Supergirl Kills Subway Rats with Slingshot.

When I moved to New York City from Guatemala the blunt change was eased by some similarities between the two places: street vendors selling mangos, the chatter of foreign languages on the street and the constant battle with cockroaches and rats. Yes, even pests helped me make my transition back to the developed world. At first, when I would encounter a cockroach I would balk at how small it was compared to the gerbil sized variety I’d smash with my flip flops back in Casas Viejas. I’ve since realized that the NYC species is smaller, but faster. Now as I chase the nimble insects I long for the easy roach kills of the good old days.

In my first apartment in Murray Hill we had a mouse or two that would vacuum crumbs from our cow hide living room rug after parties. I remember one night I woke to a rustle in the garbage bin under my desk. Falling in and out of sleep I dreamt that there was a mouse in my garbage can. The rustling continued until I woke up and found that there was, in fact, a mouse in my garbage can. I crept out of bed, smothered the top of the can with a pillow and ran down four flights of stairs to the street. I crept barefoot and in my pajamas toward the city receptacle on the corner of Lexington and 30^th, but the sneaky sucker jumped out when I was halfway there. As it scurried into the bushes outside our neighbor’s apartment, I figured it would eventually make its way back to our apartment.

I have since taken a less humane approach to pest control. In my current apartment, we set out traps and poison and average one mouse extermination every four months. We usually don’t even notice that they are in our apartment until a stench fills the air. Sarah sniffs out their final resting place then someone (usually not Sarah) scrapes the remains off the floor and disposes of them in the sidewalk receptacle. A few scrubs of bleach cleaner later and all is back to normal.

Apartment mice, though, are nothing compared to the rats in the subway system. These guys are the size of the rats Toribio, my Peace Corps counterpart, would unleash his dogs on in Casas Viejas. They are ugly little suckers. You see them scurrying along the tracks, emboldened by their understanding that the ground they tread on is for trains (and rats) alone. These vermin drive me crazy. One day, while watching a rat in the rail pit feed on Cheetos crumbs, I conjured up the grand idea to arm myself with a rat killing device. My weapon of choice for this: a slingshot. I envisioned myself standing on the platform waiting for the train and spotting a brazen fat rat on the rail. I’d pull out my slingshot from my purse or, better yet, my back pocket, and as onlookers stare with wonderment and confusion, I’d sling shoot the rat dead in its tracks (pun intended). Then I’d ever so nonchalantly return the weapon to my bag and go about reading my New Yorker magazine. The Post would then write an article with the headline, “Supergirl Kills Subway Rats with Slingshot.” I’ve been meaning to buy a slingshot ever since I had this epiphany.

On my way to work his morning I was walking down the platform to my waiting spot at the Bowery Station when I came face to face with one of these monster rats. We had a stand-off. OK, not exactly a stand-off. I stood frozen staring at him as he sat on his hind legs licking his arms and washing his face. He was oblivious to my presence. I thought to myself, “I am so close to getting this little sucker. How do I catch him?” For a moment I thought I may be able to scare him onto the tracks just as the oncoming subway car enters the station and have him inadvertently commit suicide by train. Then I realized that was absolutely implausible. Instead, I unfroze and just continued walking. The rat was startled, finally aware of my existence, and hurried under the black iron rod fencing of a closed off portion of the station. I watched it through the gate as it bounced from step to step up a staircase leading to an old abandoned street entrance. If only I had had that slingshot.