The Locked Diary #12: It's Always Rat Pride In Williamsburg

Don't be afraid. There are NO images of rats in this essay.

*TO LISTEN TO THIS ESSAY CLICK THE VIDEO BELOW, NARRATED BY THE AUTHOR. OTHERWISE, KEEP READING!

Don't get me wrong, Cobble Hill is as fraught with rats as Williamsburg. Every neighborhood in every borough of this city—regardless of how polished or tarnished her exterior—teems with families of rats so massive they might as well be Mormons.

But the rats in Cobble Hill, *unlike* the rats in Williamsburg, live discreetly. You're aware of their presence intuitively, but your eyes rarely bear witness to them. Silently, they skitter in the shadows. They're like adolescent girls embarrassed that their bodies are developing faster than their peers—they don't want to be seen. I get it. I was a full C by thirteen.

But Cobble Hill rats aren't up against the same trials and tribulations as American tween girls. They don't have tits. So what are they so ashamed of? I don't know, bro. Of being rats I guess?

Williamsburg and Cobble Hill are both located in the beautiful borough of Brooklyn, only Williamsburg houses a wildly different iteration of rat. Williamsburg rats are out of the closet. It's a 24/7 rat pride parade in the neighborhood. Go for a peaceful stroll down any block and you'll see tangles of them shamelessly stampeding the pavement in the broad daylight; cigarettes and slabs of deli meat hanging cavalierly out of foamy mouths; eyes red as kidney beans; naked tails curling up into the sky like chimney smoke; thinning black hair exposing patches of obscene pink flesh; fornicating like its performance art.

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