The Time Rats Almost Got Me Arrested: The struggle continues

A long time ago I wrote an essay for Salon about being actively stalked by my phobia: Rattus rattus. So heinous their scientific name gets repeated, rats are grinning-bald-tailed-greasy-pelted-2 lb-rodents who have surprised me at school, work, in restaurants — and once on top of my refrigerator.

They swim up toilets, participate in orchestrated attacks on slow walkers and can compress full grown bodies into holes no bigger than quarters. Their teeth grow five inches. Annually.

All the while they are spreading really funky diseases in passing.

Some houses ago, when our middle aged kids were little, the vermin came up through the ancient plumbing to repeatedly chew through the alarm system. When the two hundred-year-old structure actually caught fire and burned down, it was without warning. We all got out but just barely.

I believed rats preferred city living so when we moved to the country I thought that was that. When rural ones methodically ate their way through the components of three SUVs parked in different driveways, feasting on wires and harnesses derived from plants, I was stunned. Aside from the expense, the real problem was that on the other side of the firewall, I’d been operating a mobile home for vermin.

I successfully willed myself not to think about it. But this past summer while driving home from shopping, I felt something on my naked left ankle. It twisted the way a tail might right before climbing up one’s leg.

I swerved.

And apparently stepped on the gas.

Blue lights flashed.

Horrified, I apologized profusely to the policeman and tried to explain the maneuver, mentioning that I thought a rat had breached the engine-cabin barrier.

He studied me.

I quickly conceded that it might have been the cord to the phone charger.

He took my license, registration and insurance card then went to get the plate number. Which was when I remembered my No Secret PolICE bumper sticker. I considered calling out that I like the police, that I’ve turned to them before for help —that it’s the balaclava-clad storm-troopers I have a problem with. I stopped myself.

He returned and neither brought up my politics nor asked to breathalyze me. In fact, he was perfectly nice while explaining that my recorded speed was so far out of bounds that he had to give me a ticket. I totally got it.

A court date was involved. And so was a possible jail sentence.

Everyone said this was a no-joke situation. I needed a lawyer. I got one. I was advised to do an hour of community service for every mile over the speed limit I’d been clocked at. I did, spending a lot of time at Habitat Store (my new favorite place) doing data entry, cleaning bathrooms, and trying not to screw anything up.

Beyond volunteering I was also advised to complete 20 hours worth of an online driving course. Plus a 4 hour add-on devoted to the reckless and aggressive variety. I learned a lot. Including the relevant code (46.2-852) and the fact that the potential punishment for reckless is actually worse than for aggressive driving — up to 12 months in jail vs 6. (Which seems questionable.) There were graded final exams and accompanying test anxiety. I may not have taken any in decades but that particular freak out had just been resting.

Various friends and family members made comments about life in lockup. (You know who you are.) One promised to keep money in my commissary account. Another tried to ease the growing hysteria over the encroaching claustrophobia by saying Spades, my favorite game, is a traditional pastime of the incarcerated. In other words, he reassured, you’ll be fine. Only arthritis makes holding cards uncomfortable so I’d be in jail and left out.

My court date finally arrived (I desperately wanted to get it over with) and I tried to figure out what to wear. I knew my overalls wouldn’t do and settled on a long dress that hopefully projected respect, nice-but-not-flashy, grandmotherly — yet still kind of chic(ish). My wrist brace conveniently covered my memorial tattoo.

My husband and I drove to the lawyer’s office in silence. I was practicing quiet. Rudely stating ‘You’re A Blurter’, a lawyer-family-member had sternly warned me against chatting away under oath. Which was UNHELPFUL

My (real) attorney again had me review the facts of the case. Again I explained about the (possible) rat. He gave me the same look as the policeman. I asked what I should say and he quickly explained he would do all the talking. I could have cried with relief. Then, for no reason whatsoever, my husband asked if things went badly would I have to surrender immediately. I glared at the recently retired nerves-of-steel anesthesiologist, and noticed he looked seriously queasy.

I came close to throwing up.

When we entered the courtroom, the judge was mid-conversation with a defendant, a young kid with dreads, wearing a highway-worker like uniform. The judge said the defendant needed to speak with an attorney, that his nearly 100 mph speeding charge wasn’t a do-it-yourself operation. He called a recess so the kid could talk to any of the lawyers who happened to be present. It was clear that the man cared. When he returned to the bench a continuance was asked for and granted.

(In this insane time when the DOJ is actively paving the way for fascism, the fact that the man in a black robe showed a commitment to decency was incredibly heartening.)

My name was called.

As promised, the attorney did all of the talking, laying out the things that I had already done to express contrition. I don’t believe the rat word was uttered. The man on the bench glanced in my direction and asked my policeman if I’d been polite. He said yes. The judge replied, ‘I can’t imagine her giving anyone a hard time.’

I smiled appreciatively.

(My supportive spouse would later tell me he had to stop himself from objecting.)

The reckless driving class 1 misdemeanor was reduced to speeding. No jail. I happily paid the fine, shook hands with the good lawyer and practically floated out of the courthouse.

Then I almost stepped on a dead rat in the middle of the street.