101
We sat around the house after dinner. I dozed off at the kitchen table and he moved to the living room couch. I came in when the TV woke me up and I sat in the recliner. He pointed a finger at my face and I brushed the table crumbs off my cheek. Then he got up and took a beer from the refrigerator. When he came back I had the couch and he went back to the recliner.
For a while we didn’t talk. We didn’t need to. It wasn’t like I knew what he was thinking, more like he knew what I was about to say. So we just thought about what we’d say and took it from there. We didn’t have to talk all the time, and we didn’t really care what TV show we watched.
All this time the rat was growing inside him. But it wasn’t straight-line, day after day growing. It grew and shrunk down and grew again. It grew in ways he didn’t know about and can’t explain, and it left him confused and tired-out. If he couldn’t find some way to live with it, that rat would soon push the old Uncle Brucker out.
“Uncle Brucker,” I had to ask him. “Can you be friends with a rat?”
“Friends? How can you be friends with a rat?”
“I mean if he gets inside you.”
“Not when he’s inside you pullin’ the other way,” he said.
“But even best friends argue.”
“You figure a man and a rat ain’t ever meant to get along.”
“Put ‘em in the same room they’ll argue,” I said. “Put ‘em in the same body—”
“They’d fight!”
“Always?”
“Always.”
“Is that a rat scratch?” I asked him.
“Where?”
“Right there. That cheek scratch.”
He touched his cheek. “No, I’da knowed it.”
“Well, can you?”
“What?”
“Be friends with a rat.”
Uncle Brucker thought about it for a while. I always say that but who knows what he’s thinking about really. Maybe he went on to something else and came back. Or maybe he just sat there.
He finished his beer, put the can on the floor next to the recliner. He lit a cigarette, leaned back and smoked, staring up at the ceiling and through the ceiling beyond the clouds past the moon.
His beard looked like it grew half an inch since yesterday. I know it must have grown somewhat, but I’m saying a lot.
Finally, cigarette halfway down, he said, “Best you can be is neighbors.”
102
“OK, Unc. Let’s cruise!”
Sunday morning and we’re finally out on the road.
Sunny day + the Ram + a lot of people on the streets = a prime day for Identifying.
This is the day I’ve been waiting for. We had a lot of work to do and I was ready to go. We’ll have a great time together, driving and counting and laughing at the miserable rats like we used to. Maybe we’ll drive all the way to Conklin and eat a burger and twister fries, come back with a new high total.
They were sinking in all over. They hung out in front of Tuskies and Mid-City Lanes and on the corner of North and South Main. A dude in western boots and a too-big cowboy hat leaned against a utility pole. He pulled his hat down low. I’m sure he saw me noticing him, then he walked to the street corner and disappeared. Put him on the list.
I thought we were heading to Half Price Stores but instead Uncle Brucker turned right on Meridian and stopped at Food Saver.
“Good idea,” I said as we walked to the store. “Stockin’ up on food in case we get too busy countin’ and we lose track a time. Just don’t buy no perishables.”
Uncle Brucker hated the supermarket. Usually he grabbed an armload of canned stuff from Aisle Two and raisin cakes from Aisle Nine and we were out in minutes.
Today was different. Today he found a cart outside the entrance and he took his time as he pushed it down the aisles. He checked out every item on the shelf like supermarkets were just invented and wow what a great place.
“Meet you in the car,” I said.
He came out and we sat in the car. He didn’t turn the ignition and we didn’t drive anywhere. We sat in the car like I said.
After a while I spoke up.
“This car’s got wheels, don’t it? Got an engine too. You got the keys. Put the key in the ignition, turn on the engine, it spins the wheels and we’ll get the hell outta here.”
“We ain’t goin’ nowhere till I remember what I’m forgettin’ to get,” he said. “There’s no sense drivin’ around to get back here again.”
