My friend relayed these events many years ago, and though I’ve not remembered every detail as on the day first told, excusing a liberty or two, I believe I’ve captured the gist of it.  What transpired is largely true.

A small country store stood on a road that saw fair traffic during daylight hours, but did little business as dusk turned to night save perhaps on Friday and Saturday when folks craved their beer and wine for celebration’s sake.  Elsewise it seemed to make little sense to operate past sunset on most evenings, yet the owner chose to stay open until midnight Sunday to Thursday and until two in the morning the afore mentioned weekend nights.  I guess he figured he could cover the clerk’s minimum wage and eek a small profit with the odd sale.

Being a young man, my friend Stan, still in pursuit of his calling, had few prospects but needed something to put in his pocket if at least to satisfy his parents he was willing to work.  He thus shook hands with the owner agreeing to staff the establishment most nights between sun’s retirement and closing time.  Stan had a sharp mind and soon found it difficult to stave off the boredom that comes with an occupation of this nature.  In addition to this, summer nights in Alabama could be oppressive and the store lacked the air conditioning we now find ubiquitous.  These two difficulties led him to spend more time outside than in while waiting on the next patron.  Stan would sit on crate under a fading mercury streetlight listening to summer’s symphony of cricket and cicada.

On one such night my friend occupied his seat eating his brown bag dinner.  The sandwich was pieced together with bread that had seen its better day and Stan tore stale edges and discarded them a few paces to the side.  As he ate in relative quiet a small shape graced the circle of light bathing the vicinity.  It moved with hesitancy toward the crusts laying on the gravel surface.  Stan watched as medium sized rat traveled the distance to the Wonder remnants and began eating.  Though Stan no longer wanted the byproducts of his meal he felt put upon somehow and sought retribution—he was now determined to kill the filthy creature.  To temp the rodent he threw a greater prize to the ground, a small portion of bologna, though not so far as had the bread flown.  Outfitted by creator with a keen sense of smell, the furry lump slowly made way for better spoils.  Stan again hurled meat this time within striking distance.  The wee beast chose to advance to the newly fallen protein.  As its little rat teeth nibbled, Stan carefully wrapped hand round handle of a night stick he always toted to his place of rest bit.  Just before my friend was to strike a killing blow something came over him.  I can’t say whether kindness, or glint in eye, or recognition of another just trying to get by in dark of night turned the tide, but he altered his plan choosing to let the animal live.

Over the coming nights the scene replayed itself many times until breaking bread with the rat became a ritual looked forward to.  And as most living things do, this lowly being no longer maneuvered with halting step, but assumed a sense of trust.  For his part Stan stopped looking at his new acquaintance as a thing capable of spreading flea and pestilence, rather he saw it as another late night voyager—a companion.  Indeed, as the summer progressed Stan talked to the rat sharing whatever came to mind.  Of course it was more monolog than conversation, apart from the occasional squeak, but that was of no matter for it made the long nights passable.

On a particular evening as both sat side by side enjoying mutual meal and chatting about the day’s events, a great shadow darkened their source of illumination and with no regard to newly formed relationship an owl picked up little rat and flew to nearby branch to feast on what was now secured in talon.  Had this occurred the first night the rodent paid visit, Stan would have considered it an impressive act of nature and thought little more of it, but Stan now spoke of the intense emotion he felt.  He wanted kill the bird that preyed upon his small friend though there was no practical way to achieve this end.  The balance of that evening Stan spent alone and if memory serves, he gave up the job shortly after, moving on to other endeavors.  I believe he said the night no longer passed as well.

I don’t know what you think of Stan’s choice to adopt his meek little friend, but I find it pleasing to picture the two of them under light shining down from an old telephone pole sharing nourishment and story on a warm Alabama night.