Care Package

a microfiction

“Rats hate jazz,” the exterminator drawls. “Especially bebop.” The crawlspace he’s trapped in isn’t getting any larger, nor he any smaller. Neither of us can seem to figure how to get him out of there yet. Some way or another, he’s got himself folded upright in the corner, like an oversized teddy bear stuffed into the bottom of a gift basket. Some nights I can hear him scat along to my records. Coltrane gets him particularly creative with his vocal runs. In the daytime, I try to time his meals, matching them to my own. The aluminum foil I use to roll him sandwiches sometimes doubles as a cup. I try not to think about where and how it comes back out. My nose occasionally tells me when. He’s got a lot of great stories about musicians who had rat infestations, how his uncles played sessions on the Chitlin’ Circuit. I’m considering a care package of Crisco and rope. We’ll see. Good company can be hard to come by.

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