Rat Trap
by Jonathan Lopez
Bright Before Us Like a Flame Honorable Mention
“It’s your rat—” the exterminator gargled, “you deal with it!”
He shambled out the front door, each step cracking and slowing more than the last. Also his face was smashed flat into a circle—and this wasn’t even the first exterminator to get horrifically mangled. Three weeks ago, an exterminator left covered in mouse traps. The week after, another wobbled out with their spine bouncing like an accordion. And last week, the poor soul ended up as a pair of eyes on a pile of ash.
The restaurant managers, of course, haven’t gone public with this problem. And why would they? A prestigious restaurant such as Sam’s Seafood and Steakhouse would have its reputation ruined by the news of a rat.
So no one acknowledged it. But tonight, the cries of the exterminator caught the attention of Willian, a young after-hours janitor. He was kneeling down by the glass railing on the second floor, a bottle of Windex and a rag in his hands, finding himself lost in the scene.
He typically spent his time watching the other workers, examining what made them successful, for Willian wanted the knowledge to get a better job—better pay; though the managers always yelled at him whenever he did. After all, he had a job to do. Just then, Willian realized he better get back to work.
—ᓚᘏᕐᐷ—
Before Willian stood two large frosted glass doors with magnificent golden handles; and behind them was the room reserved for parties. As he hesitantly reached for the door, the thought of how rich these people had to be to have golden door handles ran through his mind—though unbeknownst to him, they were simply painted as such. A slow shriek echoed through thehallway as the doors slowly swung open. A bright yellow light gleamed out from the party room and engulfed Willian in warmth.
And then he was hit by the stench.
The room reeked of what Willian assumed to be fancy perfume and cologne. Such rich aromas burned his eyes, and tickled his nose, and itched his throat—but it was okay because Willian knew it was his fault for not being accustomed to high living.
As for the room visually—Jesus. Tablecloths sagged onto the floor. Vases were turned on their sides, littering the floor with wilted red, white, and blue petals, with the plants themselves lying limp on the ground. Scraps of lobster tail were twined into the carpet. Then there was the painting of a man wrangling a golden bull. He was riding a horse and roped the bull by its horns. The painting hung crooked and was covered in splotches of liquor.
The same two thoughts Willian had every night returned. One: the people who reserve these rooms are messy. And two: his father’s advice.
Vas a tener que trabajar duro para prosperar.
—ᓚᘏᕐᐷ—
In less than three minutes, the carpet was spotless. In less than five minutes, all the linen was properly fixed on each table. In less than seven minutes, centaureas, kalanchoes, and hoyas were neatly nestled in their vases; the ice-cold water within made them bounce and sway. And before ten minutes passed, all that was left was the dirty bull painting.
Willian held a spray bottle up to the painting and squirted water over the sticky smudges. He then rubbed the water away with a rag, with each wipe squeaking, and reeled it close to his chest. The painting was sparkling—so sparkling that Willian’s face reflected against the bull wrangler’s.
The man in the painting was tall, muscular, sharply dressed, strong-jawed, blue-eyed, with angelic yellow hair.
He was everything Willian wasn’t.
Willian was small, skinny, brown—he had some peach fuzz going on, messy hair, and he wore a dirty blue vest loosely strapped around his waist.
He needed to be like him—like the bull wrangler. He needed to be successful and rich—rich enough to leave a mess in this room and not have a care. After all, that’s why he made the trek to America, to live a better life. He just needed to keep working hard.
—ᓚᘏᕐᐷ—
Willian walked down the stairs and towards the exit, keeping his focus on the bar. There the managers sat defeated. Mark gripped a glass of liquor between his palms while Jeffrey tapped his fingers against the counter.
“Oh my God,” Mark groaned, slumping over the bar counter.
“Yeeaaaaup,” Jeffrey dragged out. “Quite the problem.”
“Problem?” Mark jumped. “It’s a rat Jeff—it shouldn’t be a problem.”