I hadn’t spoken to Renata for days. Last time we talked on the phone I told her I wasn’t mad at her. Why is she avoiding me? It’s over, I explained. My Uncle is home, I got the Medal back. Somebody dropped it off and I’ll never know who and I don’t want to know. I never forget, but I’m a forgiving guy and that’s worth more than forgetting. So why doesn’t she return my phone calls?
We cruised down Center, Uncle Brucker sat up straight and leaned over the wheel. He reminded me of a ship captain on a foggy night off the Outer Banks with his nose cold in the wind. I’ve never seen a ship captain lean over a wheel and I don’t know where they point their noses, and I’ve never been to the Outer Banks, but that’s how it seemed to me.
Vicks and Bones came out of Mid-City carrying their bowling bags and Bones saw the Ram right away. They watched us make the turn. Bones was a funny guy who held his nose when he farted. Vicks real name is Duane but everyone called him Vicks because his head was shaped like the cough drop. He smiled and pointed to Renata.
There she was, Renata, walking across the street.
But this time she wasn’t standing around with her girlfriends. She was walking hand and hand with her new boyfriend, Kip. I slid down in the seat so she couldn’t see me.
As usual, Uncle Brucker knows what’s going on even though he doesn’t show it.
“Some folks might say you lost your grip on the situation, but if you ask me it just ain’t workin’ out,” he said.
“You don’t have to say nuthin’. I didn’t ask you nuthin’.”
“Are you gonna listen to me next time?”
“Not a chance,” I said.
Hunkered down in the seat where no one could see me, I realized my Identifiers weren’t working. Something was wrong. Usually they jumped like crazy when I drive around town.
As soon as I took them off I saw what went wrong. No wonder they didn’t work. I put on Uncle Brucker’s old Identifiers by mistake!
What happened to mine?
I checked the glove box, the floor, under the seat. I found them stuck behind Uncle Brucker in the cushion of the front seat. When I pulled them out the case rattled. I opened it up and saw the pieces.
“Look what you did, Unc! You busted my Identifiers!”
Of all the things to bust, the one thing that can’t be replaced. I’ll never find another pair of Identifiers because there’s only one rightful pair, and now they’re busted. Busted!
“Sorry,” he said.
“Yeah. Right. Sorry.”
“I said I’m sorry.”
“That does a lot a good.”
I didn’t say another word all the way back home. I was busy checking out my glasses. The right arm had snapped off the frame and both lenses were cracked. When I got home I tried to glue them back together. All night long I tried and I only said three words to my Uncle, including dinner.
“Pass the salt,” I said, because he was a salt-hogger.
103
That night while Uncle Bucker slept, I took out my Rat Chart. I had started it a few days ago after Uncle Brucker returned and it was coming along pretty damn good.
It was all written down here on the chart. Symptoms, percentages. I made notes and added to it all week. Now I took a close look at it and made some minor adjustments. I switched a few symptoms around, evened out the percentages based on what I had recently observed. It’s not perfect because nothing is, but it made a lot of sense to me.
This is what I came up with:
Percentage Rat/Symptoms
20%: occasional cravings
(eating right from the refrigerator, “starvin”), rat dreams
30%: rat cravings everyday at ten (supermarket) and two, forget-fulness (Schnells), licking his lips, scratching and itching
40%: trouble with math, Rat naps at eleven and three, (dozing in the Eagle), (“I’m tired.” “Gotta nap.”)
50%: hoarding food in the supermarket (same as gluttony?), rat breath (foul breath)
60%: impulsive behavior, (slamming on brakes, stopping at Schnells), nibbling
70%: forgetfulness (“I wonder what I’m getting.”)
80%: shoplifting?
90%: nose-writing?
And this:
He slept on and off during the day, never for very long. He ate at odd hours but nothing added up to a meal. The faraway look on his face meant something was going wrong on the inside.
Whatever he went through in Rat Land, it was nothing compared to the horror of what was happening to him now.
According to the chart, Transposition has taken over and Genomorphism is almost compete.
Uncle Brucker is turning into a rat.
104
He said he’s going down to Minks to see Dotty. He heard she was back in town. It was about 9:30 now. He’ll be back in a while.
