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A 'Rat' Encounter, Or Two...
SHAHIDALAM —
My de-mystification process with the Rat' began one afternoon during my PhD studies at Boston University in 1987.1 knew the Rat’s , „,ion ana made my way from the graduate 0 j t office next to Commonwealth Avenue, SlUdnnued along that thoroughfare, and then COnUlnnther city landmark, Kenmore Square.
■alk"’as 1111 of five minutes’ Pvc or takc a ] hc * ond$. ft was thc swansong of high fcw ^7, and the heat that day was oppres-slicing my T-shirt into virtually the outer SkiOhf>«> what has that rodent- holy to „ a pest to others-got to do with this
voumight well be asking. The straight
*r nothing - unless one counted the ubiquitous rodents that must surely have | infested the Rat'. The Rat. familiar to both its admirers and disparagers alike is the abridged -form of the Rathskeller'. The name sounded 3 Teutonic, and. as I was to find out later, it is. The lettering on the neon-illuminated rectangular signboard above the premises fitted in with the name. Rathskeller' was painted in popularly perceived Teutonic' style black letters against a very dark red back-pound. which gave, particularly after evening, a menacing aura to the whole spectacle.
That afternoon. I briefly stopped to take in the signboard, looking far from scary in the bright sunlight, went down the concrete steps, pushed open the grimy entrance door and walked into the cavernous space below street level. Rathskeller did justice to its own name . the word stands for a restaurant or bar usually below street level. It was, in part, a bar. I was standing inside, and in the murky light, I surveyed the scene in front of me. It appeared so squalid, empty, and different from the glitter of night inside the Rat. I thought to myself that it looked seedy, unlike the last time I was here. That was a few years earlier, when I was at The Fletcher School of Law and Diplomacy. .And thereby hangs the tale I am about to relate.
A few weeks into the fall semester, fellow Fletcher-mates Carl Delfeld and Irena Choi suggested we go to the Rat. Not one to pass up on such a promising opportunity, I agreed, and one weekend in late autumn we got into Irena's car and made our way from Medford to Commonwealth Avenue. The distance was by no means vast, but, in the late evening, fresh to Boston city from Dhaka, the drive, to me, seemed never to end. When it did, we found parking space in close proximity to our destination.
I was impressed with the lit-up 'Rathskeller' signboard; enhanced by surrounding street lights, it looked very enticing, inviting everyone to go in and enjoy its attractions. I had been made aware of what they were by my two friends, which is why I had agreed on going there. Tarry just a little while longer, and you will get to know the reason.
We walked down tire same steps that I was to take several years later, paid for entry at the same entrance door, had the back of one hand marked by purple ink to certify that we were “in,” and crossed over into the humungous cavern. Only, this time, we were greeted by the ear-splitting noise of blaring electric guitars, an assortment of percussion instruments, and loud vocals, all coming from hard rock music. And. then, there was the crowd, a teeming mass of mostly young men and women forming a pulsating, gyrating, swaying organism. The 'Rat' was living up to its name
and reputation, as my friends had briefed me earlier.
By now, you might have an inkling of the Rat. For several years Rathskeller had been a dive for underground hard rock musicians and aficionados. Boston has thrown up several well-known rock bands, Aerosmith and Boston being two of the more prominent ones. Hopefuls would usually begin by playing at clubs, in the expectation that they would someday be noticed by high-profile agents and record companies, and go on to become national, or, better still, international names. Fortune then would follow fame. The Rat catered to a particular variety of these hopefuls--the heavy metal type.
We were soon caught up in tire mood, with yours truly puffing away at, and diminishing fairly quickly, the contents of a pack of Marlboro. Carl was going through, at a much slower pace, a pack of Carlton Lights and every once in a while letting out a moan of self-pity: "Carlton is the lowest” (in terms of tar content, as the manufacturer asserted on every packet). You see, Carl (short for Carlton) had the hots for Irena, but she was already hooked up with someone else. Irena was a non-smoker.
Then, through the smoky haze, she came up to me, a real looker, wavy blond tresses
coming down to her slim waist, blue eyes (yeah, yeah, the hackneyed stereotype), in pink (or maybe it was blue; the memory is no longer that green after all these years) turtleneck over tight blue jeans accentuating shapely legs.
"Do you know where the bathroom is?”
I told her I did not. But I was not about to make her disappear from my presence.
"Why don't we ask around?"
"OK.”
And we got our direction to tire where the Mens and Womens were.
Then, "Would you go in with me?"
'Whoa' I went inside. Aloud, I said "What?”
"Come inside with me."
Jesus I I Krist I thought.
I looked closely at her face to determine her age. By this time, a jumble of thoughts was racing through my mind, as my mind was clearing itself from the smoke and the Millers and Heinekcns. Shd looked under the legal age.
"How old are you?"
"Sixteen." My suspicion was confirmed.
She did look her age. I stared at her.
“Oh, come on, I'm old enough,” she persisted.
And then it dawned on me: she was stoned out of her mind. That glazed look, very pronounced even on a cursory examination, gave her away.
"Are you with anyone?"
“No, I came by myself."
"You go in by yourself. I'll wait outside." "Give me a few minutes.”
She could take all the minutes she wanted -I was not going to wait for her! I told Carl and Irena, and "The Lowest” found it hilarious, and urged me to be a sport and ride my great luck. “She likes you.”
Irena, the sane one, saved my skin. "Don't, Shahid. Look, if she comes looking for you, I'll hold you tight, so she'll think we're an item."
She did, and, Hallelujah, Irena's magic worked (although, I have to admit I did feel a slight twinge at an opportunity missed)!
Then, back to the rock band performances, and my packet of Marlboro. Very soon, I found myself with an empty pack. That was not good. We had only gone a little over half an hour past midnight. I had to have more Marlboros. I was pondering over how to get one when I spotted a dude sitting on the edge of the raised platform on which the bands
(three were scheduled for that night, if I correctly recall) belted out their tunes and bellowed out their vocals. Glory Be, he was holding a pack of Marlboro in one hand, and a lighted cigarette in the other! My quarry was waiting to be pounced upon.
And I pounced. Or, rather, I approached him with quiet determination, and, no doubt, with a grim visage to match. The guy, slime with curly brown hair reaching below the nape of his neck, and a beard, looked up.
“Can I bum a cigarette off you?”
He did not utter a word, but stared back at me. The silent impasse seemed to go on for an eternity. I was faltering in my resolve to bum a cigarette, and getting ready to back off when he pulled one from his pack and handed it to me without a word. My "Thanks" did not elicit any response.
Without wasting much time, I lit up, took a short puff, and felt my head spin a little. I put it down to the jolt from the combined excitement of being able to bum a cigarette and smoke deprivation for an extended period. I took a longer drag, and felt myself go down on the floor. My head was spinning furiously, my mouth felt dry, my heart was racing, and I was breaking out into a sweat.
“What happened?" Carl was peering down, with Irena at his side.
"Don't know."
"You don't look well. Let's go outside." And they took hold of me, walked me outside, and set me down on top of the stairs. The crisp autumn night air quickly revived me. I told my friends what had happened. And then the probable explanation dawned on me.
"Guys, I think the stick was spiked with angel dust. No wonder he took so much time before giving me one. That stuff is expensive.”
"You might be right. Want to go back in?" “Sorry, guys. I want to go back to the dorm."
"OK, we'll go back.”
I had enough adventure for one night. That was the last time I went to the Rat until that afternoon years later. I did not go back again.
Shahid Alam is Head, Media and Communication department, Independent University, Bangladesh)