“Well clearly it is a problem,” Jeffrey retorted. “It somehow killed someone. It’s a surprise we got another exterminator.”
“What if someone sees it? Our five stars would drop to zero! Or worse, Elon would fire us!”
“We can just get another exterminator. Maybe this time they’ll do their job.” “Yeah, because that’s really been going well.”
“Then we get an employee to kill the rat.”
Right before Willian’s hands could press against the exit door, he froze. He didn’t understand what exactly the managers were saying, but he did understand “employee,” “kill,” and “rat.” The words of his father once again ran through his mind. This could be it. This was a chance to prove his determination, his loyalty, his usefulness—just how hard he works. Willian marched away from the exit.
“An employee kills a rat, they get a free steak, what’s the problem?” Jeffrey asked. “Steaks are too expensive to waste on an employee,” Mark explained.
“Damn, you’re right. Well at least I’m thinking of solutions.”
“Mr. Mark, Mr. Jeffrey,” Willian called out, making sure to show respect. “I can to work on the rat.”
The two managers, surprised, turned to face each other.
A sharp grin slowly grew across their faces, stretching from ear to ear.
“You really got this?” Mark asked, rising from his seat.
“We’d really appreciate that kid,” Jeffrey paused, putting his hand on Willian’s shoulder. “We’ll make sure you get a little extra for this.”
“Re-really,” Willian stuttered, letting out his Salvadorean accent.
“Oh yeah,” Jeffrey grinned. “A whole lot of a little extra.”
His arm slid off Willian’s back and he strolled up to Mark. The two stepped outside, peeking their heads over the exit.
“You got this,” Mark smiled.
The two zipped out of sight, leaving a dust cloud.
Willian sucked air deep into his chest, making himself look bigger. He crept up to the bar and crawled over the counter. Under a shelf holding cocktail-mixing glasses was a circular hole in the wall.
—ᓚᘏᕐᐷ—
Willian laid a mousetrap right outside the rat’s hole and then placed a small wedge of Swiss cheese on the trigger plate—because everyone knows rats love cheese. He then quickly crawled onto the bar counter and peered down at the hole.
He knew this was a simple idea, but that’s why it would work. After all, it was just a rat. Rats are stupid—so stupid that they’d ignore all signs of danger just to get food. Like what other creature actively does something stupid because of the thought of getting something out of it?
Suddenly, the rat crept out of its hole. Its nose wiggled in the air as it slowly approached the trap.
“Vamos, vámonos,” Willian whispered to himself.
The rat wrapped its dirty paws around the cheese and—
It took the cheese off the trap.
And it crawled back into its hole.
One thought came to Willian: ¿Qué?
Willian lunged over the counter and crouched by the hole. He pulled another wedge of cheese from his pocket, dropped it on the trigger plate—and the hold-down bar launched into the air. A loud crunch erupted throughout the restaurant as the hammer snapped onto Willian’s fingers.
Silence.
He slowly raised his hand to his face. Each finger tore and bent in different directions.
Willian screeched.
—ᓚᘏᕐᐷ—
Buckets of paint laid next to Willian’s feet. He dipped a fat paintbrush into a bucket and began stroking paint onto a piece of cardboard. Willian's other arm hung low, with its fingers wrapped in bandages. Despite being numb, those fingers also somehow stung—but Willian found the extra pay to be worth pushing through. Who cares if he doesn’t have insurance? With all that extra money, he could probably buy the entire hospital. Just the thought of it made him salivate.
With one final stroke, Willian finished his masterpiece. Before him was an exact painting of the bar wall; from the shelf, to the glasses, and even the hole. With his good hand, he dragged a large piece of cardboard into the bar and rested it over the rat’s hole.
Willian reasoned that his last plan failed due to the trap. It malfunctioned—he just got unlucky. Though, his failure brought him back to the bull wrangler. He thought about what made the bull wrangler so successful; and Willian reasoned it was due to his cleverness.
