FEBRUARY 5, 2020

Infestation

“Infestation” is my story for the 92nd episode of The Word Count Podcast, also the start of the 10th and final season of the podcast.

It’s been a tremendous run so far, and I look forward to writing for it this year under the theme of ANIMALS. This story is based on the following image. Cute, huh?

STORY INSPIRATION: Let’s just say I have personal experience with this particular pest, so writing my story was cathartic.

You can listen to me reading “Infestation” on episode 92 of R.B. Wood’s podcast.

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The sound started a week ago, a faint scratching noise coming from the basement. I never venture down there except to do the laundry, and I haven’t done that in over two months. The washing machine broke down. It no longer moves past the rinse cycle. The last time I used it, I had to scoop out all my wet clothes and manually wring them out in the dirty sink. I ended up bagging everything and rewashing it at the laundromat up the street. That’s where I’ve been doing my laundry ever since.

The landlord is in Portugal, where he goes to spend the winter months. I think he goes there to look for a wife from the old country, as he’s constantly complaining about the women here having too much power. I’ve contacted him numerous times via email but he never responds. When he comes back, I intend to give him a bill for the money I’ve spent at the laundromat. He’ll refuse to pay, like he does for everything else I’ve had to fix around the apartment. I wouldn’t be surprised if he blames me for breaking his twenty-year-old washing machine. Everything in this house is falling apart, and he doesn’t repair a thing.

I usually hear the sound while having dinner, and tonight is no different. I immediately feel queasy, put down my fork, and stop eating. Any amount of stress, no matter how small, can cause me to lose my appetite. If I had more food in my system, I’d probably vomit.

Tonight the sound is insistent and much louder, like someone etching grooves into concrete with a screwdriver. A part of me wants to go downstairs and check on the noise, but I’m creeped out. The basement is moldy; the lighting is poor, and the cracked concrete floors are painted blood red, like that makes it more appealing!

The landlord had never put in a dehumidifier, something I finally bought so the musty smell wouldn’t drift upstairs to my unit. Of course, he refused to compensate me for it, said he couldn’t smell a thing. His apartment is directly above mine, and I’ll bet his windows actually open, unlike mine which are painted shut.

After almost three years in this house, I have to find somewhere else to live. I’ll break my lease if I have to. The place is making me sick, both physically and mentally.

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“I think I have a mouse in my basement,” I said to the man behind the counter at the hardware store. He looks near ninety with bad teeth and stringy white hair. I would’ve preferred a modern, big box store like Home Depot, but without a car, it isn’t easy to get to one.

“Okay, do you want to buy a mouse trap or poison?”

I hesitate, then take out my phone. “Umm, I’m not sure yet … can you just confirm if this is mouse poop?”

“Sure.” He smiles, maybe because I said the word poop. He reaches in his shirt pocket and pulls out his glasses.

I tap the Photos app and swipe across the screen to a series of pictures I took in the morning. As much as it disgusted me, I had donned a mask and went downstairs to see if I could find the source of the noise. “Here,” I said. I show him five photos, including one of a hole on the outside wall underneath the basement steps.

“Hmm …” he said. “Can you go back and make the pictures a bit bigger. My eyes aren’t what they used to be.”

I swipe backwards more slowly until he points at a shot he wants to see again, then I enlarge it for him.

“I hate to tell you this, young lady.” He gives me a sympathetic look. “These droppings aren’t from mice.”

Something lurches in my stomach. “What do you mean? What are they from then?”

“Rats,” he said.

“Oh my god …” Sweat beads across my forehead. “Are you sure?”

“Positive. Mouse droppings look like grains of rice. These are much bigger. Am I right?”

I nod. “Yes … I feel sick.”

“Look,” he said, “from what I can see, this sucker’s chewed through a cement wall to get inside, a mouse can’t do that. It’s looking for a warm place and a food source.”

“But there’s no food in the basement!” I clutch my stomach, thankful I hadn’t eaten a big breakfast. “It’s not my house. I rent the place and the landlord is out of town for at least another month. I can’t get a hold of him.” I must have looked despondent because the old guy gently pats my arm. I suddenly feel awful for thinking badly of him.

“You have to deal with it if you live there,” he said. “Rats are fast breeders, and they can climb walls. Eventually, they’ll make their way upstairs for food unless you kill them.”

I take shallow breaths to stave off nausea. “This is a nightmare. My landlord is dreadful, and he’s cheap. He’s not going to pay me back if I call pest control.”

“Well, he’s either going to pay now, or he’ll pay later. It’s only going to get worse. Best you seal up that hole right away or you’ll have an infestation.”

I know he’s right. The place can’t be rented with rats running around.

It’s at that moment when it becomes clear what I must do.

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“I really appreciate this, Jessica. I’m hoping it won’t be long before I find a new place to live.”

“Stay as long as you like. What are friends for?”

Jess helps me with the pull-out couch in her condo and hands me a set of clean sheets. Together, we make up my bed for the night.

I’ve been couch-surfing for a week after moving out of my apartment. All my belongings are in storage until I can find a more permanent space. I broke my lease, but I only had two more months on it anyway.

I had emailed the landlord to let him know I was leaving. Surprisingly, he sent me back a note right away, said he wouldn’t be returning my last month’s rent because I didn’t give him sufficient notice.

“Keep it,” I said to him, “and enjoy your time in Portugal.”

Before I locked up my place for good, I went down to the basement one last time. The owner of the hardware store had told me rats love to eat fruits and grains, but they basically eat anything, he said.

I bought a giant bag of honey-sweetened granola with cranberries and scattered it on the blood-red floor. For good measure, I also opened up the washing machine door. After all, rats need a water source too.