curiosity (almost) killed the case manager

It was a cold morning in March. I pulled up in front of a dilapidated building on one of the worst streets in one of the most dangerous neighbhorhoods in Jersey City. I got out of my truck and looked around. The building was surrounded on either side by vacant lots with waist-high weeds. A few crack whores stood in front of the building sucking on pipes. Their small children played on the sidewalk, coatless. Across the street, several young thugs looked from me to my pick-up truck. The hair bristled on the back of my neck. I had a gut reaction to get back in the car and drive away, but I couldn't look like a punk. No. Better to have a shiv stuck in my back than look like a punk. I realized that my location was as remote as a hermitage in the middle of the Sahara. No one would hear me if I screamed for help. No one would care. As I walked past the crack whores into the building, I heard teeth sucking and a chorus of "white bitch". It always felt good to be recognized in these neighborhoods.

Mrs. Walker was a new client. The only information I had on her was that she was 93, completely blind, and had mild dementia. Opening new cases is always a challenge. You never know who, or what, you're walking into. The vestibule of the building was littered with bullet holes. There was no doorbell, and the inside door had shattered glass and no door knob. I pushed the door open with my foot. I didn't want to touch anything with my hands unless it was absolutely necessary. Garbage littered the hallway. I heard dueling rap songs on the floor above. I walked slowly and cautiously to the back apartment.

I knocked, and the door opened to 1953. The apartment was immaculate. The hard wood floors glistened with wax. All of the furniture was at least 50 years old, heavey and dark, in mint condition. The walls were papered with a delicate peach pinstripe. Dignified black and white portraits hung on the walls. The apartment appeared fresh and welcoming, with the exception of the lighting. Because Mrs. Walker was blind, she only had one bulb burning in the entrance to the apartment. However, all of the drapes were flung open and sunlight burst into the dark museum of a home.

Mrs Walker stood smiling in the open door, frail and bird-like. She wore a neat navy dress and pumps. Her hair was pulled away from her face in a tiny bun. She seemed both proper and down-home, someone you would never curse in front of, but who you would feel comfortable confiding your secrets in.

"I've been expecting you. Can you help me kill a rat?"

The tingle began in my toes and quickly traversed my veins all the way to my brain. I felt as if my head were encased in bubble wrap and I couldn't turn my head. The terror had me in its teeth. I am absolutely petrified of rats. There is nothing I fear more (except maybe elevators, planes and traffic, but those all relate to my claustrophobia and are thereby rational). Rats are a somewhat unfortunate necessary evil in my field. I visit homes and neighborhoods that are neglected and all but forgotten by the rest of the community. Where you find poverty and despair, there you will find rats. I gritted my teeth and walked stiffly into what I now viewed as the pit of hell.

Mrs. Walker held my hand and patted it as she told me her tale. I knew it was impolite not to look at her as she was speaking, (even though she was blind), but I couldn't help myself. My head was like a lighthouse lantern scanning the horizon for furry rodents. She calmly explained that, for the past few nights, she had smelled a rat in the apartment.

"What does a rat smell like?" I inquired.

"Like the sewer. It must be a great big old sewer rat. But I can't seem to find it. Can you help me find it?"

What could I do? Mrs. Walker had no family to speak of. I could report it to the city, but who knew how long it could take. I couldn't bare the thought of this sweet, senile old woman being trapped with a sewer rat. Then again, she did have dementia. How did I even know there was a sewer rat?

"Have you heard it making any noise Mrs. Walker?"

"Indeed I have. Like a squealing. And a chewing. Nearly kept me up all of last night."

"Okay ma'am. Let me see what I can do".

I said the rosary, well, my rosary. It sounds something like this: holy motherfucking shit. Jesus Christ Almighty. Fuck. Please don't let there be a goddamned motherfucking sewer rat in here or I'll motherfucking die. I then wielded a broom and began my search.

I went room by room. Drapes were beaten, couches were molested, deep closets full of suspicious-looking furs were stabbed. The apartment was very well kept. No furniture had been chewed and no holes poked through walls anywhere. I began to relax as I declared the rooms safe one by one.

Mrs. Walker waited for me at the kitchen table, silent and stoic. Her face betrayed none of the loathing and fear that was causing my colon to drop. Finally, I entered the kitchen. Gulping down several mouthfuls of air, I systematically opened every cabinet, top and bottom, expecting a wildebeast to eat my face off at any moment. But nothing happened. I even checked inside the refrigerator. This house, (as Tangina proclaimed in Poltergeist) was clean. Both she, and I, were dead wrong.

I sat at the kitchen table and assured Mrs. Walker that there was no evidence of a sewer rat in her home. She respectfully shook her head.

"Child, I know a sewer rat when I smell one. Can't you smell that? Take a good strong wiff".

I did as she asked and breathed in the air. She was right. Underneath the pine sol and floor wax, I could smell something vaguely dirty. Almost like the sewer when it backs up. I jotted a note down on my pad to call the building super and ask him to check the plumbing. I was satisfied, and continued with the rest of my interview.

After 20 minutes, with all of Mrs. Walker's needs documented and a plan of care in place, I got up to leave. As I did, I looked into her darkened parlor at her open window, the cold breeze blowing her drape. I walked towards the open window intending to close it for Mrs. Walker. The temperature was too low to keep that window wide open. As I approached the window, I saw a large cat napping on the windowsill, its paws crossed politely under its head.

"Oh, I didn't know you had a cat Mrs. Walker".

"I don't dear. It's just a stray I feed. I call him Walter. He keeps me company. I leave a bowl on the window and he comes up and visits with me".

I walked closer to Walter and his weight shifted. The paws extended slothfully to reveal long, sharp claws. The head turned in my direction, and a filthy rodent face stared red-eyed at me. I swallowed my tongue as a scream escaped my throat.

"That's no stray. That's the biggest sewer rat I've ever seen!"

Walter the rat stared at me with contempt. I raced back to the kitchen and grabbed the broom. Like a knight on a horse I raced back into the parlor with the broom poised as a lance and knocked Walter right off the windowsill. I slammed the window shut, locked it and closed the drapes. Panting, I dragged myself back to the kitchen table. Mrs. Walker patted my head saying:

"Oh lord, thank you lord. Thank you Jesus lord. Bless this child".

Once outside on the sidewalk, the thugs looked more ridiculous, the pipe-sucking, white-bitch-muttering crack whores looked less intimidating. I climbed back into my pick-up truck and rested my head on the steering wheel. I had defeated Walter. It was a triumphant moment. As I pulled away from the curb, I glanced in the rearview mirror. Walter stood on the sidewalk, his red eyes blazing defiantly in the cold March sun.