So this new plan, this would work. The rat, thinking it would go home, would run to its hole. And then—wham! It hits the impenetrable wall. That’s when Willian would pounce. He scurried out of the bar and hid behind the stairs. Willian kept his eyes peeled on the bar, waiting for the moment the rat runs by—
A squeak came from near his feet.
Willian looked down.
There it was, looking up at him with its empty eyes.
The rat skedaddled towards the bar. Willian exploded after, keeping close behind. As the rat drew closer to the cardboard wall, Willian’s eyes widened, his mouth contorted to a grin, revealing his sharp teeth. He lunged into the air, eclipsing the rat with his shadow. And the rat ran straight through the fake hole in the fake wall.
Willian, on the other hand, slammed against the wall. His spine crunched as his legs scrunched up into his body. He dropped to the floor, wobbled in place, and came to a complete stop. Willian’s spine slowly decompressed, leaving him stretched out.
He could only groan.
—ᓚᘏᕐᐷ—
Willian hiked up the stairs, the end of a rope gripped tightly between his red palms. Each step made his spine teeter. His teeth were clenched and a vein bulged out from his neck. Tied to the other end of the rope was a refrigerator. The higher he trekked, the higher the fridge rose into the air.
Willian hobbled onto the final step and peered over the rail. The rope softly creaked as the fridge dangled. Beneath the fridge was a large cheese wheel Willian stole from the kitchen. It was new and huge, so he knew it would entice the rat.
And just as expected, the rat pranced out from its hole, its putrid tail swiping up dirt. As much as Willian hated to admit it, this rat was something special. The little nuisance somehow kept getting lucky, and Willian knew it knew that. Why else would it keep taunting him? So in order to best the rat, he must be better. He must be even more like the bull wrangler. Resourceful like the bull wrangler. Think like the bull wrangler. Speak like the bull wrangler. Willian smiled and began to think of one-liners—but he didn’t know how to say them in English, so he reluctantly released the rope from his palms.
And the rope drooped down onto his feet.
The rope wasn’t moving, the fridge wasn’t falling—all Willian could wonder was why. He rushed towards the rails and peered over the edge. The fridge still hung in the air. Willian ran down the stairs.
The cheese wheel was gone. He peered up and found the fridge still dangling in the air. Before Willian could collect his thoughts, the fridge crashed to the ground, caving in the floor beneath it. His foot was smashed flat beneath the fridge.
Willian threw out a slew of curses in Spanish—only to stop, take in a deep breath, and compose himself. He then threw out a slew of curses, but in English.
—ᓚᘏᕐᐷ—
Willian, with his good foot, kicked the back door open and limped inside. His face was littered with scratches that burned from the touch of air.
His mind was racing. The task the managers gave him, the simple task he agreed to—he couldn’t accept he was failing. He didn’t want to accept that this rat was besting him. He was putting in the hard work, he was being like the bull wrangler, and yet nothing changed. This rat—this thing—it was impossible to kill. Willian, tired of trying, pulled an idea from his managers. He thought, why do something else when instead he could get some thing else to kill the rat?
A cat.
He couldn’t believe no one thought of this—cats were made to kill rats.
And that’s why a dirty stray cat was wrapped tightly between his arms and chest. Even though it kept swiping and hissing at him, Willian ignored it. He kept walking to the bar, his flattened foot dragging behind.
Willian dropped the cat by the bar entrance. It sniffed the room.
“Oye, pspsps,” Willian called, pointing at the hole. “Rat. Raaaaaht.”
The cat glanced up at him, then turned to the hole. It lurched down on its front legs and prowled towards the hole. Willian collapsed onto a seat and basked in the peace. He took a deep breath and exhaled—
And then the bar began to shake.
Punches and smacks rang from within. Glasses and bottles rocked off their shelves and shattered across the floor. Willian jolted off the seat.
“owOwO WOH HO HO HOO!” the cat hollered as it launched into the air, its tail set ablaze.
The cat crashed back down. A loud thud echoed through the bar.
