Rats in the Flood

 I had wound up in New York just in time for the biggest insurgence of work in ages. The Hurricane Sandy restoration/clean-up was in full swing.

The disaster while devastating and heartbreaking, also created a boon. There was work to be had for people who wanted it.

I had a ton of adventures with the cleaning crews. From gang fights amongst the workers to shoot outs in government housing. One particular story however sticks out far and above the rest.

It was early in the restoration effort.

Our crew, whom I had taken the liberty of nicknaming individually, were still eager. The $30 per hour tax free they were being paid was motivating the workers to wade into the brackish water and snatch things from the precipice of certain doom. 

The restoration effort of course began in the most affluent of areas, before cascading down to the underprivileged. Our first neighborhood, was obviously affluent and the hazmat suited workers were making quick work of the flooded areas.

As workers are wont to do we teased each other and made light of the tragedy around us. For entertainment purposes we started paying heed to the items leaving the basements of the houses.

One house in particular while visually unremarkable will always stand out to me. It resonates because of the oddity of the items in the basement.

The traffic signs was the first thing that seemed odd.

Then the cots. Not one or two for out of town guests. No the pile grew on the sidewalk waiting for the front end loader to place in dumpsters lining both sides of the once idealist subdivision.

20 or 30 cots were pulled from this basement. My suspicion grew with each one.
Then came the toys.
Dolls. By the hundreds. Hulu hoops, skates, skate boards, action figures, yo-yo’s, lunch boxes.
All of these items gave me pause. The hazmat suited crew were too immersed in the $30 dollars an hour to give the oddities a second glance.

Then came the restraints and the most money hungry and distracted members of the team were forced to take note. Handcuffs. Zip ties. And the worst, shackles!

I had already removed myself from even the yard of the offending house, my excuse? I had to monitor all of the squads. The facts? I KNEW that house had been the site of some heinous crimes and I didn’t want my DNA anywhere near the scene.

When the corps had collected no less than 50 restraints and the trunks started coming out the crew chief approached me softly.

I had been expecting his question for at least an hour and a half. “Cheese, what the fuck? Do you think I need to call somebody?”

He was a fucking moron. Why are you asking me stupid shit? Are you waiting to find a body in one of those trunks?

I gave him the same look I give my son when he asks me on trash day if he should take the can to the end of the street. A look that wordlessly conveys my shock that this guy was smart enough to remember to breath.

I pay one of the temp agency workers, who are only receiving $10 hourly to accidently drop one of the trunks.

Yep. Weapons. Obscure weapons like a cross bow, shuriken and a really pretty .357. 

Finally these New Yorkers who according to popular wisdom should be much more intelligent than me realize that a crime has likely been committed. Suffolk and Nassau county Police cars finally arrive on scene and the evidence began being collected.

Sometimes rats wash out in the flood.