I waited fifteen minutes until nine forty-five, and I followed him to town in the Eagle. He never looks in his rearview when he drives, so I was right behind him all the way. He went past the diner, turned right on Lower Main, and came back.
There was a dumpster out back in the parking lot. He pulled in and parked next to it. I parked on the street. Uncle Brucker waited in the Ram until the cars moved on, and he got out and walked to the dumpster. In the Eagle behind a Cherokee Sport, I saw all I cared to see. He came in at 2:30 after a night of sniffing garbage, hanging out in dumpsters, drinking beer and peeing in the bushes all around town.
He was as quiet as he could be, which isn’t very quiet. He bumped into the kitchen table. The ashtray fell off and rolled down the hall and crashed into my door, and I got out of bed.
“Is Dotty back yet?” I asked him in the kitchen.
“If she is, I ain’t seen her.”
“I guess you’d a seen her.”
He opened the refrigerator and held onto the door, looking for something to eat. The refrigerator couldn’t hold his weight. On top, the Heritage Mugs rattled.
“Stop leanin’. You’re tippin’ the fridge,” I said.
“No I ain’t.”
“What do you call it when things fall over?”
“A lot a things tip and fall. It don’t start out with me.”
He held onto the refrigerator door and he mentioned other things that tip—-like the leaning Tower of Pisa, for example. You can’t blame that on him because he was never in the vicinity.
A quart of milk fell over on the bottom shelf. Tip the fridge a little more, those mugs will slide off the top and they won’t bounce.
I knew what was bound to happen and I went to my room.
A few seconds later I heard the crash, but I didn’t come out right away. I waited until he called.
“Walt?”
“What is it, Unc?”
“Accident, Walt.”
105
At the kitchen table I worked on my New Rat Chart. The Old Rat Chart was just OK. It jumped out at you but it didn’t grab your attention. I added to it and changed things around. I used a red Sharpie to highlight the numbers. I wrote the symptoms in black and underlined them in red so it would get his attention, and the New Rat Chart was both a jumper and a grabber.
I stepped back and looked at it and decided it needed one final touch, so I wrote DELUXE in red across the top.
By consulting my DELUXE Rat Chart, I could see how the inner rat moved in on Uncle Brucker. He could swing up to eighty percent rat in one day, and back again. Like a pendulum swinging out of control, each day he swings further.
You got to grab hold, Uncle Brucker. Take a good look at yourself. You can stop the swinging if you really try. Steady yourself, Unc. Balance will come naturally. If you don’t stop the swingin one day you’ll never come out.
I left the DELUXE Rat Chart on the kitchen table. Sooner or later he’ll come for a beer.
“The hell’s that?” he said.
“Oh, that. That’s nuthin’,” I said.
“Gotta be somethin’ or I’m seein’ things.”
“Oh, you mean this chart? This here’s my Rat Chart.”
“No kiddin’? A Rat Chart, you say. Let me see.”
He put the can of Boomers down on the table and pushed his glasses up on his nose. I had his attention and I was holding on.
“Take a good look at it, Unc. Basically it charts the swingin’, which should be startin’ up about ten.”
He checked the wall clock: Nine fifty-five.
“You’re right. Almost rat cravin’ time, accordin’ to this chart here. I could use a nibble myself.”
“Nibble! You said nibble.”
“So? So what,” he said.
“Rats nibble. Humans eat. Hoardin’ food at the supermarket. And forgetfulness. That’s part of the swingin’ too. It’s all down here on my new chart. Take a look at yourself, Unc. Check out the X’s.”
“You went a little crazy with the X’s.”
“You won’t go out Identifyin’ cause rats can’t count.”
“What did you say?” he said.
“I said you don’t wanna go countin’ cause rats can’t count.”
“I thought you said that. Like a rat I am, a big ole rat. You make this chart by yourself?”
“Based on facts. I don’t make up the facts, and I know what I see.”
“The rat’s movin’ in on you, Unc. You ain’t what you used to be. You gotta shake him out before he shakes you out. Let me help you try.”
