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Fat, nearly to the point of jiggling, a tight and drum-like stomach filled with ivy and poison oak, a large rat trundled its way through the underbrush. There was a huge rat population in the city, just as in any other city, but you didn’t really see them too often in the park. It could be that there were more predators hiding in the weeds. Maybe the rats just got more brazen when there were less shadows to cover them.
This rat in particular was doing its best to scoot out of the park and into the Outer Sunset. It dashed across a nearly empty street, scurrying near the wheels of parked cars, and dove into the thick and damp underbrush.
It’s nearly a cliché, the idea that our sense of smell is directly connected to the oldest parts of our memories. It might be remnants from the day when we had to nose the air for the musky smell of mates, or coming predators; a powerful sense hardwired to a near clinical center of survival. It wasn’t only smell that drove this rat to run a far circle around Uncle Eddie’s den, it was a sharp jab to a number of instincts in the survival center, a gift we all had before our predators became ourselves.
The rat could sense wrongness in the bushes around it, and twitched with each quick step to get out. It was almost something the rat could see, a blackness in the air that it nearly had to fight through like tight bands of paper.
If rats breath sighs of relief, this one certainly would have as it burst from the bushes and on to the curb at Lincoln. Its nose twitched, whiskers flailing, and quickly dove into a storm drain right below it. It trudged through city silt and rotting leaves, skittering beneath the street and exiting from another storm drain on the other side.
Scampering past rows of houses, driven on by the smell of the waste of a number of Asian markets, the rat nearly had its head kicked in by a white, stiletto heeled boot. The rat let out a high-pitched squeal and bolted south, following a zigzagging track through brush and gutter. The wearer of the boot looked after it with a scowl of disgust.
Vanessa Park turned from the sight of the retreating rat and once again headed East along Lincoln. If she hadn’t been wearing the heels, she would have nailed that fucker. But she couldn’t help herself, she loved her boots with heels.
She wore a skirt that only went down to the top of her thighs and boots that went nearly to her knees. Her self-assured strut belied just how cold she was, she walked with a purpose, she walked as if something hurt.
Digitally shrill notes from the opening of the song “I Will Survive” drifted out of her hip pocket. She snatched the phone out and opened it with a flick, answering with a demure yet pointed, “hello”.
She looked at the houses around her, her normally pretty face distorted by contempt. She hated the Sunset. She hated San Francisco. As a matter of fact, she wasn’t a big fan of California period.
“Um-humm,” she murmured into the phone. “Yes, I know. I know. You’re going to have to trust me on this one. Listen Lester, I know she’s on her way here.”
Vanessa stopped walking. She tilted her head to the side and smirked while Lester’s nasal voice dripped out all small and tinny.
“Because I can smell her,” she said and began walking again.