The Chicago Rat Shifter

Chapter 9

In a fitting room mirror, Cyrus turned and inspected himself wearing a blue denim Oxford that he left untucked, a nice pair of khakis, and his brand-new swollen eye that he got for free.

It was tender to the touch. He pushed the red lump under his eye socket, hoping the swelling was better. A river of hurt exploded down his face. He let out a little cry, trying not to wince.

The bastards broke his sunglasses too, so he couldn’t use those to hide his eye.

He raised a blue slushie cup to the swelling—the only first aid kit he could afford between Jules’s apartment and this store.

He buttoned the sleeves and regarded his sorry state. At least the clothes were fine. His mother might have said he looked handsome if it weren’t for the swollen eye.

He definitely wasn’t going by Jules’s anymore.

So Steve-O was the kind of guy she wanted. The masculine, alpha type.

Cyrus was a lot of things; alpha wasn’t one of them.

Fine. Let her find out that those kinds of guys just wanted one thing, and they’d never care about her feelings.

Had he cared about her feelings? Visiting her just now? There wasn’t any love in her eyes. Just annoyance. That was all he was to her now.

heStop thinking, Cyrus!

Stop thinking, Cyrus!No more Jules today. He had to find a job.

He paid for the clothes in a rush, wearing them at checkout, which irked the cashier. He ignored the horrified look from her as she stared at his eye. Then he emerged into a lively block of storefronts on North Milwaukee Avenue and North Sacramento.

The building was newly constructed and controversial as hell, taking the place of a shady flea market that Cyrus and Becca were both glad to see go. As tacky as the old megamall was, with cheap socks, western wear, silver shops, and dollar stores that no one visited anyway, a lot of longtime residents didn’t want the new complex of ornate brick, modern apartments, and retail spaces with sparkling glass fronts because it drove real estate prices up—a constant argument in Logan Square because of all the gentrification, like many areas in Chicago. Residents complained of the neighborhood losing its original charm. But politics always prevailed, and Logan’s Crossing was built, and the swanky new lofts filled with tenants who were happy to pay the sky-high rent. Here it was, with the smell of hot food and coffee in the air, cars breezing by with windows down, and young people walking and laughing on the streets with pastel-colored shopping bags.

“Here goes nothing,” he said, shifting his backpack’s weight, staring at the long boulevard of shops ahead.

* * *

“Tell me about your experience with customer service,” a*****e manager said, eyeing him in the middle of a customer rush. They were surrounded by candles. She grabbed a fat glass candle off a shelf. It had an image of a long pier stretching into an infinity of crystalline ocean waters.

“Tell me how you’d describe the scent to a customer.”

He whiffed it and coughed. The cloyingly sweet aroma reminded him of his grandmother’s perfume, and how a simple hug choked him with it. But he caught himself from being brutally honest.

“It smells like...fresh laundry?”

“Um, hello,” she said wanly, tapping the oceanic image with a fingernail, “the candle should have given it away.”

Cyrus chuckled nervously and rubbed the back of his head. “So when can I start?”

The woman crossed something off on her clipboard.

* * *

“You do realize that this is a jewelry store, don’t you?”

jewelry storeAs a*****e manager in an impeccably tailored gray suit stared him up and down, Cyrus gestured to his shirt.

“Right. I left my suit at home. And I totally understand that I look like I just got my ass kicked.”

“Now that you mention it,” the manager said, frowning.

“But that would make me the best jewelry salesperson you ever had,” Cyrus said, tapping his temple. “Because I know what it means to lose something important. That’s a transferable skill. I can channel this feeling when I’m protecting your jewelry, you know?”

The manager just walked away, leaving him with a goofy grin on his face that quickly faded.

* * *

“I know what this looks like,” Cyrus said, standing next to a rack full of plus-sized bras as the assistant manager, a tall middle-aged woman, stared at him in disbelief. “But I just need a job. I swear I’m not a pervert.”

She laughed him out of the store. Even after he left, she was still laughing.

* * *

“You’re looking for a job? You need a doctor, buddy.”

A Middle Eastern man at a burger and hotdog joint eyed him more with pity than seriousness. Glistening hot dogs circled on a rotisserie on the counter.

“You do realize that we keep late hours, right?”

“I thought this would be a nine-to-five gig.”

“Strike two,” the man said.

Cyrus slapped a five on the counter. “If you aren’t going to give me a job, at least give me some food to eat.”

* * *

He stopped for a break in the shade of an oak tree. Through the leaves, he glanced up at the sun and clouds. It was already four thirty. The light was starting to turn to the golden glow of evening. In any case, he could give Becca a report—a failing one.

He had walked into every shop that had a sign for help wanted. Even Target wouldn’t take him.

