The Brass Rat

What does Simon find in a curiosity shop in China Town?

Simon Bradley was not happy, nor had he been for a very long time. He could not exactly remember when he stopped being happy, or, for that matter, when he had ever actually been happy, but he was certain that at one time he was, or at least, his life was filled with the trappings of happiness -- a career, a house, a wife, two kids and a dog. Statistically he was living the dream; yet, Simon Bradley was not happy, nor had he been for a very long time.

He found himself walking the streets of San Francisco alone. He was in the city on a business trip. His life was filled with many such business trips. Simon had traveled the cities of the world, but never actually saw any more of it than the city’s airport, the hotel, and the civic center. This trip was no different. This day, however, after the continental breakfast, and the small talk around the coffee carafe, and the opening lecture on “Optimizing Business Success Through Actualizing Potential,” he realized he could not do it one more day. Maybe he could do it again tomorrow. Maybe tomorrow the breakfast, the coffee, the lectures and business meetings would be bearable, but not today. He had to get out of there. He walked out of the front doors of the civic center which was connected to the hotel in which he was staying. The San Francisco air slapped him in the face as he emerged from the air conditioned, climate controlled domain. He paused for a moment when he was free of the doors, realizing that he had no clue as to where he was going, only that he was going. Then, for no particular reason, he turned left and proceeded down the sidewalk.

He was looking for something. He knew it; although, he also knew that he had no idea what it was. It was not merely happiness for which he was searching for he was certain that happiness is not an object to be found, or a finish line in a race, but merely something that grows organically when one is proceeding toward a purpose. So maybe he was looking for a purpose he thought to himself, a reason to justify his existence, a reason to prove to the world, to posterity, to the very cosmos itself, that he was here and the fact that he was here mattered. So his feet rhythmically slapped the sidewalk of the San Francisco street as he walked, as he searched.

The weather seemed to mirror his own soul -- overcast, humid, slightly uncomfortable. The sky appeared threatening but never followed through on its threat, like a mother who constantly admonishes a spoiled child, but who never follows through on promised punishments. Simon scouted out various places in which he could seek cover should the sky make good on its threat and send a storm upon him. He was not certain if he was relieved or annoyed that the sky refrained from rain, but either way, he kept walking and searching. 

He found himself being pulled in one particular direction. It was like there was a rope tied to his soul that was beginning to drag him where it wanted him to go. He found himself on a particular street in the Chinese section of the city, standing in front of a particular shop that promised all sorts of curiosities and knickknacks. He descended the three steps and opened the door.

A bell jingled lightly as he pushed open the door. The shop was a collage of random and dissimilar images and items. The smell in the air was of ginger, mixed with incense and some sort of tobacco, and that smell that libraries have, giving the place an equal sense of mysticism and familiarity. He glanced to the right and saw an elderly Chinese man dressed in traditional clothing puffing on a long, wooden pipe. The man offered a hint of a smile and nodded slightly. Simon instinctively smiled back and responded with a forced, ungraceful nod of his own. 

The pull that had brought Simon to that particular shop on that particular day was now pulling him toward a particular aisle. He ventured down the aisle, looking carefully at all the items, picking some up and returning them after a closer inspection. Then his eyes glanced upon it. It was hideous, and yet, somehow beautiful. He reached for it and picked it up, examining every centimeter of it. It was so detailed and the craftsmanship was so perfect that it almost seemed alive.

“Excuse me,” Simon shouted to the Chinese man, “how much for this brass rat?”

“Aaaahhh!” the Chinese man exclaimed in a musical lilt, “You have chosen The Brass Rat of  Wong Tai Sin. Very powerful! Very rare!”

“Yeah, yeah. Forget the sales pitch. How much?”

“The Brass Rat of  Wong Tai Sin is something you cannot own; therefore it is something you cannot buy.” The man’s voice was somewhere where singing, a whisper, and excitement meet. 

“Are you telling me it’s not for sale?”

“Oh, The Brass Rat of  Wong Tai Sin is for sale. You just cannot ‘own’ it.” The Chinese man said all this without ever ceasing his puffing on his pipe, or interrupting the rhythm of his puffing.

“Yeah, yeah, yeah, old man! How much do you want for it?”

“Difficult to say...” the man trailed off, puffing and thinking, occasionally muttering to himself in a manner that was barely audible, “Very powerful... very rare... very mysterious...”

“Look, I’m going to buy it, I just need you to give me a price.”

