar pink dresses. They smile and wear their hair long with a headband.
    Every day homeless people come into Food and Hunger looking for food, but they only get Contact Cards. I gave Killer one of those cards, but she said the food they advertised wasn’t nutritious.
    One time, before breakfast, Killer walked me to work, but she wanted to stop off at the Xerox store on Tenth Street that was run by some Moonies. They were clean-cut peculiar and wore polyester pants up to their necks.
    â€œThey give away free bread and free Chinese buns,” she said.
    When we walked in it was kind of slow and real hot. It stunk of Xerox fluid. The polyesters had a few day-olds sitting on the counter and a bag of day-old buns.
    â€œDon’t eat it,” I said. “It’s old pork.”
    â€œHi, Killer,” they said, handing her two loaves. Then they turned to me. “What about you? ”
    â€œI don’t need free food,” I said.
    â€œLook,” Killer whispered. “Take it. I need it. I’ll give you a fresh one later. For your birthday.”

    â€œOkay. No, wait a minute. I don’t want bread for my birthday. I want a colander.”
    â€œDo you think I need a professional portfolio? ” she asked.
    Killer was still thinking about jobs.
    â€œHow is everything going?” Killer asked the Moonies, remembering to be gracious.
    â€œWe’re having problems with rats,” they said.
    That woke me up.
    â€œDo you have big ones? ” I asked. “One-pounders?”
    â€œYep,” they said.
    â€œDid you put out poison?” Killer asked.
    â€œPoison doesn’t work,” I said. “They’re too strong. Besides, if you kill one that way it’s just gonna stink up your place and bring maggots.”
    â€œDid you try traps?” Killer asked, trying to cut me off because she knew what I was about to recommend.
    â€œTraps don’t work,” I said, ignoring her. “The rats are too smart. They spring the traps and get the bait.”
    â€œWhat about walk-in traps? ” one of the Moonies asked.
    â€œToo expensive,” I said. “Doesn’t work on a massive scale.”
    â€œWell, what do you suggest? ” he asked.
    â€œYou gotta shoot ’em,” I said. “You gotta get ’em one by one.”

Chapter Three
    I was born Rita Mae Weems in Jackson Heights, Queens, New York City, U.S.A. on August 1, 1959. My father, Eddie Weems, fixed couches for Castro Convertible. My