Either jobs were for suckers or he was unemployable. The hiring managers couldn’t stop staring at his injured eye.

There had to be someone at this place that would take him seriously. Wasn’t there one person in this whole damn city with an ounce of sympathy?

Less than ten seconds after sitting down at a bench to eat his hotdog, he spilled mustard on his new shirt. He dabbed the stain with a napkin and cursed. Then he buried his head in his hands, saw that he had accidentally dropped his hotdog on the sidewalk, and he groaned.

Maybe it was a good night to listen to the Bee Gees again...

He touched the raw nerve near his eye again, and he suppressed a yelp. His slushie was lukewarm and useless now.

Something brushed against his leg. Under the bench, he spotted a blur of brown racing away before a pinkish tail slapped his foot.

Was that...a rat?

His brain caught up with his senses and he yelled, pushing away from the bench and jumping to his feet.

“Rat!”

No one heard him.

The brown rat had dragged his hotdog to a nearby tree circle and was nibbling on it.

“Why don’t you eat my pride while you’re at it?” Cyrus said.

Maybe it was his cue to go home.

Someone tapped him on the shoulder.

“You weren"t hurt, were you?”

A wiry man in a checkered button-up shirt grabbed him by the shoulders. He had a patchy, grayish-black beard and rectangular glasses. “I"m terribly sorry.”

“Sorry for what?” Cyrus asked.

The man knelt and made a clicking sound with his tongue. The rat with black eyes emerged from the tree square, stopping for a moment, and then running into the man"s outstretched hand, still chewing. He scooped up the rat and brushed its hump with his knuckle.

“He may look wild, but he’s a lab rat,” the man said, stroking the rat’s chocolate brown fur streaked with black. The rat’s eyes boggled, almost bulged out of their sockets for a split second as it ground its teeth together.

“Are you nuts?” Cyrus asked. “You walk around with a pet rat?”

The man soothed the rat and held it eye-level with Cyrus. “I was just taking him out for fresh air. Usually, he sticks his head out of my bag from time to time. The smell of hotdogs must have gotten him excited.”

Cyrus caught a rustic floral scent. The man wore a boutonnière pinned to his shirt pocket: a wreath of baby’s breath circled with acorns.

“I’m glad you’re all right, young man,” the man said. “And sorry about the hotdog. But say—since I have you, could I borrow ten to fifteen minutes of your time?”

Cyrus was about to remark how he needed to get home.

“It’s for a paid interview,” the man said quickly. “It’s the least I can do for scaring the bejesus out of you.”

Cyrus started to speak again, but the man walked away and gestured to follow.

The man crossed out of the street and toward a shop inside an old masonry building that he hadn’t noticed before. He passed under a red neon sign with the store title and stark letters: Whisker & Claw. A paper sign in the window said: LOOKING FOR STUDY PARTICIPANTS.

A young oak tree partially obscured the storefront, its branches hanging over the doorframe and window.

All the guy had to do was say “money.” Cyrus grabbed his backpack and slushie and hurried after him.

The inside of the place reminded him of a stodgy accountant"s office. Instead of shelves and racks full of products to sell, there was just a lonely desk, a laser printer, a telephone, and a back office. In a corner, a giant kennel with cedar shavings, a hamster wheel, and a water bottle hung upside-down with a metal tube. The cage was huge for just a single rat. The man placed the rat in the cage and locked it. He doused his hands with hand sanitizer on the desk, then strode across the gigantic space, grinning with hospitality.

A shiver ran through Cyrus as he stepped onto the threshold of the store. He didn’t know how to process the feeling. He paused, looking around.

“Welcome to Whisker & Claw,” he said. “I’m Dr. Atticus Thurston.”

“Cyrus.”

The doctor shook his hand and pulled him into the store.

“You just might be the first Cyrus to walk through this door,” the man said. His dark eyes were wild with excitement and friendliness. “Cyrus, the ancient Persian name for Lord. Do you have Persian heritage?”

What kind of question was that?

“Nah, I’m mostly Irish. Little bit of English, I think.”

“Ah. I have this game I like to play from time to time to get a sense of people,” Thurston said, stroking his beard. “It seems I lost.”

So the guy was a doctor. Definitely had the air. A very “holier than thou, but I"ll treat you gently” vibe.

“What exactly is this place?” Cyrus asked, looking around again.

He glanced at the rat in the cage.

“Do you sell rats?”

“No.”

“Are you guys exterminators?”

“No.”

Thurston clucked his tongue as if he had forgotten something. He gestured for Cyrus to wait, and jogged to the back office. He creaked open the door and said a few words softly. A few seconds later, a woman with pigtails and a green sweater emerged with a clipboard, chewing bubblegum.