The Chinese man continued his introspection. Then suddenly, as if he abruptly awoke from a dream, he smiles broadly, saying, “Aaahhhh! I see now that The Brass Rat of  Wong Tai Sin has chosen you. You are meant to have it. Since it is destiny for you to be together, you can have it for twenty dollars.”

Simon was surprised. He was expecting with that build up to be told some astronomical price, and although he did not like paying twenty dollars for a brass rat, it was still less than two martinis at the hotel, and unlike the martinis, this is something would still be there in the morning. Added to that the fact that Simon was drawn to it, the price of twenty dollars seemed cheap. 

“That’s it?” Simon asked in order to clarify.

“The Brass Rat of  Wong Tai Sin is twenty dollars. The story that goes along with The Brass Rat of  Wong Tai Sin is five hundred dollars.”

“Pfft!” Simon scoffed, “I don’t need no stupid story.” He carried the brass rat to the counter behind which the Chinese man was standing. The Chinese man nodding and smiling as Simon drew near.

Suddenly, and without warning, when Simon set the rat on the counter and reached in his pocket for his money, the Chinese man took the pipe from his mouth, taking on a gravely serious expression. “All sales are final. The Brass Rat of  Wong Tai Sin may not return here " ever! Do you understand?”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” Simon dismissed as if he were in a hurry, “No returns. Got it.” Simon produced a fifty and received the appropriate change. The Chinese man scribbled on a tab, ripped a small sheet of paper from it and handed it to Simon as a receipt. 

“Shall I put it in a bag?” the Chinese man asked.

“No,” Simon chuckled to himself, “I’ll wear it.”

“Remember, my young friend, The Brass Rat of  Wong Tai Sin has chosen you. It may never return here. And the story of The Brass Rat of  Wong Tai Sin is here waiting for your return.”

“Don’t worry,” Simon stated confidently, “I’m keeping this thing forever.” He turned and walked out of the shop.

He ascended the three steps onto the sidewalk. The weather had changed. It was still cloudy and humid, but now the sun was fighting its way through the clouds. “Things are looking brighter already,” Simon said to himself. He then began walking in the direction of his hotel, the brass rat tucked under his arm.

After a few moments of walking, Simon heard a scurrying sort of sound behind him. He turned to look behind him and noticed that there was a rat following him down the sidewalk. Simon was startled, thinking it exceedingly odd that this would happen, and finding it exceedingly ironic that it was happening immediately after purchasing a brass rat. Simon quickly dismissed it, however, reminding himself that he is a rational, educated man, and that there must be some kind of logical explanation. So he turned forward again and kept walking.

A few moments after that, there was more scurrying and occasional squeaking coming from behind. Without disrupting the pattern of his steps, Simon glanced behind him. There were three rats following him. This was getting odd, yet, Simon was certain that there must be some scientific explanation, so he did his best to ignore it. 

Then there were twenty rats following him. Then there were fifty. Simon stopped. The rats stopped and sat up on their hind legs. Simon stomped his foot at them and told them to leave, but the rats stayed there, waiting patiently. Simon took a few steps. The rats followed. Simon stopped. The rats stopped. While this was happening, more rats were joining the assembly. Simon turned and started walking. The rats followed. Now there were one hundred rats following behind him. He picked up his pace. The now three hundred rats followed faster. Simon started running. The thousand rats behind him started running to keep up. Simon ran faster. The sewers began to hemorrhage rats. A stream of thousands upon thousands of rats followed after Simon as he began to frantically run in no particular direction.

Simon realized that he was heading toward the Bay but he was afraid to turn direction because the rats could catch him and overtake him if he ran in any direction but straight ahead. He ran. He sprinted. He was at the Bay. He soon would be out of places to run. He saw a wooden pier stretching out into the water. He ran down the pier until he could run no further. He turned to face the million rats that were charging toward him. He noticed a pole and realizing it was his only option, he threw the brass rat into the Bay and shimmied up the pole as best he could. Rat after rat ran past him, leaping into the Bay and drowned. 

Simon felt as if he had been hugging that pole forever as the river of rats poured into the San Francisco Bay. When the last rat had thrown itself into the water, Simon slid down the pole and began the long trek back to the shop where he had purchased the brass rat.

The bell on the door jingled and the Chinese man greeted Simon as if he had been expecting his return. “Aaaahhh!” the Chinese man said, “I see you have returned for the story of The Brass Rat of  Wong Tai Sin.”

“Pfft!” Simon dismissed, “I just came back to see if you had any brass politicians.”

Author's Note

The basic story is an old joke about lawyers.

Reviews

[Marie]

This is very good. I thought it was a sort of fairy tale until the last sentence.