Litter Rat

It was an ordinary, New York day as Thomas walked towards the last car of the subway. He always did this, as he thought it’d be less crowded and quicker to his bodega. Thomas rode the subway often, not as a choice, but because he had a deep rooted phobia of driving and car crashes. Plus if he walked, his bags would either break before he got back home or would get mugged. He rode the train frequently, so he knew the most and least populated times of the train. Average Tuesday afternoons consisted of only two people populating the last car around 3 o’clock. Tuesday trips on the subway consisted of Thomas putting both earbuds in and getting lost to Smashing Pumpkins.

Thomas’s gaze traced the entire car, silently commenting on the litter bugs that leave their trash as if the world was their trash can. Thomas’s gaze stopped at the garbage under the seat across from him. He chuckled to himself at the crumbled fast food wrapper with a black string coming out of the bottom of it, looking like a litter rat. His smile widened as he thought about if all the rats in New York were crumbled paper rats like this one scurrying through the streets. Would people still be afraid of them or laugh at them? Would they stink like regular rats? He wondered. The subway started to slow down and near his stop. Thomas walked over to pick up the paper ball to discard it in the proper manner, the trash can. As he picked up the ball, he noticed the black rat tail wasn't attached at all.

He pulled on the black string still on the ground to reveal a black leather bound Moleskine notebook. Thomas picked it up and dusted off remnants of the subway floor. Wow. You almost never find stuff that's in this good condition down here. He thought. He opened it up and flipped through the pages, as if it was a flipbook. There were no names inside the cover and every page was blank except one. The written page that was bookmarked with the mistaken black rat tail, read “ 20 mil,” with, “41.4890, -73.9751,” written on a slant directly in the middle of the page. Thomas’s mixture of surprise and confusion was soon met with a quickened heartbeat and racing thoughts. What is this? Who left this here. Does 20 mil mean 20 million? What are these other numbers? They look like coordinates.

Thomas shoved the book under his arm as he exited the subway car. He threw the paper ball away and looked around. Strangers passed by him as if nothing happened, as if he didn’t pick up a strange notebook that led to an address with the possibility of 20 million dollars awaiting there. Thomas’s feet carried him to the street level without him noticing. He continued on his way to the bodega as usual, but couldn't get the notebook out of his head. The coordinates and money is probably some silly joke. It could mean absolutely nothing. It probably means absolutely nothing.

After Thomas exited the bodega with his two bags of groceries, he took the subway back home. The entire ride home Thomas’s leg restlessly bobbed up and down without a moment's beat of rest. When he got home, he carried on his usual routine of unpacking and putting away the groceries, made a cup of Oolong tea, and then sat at the table to read his current book Flowers In The Attic. After only read one page, his gaze becomes transfixed on the black notebook that sat on the edge of his countertop. Whose notebook is it? There was no name inside of it. Maybe the owner of the notebook is at the location of the coordinates. I could return it to them there. Thomas punched the coordinates into Google Maps on his phone in curiosity of what's there. “555 South Avenue Beacon, New York, 12508 United States. Old Beacon Hat Mill. A 19th century hat factory still stands as a crumbling ruin in upstate New York.” Why would someone write the coordinates to an old run down hat factory? It looks intriguing and historic though.

Thomas tenaciously grabbed the black notebook along with his keys and wallet as he headed out the door with his pounding heartbeat in his ears. Adrenaline helped him hail down a taxi and gave the taxi driver the address. Thomas stared at the only marked page in the notebook as he traveled throughout New York. His mind eluded him from the concept of time as he drifted through the endless possibilities of the meaning of the notebook. The taxi driver gave him a questionable look as he dropped him off at the abandoned factory, but didn't say a word. Thomas barely felt his feet hit the grass and cracked cement as he stepped toward the building. “What am I even doing here? This isn’t like me” Thomas thought as he looked around to see no signs of life or movement.

He gripped the rusted metal door and swung it open to be greeted with the stench of warm musty B.O. Once his eyes adjusted to the dimly lit room, he noticed old machinery along the walls and a wooden box in the middle of the room. Dark storage shafts with loose yarn hung above him close to the ceiling. Thomas walked toward the wooden box and noticed no locks. He opened it to reveal stacks upon stacks of money. I can’t believe this! I’m going to be rich! He dug through the box and estimated around 20 million dollars in the box. Each stack of cash he picked up, he imagined the treasures he’d buy with it. Thomas stood up and ran his hands through his hair trying to believe what he was seeing, but as he stood up, he noticed a red laser dot had appeared in the middle of his chest. Before his eyes could trace back its location, he hears a deafening “BANG.”