“We"ll see if you"re a good fit, Mr. Cyrus. If you are, we"ll pay you for your time today, of course. This is Laurel. She has a few interview questions if you don"t mind.”

Oh boy. Another interview. If this one was anything like the others, he had about thirty seconds until they threw him out on his ass.

Thurston patted him on the shoulder. “Laurel, will it please you to take care of Mr. Cyrus?”

What kind of dude used “will it please you” in a sentence? Cyrus suppressed a chuckle as the woman said “Of course,” and Thurston kissed her on the cheek.

“It was very nice to meet you, Mr. Cyrus,” the doctor said. “Don"t worry too much about the questions. Even if you"re not a fit, we’ll pay you for your time today.”

With a bow, he retreated to the back office, closing the door softly. In the cage, the rat jumped onto his treadmill.

Cyrus settled into an uncomfortable metal chair at the table with Laurel. She barely acknowledged his existence so far. Just like the other managers. She looked young—too young to be a manager. The Thurston guy was the head honcho.

“Can I have a name for our records?” Laurel asked.

“Cyrus Grant.”

She scribbled on her clipboard. The sound of pencils on clipboards was going to trigger him from now on.

“It"s not a problem that I look like hell, is it?”

Laurel didn"t glance up from her questions. “We"ve seen worse. Mr. Grant, this is a survey to gauge whether you are a good fit for a research project that Dr. Thurston is working on. As the doctor implied, we may part ways today. Ninety-seven percent of applicants are not a fit for the study.”

“With my batting average today so far, you won"t hurt my feelings if you tell me to take a hike,” Cyrus said, giggling.

Laurel didn"t even laugh. At least the other managers had laughed.

“Mr. Grant, the questions I"m going to ask you may seem strange, but please answer them with complete honesty, to the best of your ability.”

“As long as you don"t ask me about the bank I robbed last night, we"ll be good.”

Still no reaction. Laurel would make a killer accomplice if he ever decided to commit a crime. She was stone-faced, man...

“Do you believe in ghosts, Mr. Grant?”

He laughed. “I thought you were going to ask me about customer service. What a relief.”

Laurel looked up, annoyed. “Do you?”

“Ghosts? No way.”

“What about the paranormal and supernatural? Werewolves, vampires, witches, and the like?”

“God no. They make for great movies, though.”

“What is your vision? Do you wear corrective lenses?”

“20/20. I think. And no.”

“Do you suffer from claustrophobia?”

“No.”

“Arachnophobia—fear of spiders, or katsaridaphobia—fear of cockroaches?”

“Unless they’re big enough to beat me up, no.”

“Do you mind getting dirty?”

“No.”

“Are you afraid of rats, Mr. Grant?”

“Not really. I just don’t like it when they brush against my leg when I’m deep in depressing thoughts.”

“Yes or no, Mr. Grant.”

“No.”

Laurel went “hmm” and shrugged. Had it been a good sign? It had to be a good sign!

“Can you swim?”

“Yes.”

“On a scale of one to ten, with one being not fearful and ten being fearful, how would you rate visiting a new place for the first time?”

He had to think about that one. “Can you give me an example?”

Laurel popped her bubblegum. “You’re in a part of town you don’t visit often and make a turn onto a wrong street. You have no idea what’s on the other end.”

“I’d say a two.”

“Would you keep walking down the street or turn around?”

“I guess it depends on the environment. If it’s dark, I’m turning around. But if there are people around, I’d check it out. City 101.”

“Next question,” Laurel said. “Do you like the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles?”

“What kind of question is that? Of course.”

“If we asked, would you be able to resist making Ninja Turtle jokes? We’re a serious operation.”

“What the heck are you hiring me to do?”

“The question, Mr. Grant, the question.”

“If you pay me enough, sure.”

“And one final question. The doctor asks for complete rule-following during the study. You must do everything he asks. Deviation is not tolerated. Will that be a problem?”

“I can follow rules if that’s what you’re asking.”

Laurel set down her pen. “Thank you. Based on your answers, you’re a candidate for our study.”

“Yes!” Cyrus said, jumping out of the chair and knocking it to the floor. “You have no idea how much I’ve been wanting to hear a yes today.”

Laurel went over the terms with him. He was to report to the Ashland L station tomorrow at seven o’clock, to wear long sleeves and pants, and to come with an enthusiastic personality. More would be shared with him at that time, but the job would pay $15 an hour on a temporary contract.

Cyrus’s eyes widened. “You’re going to pay me how much?”

howWhen Laurel repeated the amount, Cyrus uppercutted the air. It was at least a few dollars more than he could have made elsewhere.

least“Thank you, thank you, thank you,” he said. He pulled out his phone but resisted the urge to text Becca. No, he thought as he skipped out of the store. He’d savor this moment and milk it for as long as he could.