Eels

The first reports were out of Honduras, but no one paid much attention because Honduras is so far away and the story seemed too far-fetched and unreliable--but then it happened in Galveston, Texas and that changed everything. The wife of the victim was a witness to the terror. She reported hearing the pipes under their house rattling most of the day; she thought it might have been caused by the recent cold snap that had come through the Gulf area. At worst she feared the rattling might be tremors signaling the imminent arrival of an earthquake. Both of her guesses were reasonable, but wrong.

It happened in the middle of the night, during one of her husband's semi-conscious trips to the bathroom. As he sat on the commode, still half-asleep, the eel surfaced and attacked from underneath, burrowing into his anus like a freshly-sharpened router, eating more of him with every inch it advanced. By the time his wife reached the bathroom, he was screaming, frantically thrashing to reach the eel that was hanging out of him like a wet tail. His wife muttered, "El Diablo," as she backed away to the safety of the doorway. Her husband fell to the floor in convulsions as the eel extricated itself and plopped back into the toilet, disappearing down the dark, twisted corridor of plumbing, leaving behind a trail of blood and intestines.

She described the creature as an eel with the red eyes of the Devil. News reporters were quick to sensationalize the attack, writing articles about evolutionary mutation, biblical plagues, and alien attackers--creatures seeking refuge in the dark abyss

of the sewer system, gathering in breeding colonies, soon to be upon us all.

You might imagine how I felt that evening, staring into the commode, conjuring up all sorts of demons--my palms sweating, trying to rationalize my fear. I kept telling myself that it was an isolated attack miles away, and that I live on the third floor of a well-maintained apartment building with a doorman--that I'd be more likely to get killed crossing the street than be devoured by some slimy toilet-predator.

The longer I procrastinated the greater my anxiety seemed to build. I turned on the light and scanned the commode. Seeing nothing out of the ordinary, I sat gently down. I felt myself straining, and I tried to relax. Then I felt a vibration, a slight distant-rattling; I hoped it was only my stomach rumbling. I managed to squeeze out a small lump; I heard it drop into the toilet-water and I jumped from the commode, blurting out an involuntary and unfamiliar noise. Then I tried to suspend myself above the commode, praying the predators weren't jumpers, but it was too uncomfortable. I finally managed to empty my bowels and I hurriedly wiped myself before retreating to the safety of my bed, leaving the bathroom light on like a scared child.

I stared at the light coming into my bedroom from under the bathroom door. I had to jam my blanket under the door so I could get some sleep. As I was drifting into semi-consciousness, I was startled by the screams of a woman in the apartment next to mine. I banged on the walls trying to scare off the eel, but it didn't help. She must have fought till she was too

exhausted to resist, because she suddenly went silent. I feel guilty that I made no attempt to come to her rescue, but was there really anything I could do? As I lay there staring at the ceiling, thinking about her desperate cries, the bed began to vibrate, the plumbing shook wildly, and the entire building seemed to rumble. Then suddenly the noise diminished and I could hear the eels moving down the street to other buildings. The rattle becoming more like knocks and pings, like prisoners trying to pass coded-messages to each other, secrets, plans to escape--break out in number.

If I slept at all, I have difficulty remembering. The next morning I saw nothing unusual--no ambulances, police, or yellow tape. I wondered if her body was yet to be found, or perhaps I imagined everything. Did my neighbor simply bring home a lover that couldn't get enough of her? Were garbage trucks rattling about in the night? Surely there was a rational explanation?

I dressed and left for work. I passed a homeless man rummaging through the trash, rattling empty soda cans, and another man pushed a squeaky three- wheeled shopping cart. The sounds of a city that never sleeps, is that all it was?

A few blocks later, I saw a man in a business suit squatting in the back of an alleyway; I saw crews of city workers with sophisticated listening-devices inspecting pipelines. I saw rats; thousands of them, running into the street from subway entrances and corner drain-gutters, seeking sanctuary in the light of the sun--and on the door of every public building signs read, "Restrooms Out of Order," or "Closed for Repairs."

Today, when I see an "Out of Order Sign" on a restroom, I still think of that day--the day the eels passed through my neighborhood on their way back to Honduras.