“I’ve been tryin’, I really have, but I’ll try again just for you,” he said. He sounded like he meant it.
“I mean try, really try. Try hard.”
“I’ll do it for you, Walt.”
“Show me hard.”
“I’ll show ya, Walt. I’ll show ya hard!”
He grabbed the seat of the chair, spreads his legs out and steadied himself. He clamped his teeth down and his eyes went up under his lids and he groaned. He groaned like he was lifting a boulder out of hell’s basement. Veins popped out on his hands and his forehead like wormy skin snakes.
But what good did it do?
When you get down to it, not a bit.
And what did he show me? He showed me how to make a face. That’s no way to shake the rat out. Make a face. Grunt. And he didn’t do it just for me. He did it for the rat inside him because that’s who he does everything for nowadays.
He went to the living room and sat on the couch and opened the newspaper, ignoring me. He didn’t want to listen to me any more.
“Bring me a beer, will ya, Walt?”
“Non I won’t,” I said. “Ask your rat to get it for you. You and him are pals.”
And I left the Rat Chart on the kitchen table and went to my room for the night.
106
Scratch-Scratch Knock! Scratch Knock-Knock!
He came out about four-thirty, snooping around the barn and scratching-up for a fight. I watched him from the kitchen window. He ran up to the house, teased me with a scratch, but I chased him away before he knocked.
Now it was twenty after seven and he was banging on the back door.
Uncle Brucker had melted into the recliner with the newspaper on his lap, and everything was the same as usual except the little things were different. For one thing, I didn’t feel like picking up his empty beer cans. And Cole’s Law had just ended and he didn’t hum the theme song. A great show, you can’t help humming. Right, Uncle Brucker? Those little things add up.
Scratch-Scratch Knock! Scratch Knock-Knock!
“Ain’t y
ou gonna say it?” I asked him. “Ain’t you gonna say
‘Don’t tell me I gotta wrestle that damn rat now?’ You always say it. Ain’t you gonna wrestle that damn rat?”
Uncle Brucker just sat there.
“Part of me wants to go,” he said, “but part of me just don’t give a shit. And that ain’t enough to get me on my feet, and barely enough to consider it.”
Scratch-Scratch Knock! Scratch Knock-Knock! This time he couldn’t do it. This time he had too much beer in him to do anything, four or five cans on the floor. He looked at me over the top of his reading glasses. His eyes were doing the talking and his mouth was just standing by.
“Well I guess it’s my turn, innit?” I said. “You always said someday it might come down to me to carry on the tradition. I guess that day is today.”
“It’s up to you, Walt, but tradition don’t work unless it’s passed on.”
It was a heavy decision because it carried the weight of everything that followed. But I knew my Uncle couldn’t wrestle that damn rat forever. Now it was up to me. I had to go.
“I don’t want to screw up tradition,” I said.
Scratch-Scratch Knock! Scratch Knock-Knock!
“I’m cummin’ to get ya, Wrestlin’ Rat!”
“Remember,” Uncle Brucker said. “Knee jab to the stomach. Left to the jaw. Go right to a Cherokee Chokehold. Don’t follow him in no bushes. Fight him out in the open. He moves fast for a big rat.”
“Don’t worry, I won’t lose. He’s just a dirty old rat.”
“One thing before you go, Walt. Upstairs in my dresser, take a look in the top drawer.”
I ran up the stairs and opened the drawer. Don’t ask me how, but I had an idea what it was on the way up. When I saw the gold lettering I knew I was right. I held it up in front of me in the mirror.
“Wow! An Incredible Impostor suit!”
In the mirror Uncle Brucker looked over my shoulder.
“Had this one made exactly like mine.”
It was almost like Uncle Brucker’s wrestling suit but not exactly. It was only the shirt and it didn’t say Impostor. It just said Incredible, and it was too tight. I had to take off my undershirt to get it on. I guess it looked OK with my jeans.
Uncle Brucker the Rat Killer Page 20