Willian peeked over the bar’s entrance. The cat limped out. The tip of its tail was just pink skin and one of its eyes was bruised. As it looked up at Willian, a large red bump slowly grew on the tip of its head. The cat hobbled into a supply closet, and seconds later, it came out with a bindle over its shoulder. The cat hobbled back outside.
Willian rammed his forehead against the counter.
And then a squeak.
Willian rolled his head and found the rat staring up at him with its black, soulless, beady eyes. Within the abyss, Willian made out his own silhouette. But he quickly averted his gaze, refusing to look at it.
It was just a stupid animal. An animal that reeked worse than garbage. A dirty animal—with ragged fur. It had no class, no purpose. This rat doesn’t belong here. It was a vile thing—so vile, its mere existence was insulting to Willian.
—ᓚᘏᕐᐷ—
Willian’s back bounced around, his bandaged fingers dangled in the air, and his smashed foot was—yup—still smashed.
But through the pain, only one thought—one desire—raced through Willian’s mind. No matter what, that rat had to die. It deserved to die. It didn’t belong here—it wasn’t even born here. Life here was never ordained to the rat, so it had no right to. Willian ignited the fuse of a big, black, shiny bomb in his hand and bowled it into the rat’s hole.
He couldn’t help but start laughing maniacally, with each laugh tearing at his throat. Suddenly, the bomb rolled back out and onto his feet.
Willian cried and kicked it back into the hole.
The rat, carrying the bomb over its head, scurried out of the hole and tossed it into his arms.
And Willian threw it back. And the rat threw it back. And the two went back and forth, tossing the bomb. Willian’s breath hastened. Each heartbeat rammed against his chest. His teeth chattered—
And just then, the rat’s squeaks started to sound like a voice. Willian heard its plea for survival. In response, Willian made excuses for why he shouldn’t hold the bomb. The rat would say it was a birthday present, Willian would say it wasn’t his birthday. The rat would say it was a Christmas gift, Willian would say it wasn’t Christmas. The rat would say it was a Hanukkah gift, Willian would say he wasn’t Jewish.
But when the rat mentioned this bomb would be terrible for the restaurant, Willian didn’t hesitate to take back the bomb.
Then he froze.
From the shiny black bomb, Willian made out his silhouette. He stared back up at himself. His eyes were red with purple eye bags drooping down to his cheeks. His numb pale face was covered in bandages. A vein in his forehead slowly pulsated. His arms began to shake. His heart dropped.
He was more broken and bruised than his father; a man he revered—but rarely saw. Every day Willian’s father was gone by 5 in the morning and back by 12 at night, working two jobs to support his family. Whenever he came home and found Willian still up, he’d be too tired to scold him; so he’d try to smile and speak. Every conversation ended the same: Vas a tener que trabajar duro para prosperar. Though his father did work hard, all his family could afford was to survive.
In a last-ditch effort, his family sent him on a journey up Central America and into the U.S. That grueling trek, those hostile people, all that hiding—it was all worth it for a better life. Willian thought back on today—back on all of his hard work. What was it all for? For a better life? For the restaurant? For the managers? For cash? He gets paid five dollars an hour and receives it in a plastic bag—he doesn’t even know how much that extra pay would be! Willian understood the truth: his dream was unattainable.
There was no way he could’ve done more than survive.
Just then, the sizzling stopped.
The fuse burned out.
And before Willian could even make a peep—
KABOOOOOM
Jonathan Lopez is a 21 year old University of Maryland graduate. Both of his parents immigranted from El Salvador, making Jonathan a second-generation immigrant. As early as he can remember, writing has always been a passion of his, leading to the publication of two pieces under Shout Mouse Press and Stylus. "Rat Trap" would be his third. When ever Jonathan isn't writing, he spends his time on other creative pursuits, such as art and animation, working at Joe's Seafood, Prime Steak, & Stone Crab, playing video games, or (lovingly) annoying his dog. Jonathan Lopez will continue to write, with him currently making progress on a novel manuscript, and he even plans to apply to an MFA program.