I picked up my press pass for the inaugural National Urban Rat Summit, hosted by Mayor Eric Adams and his affectionately termed “rat czar,” Kathleen Corradi, on the day it was scheduled to take place. Already late, I hustled westward, my freshly acquired credentials bobbing around my neck. Darting into a side entrance of Pier 57, I spotted a foam-core sign mounted on an easel near an unmanned check-in desk, on which were scattered the last of the printed programs and a few unclaimed name tags. In a room to the right, a group of sixty or so people gathered in a summit-y way.
Not wanting to disrupt the stimulating Zoom presentation (“Urban Rat Population Dynamics: How Knockdowns and Rebounds Impact Long-Term Trends”) already underway, I attempted to slip in quietly as a mouse but was met by a stout brunette who briskly escorted me back out. “I’m press,” I said assuredly. “Only the opening remarks were open to the press,” she replied, before calling up a colleague at the mayor’s office to confirm my expulsion.
Had I been a veteran of the city-politics beat, I might have known that reporters don’t usually stick around after the press conference. And I might have realized, in the moment, just who had intercepted me—none other than the rat czar herself. I hadn’t expected to meet face-to-face with Corradi, who, according to an article in New York Magazine, lacks a direct staff and so is accustomed to wearing many hats. Not only does she consult on new outdoor-dining design regulations, coordinate site visits with multiple city agencies, and handle community relations, but she also bounces rogue reporters from expert summits.
My access revoked, I left, tail between my legs. Outside, a different kind of summit piqued my interest—a stepped and sculpted landmass across from Pier 57. I wondered, “Are there rats on Little Island?” With its narrow, drawbridge-like connection to Hudson River Park and the Meatpacking District and no residents to speak of, the artificial isle could be the most rodent-free place in the city.
“No better outlet for the pulse of the culture, education, and practice of architecture—in and beyond New York.” — John Hill
Like rats to roquefort, Little Island was overrun with tourists sniffing out selfie opportunities. I ambled along the winding walkways, reminiscent of some sort of high-end mini-golf course, minus the Putt-Putt. Scanning the tidy trails for any signs of vermin, I zeroed in on a black plastic bait box just like the ones outside my Bushwick apartment building. It was marked “#29,” and I devised a scavenger hunt to track down the rest of the numbered boxes. After spotting several more traps, I got bored with my pointless puttering, and headed past the food vendors toward the exit just in time to see a man spew an entire mouthful of masticated sunflower seeds toward a peckish flock of pigeons. That was all the evidence I needed. Wherever man spews his seed, there are rats indeed. Or as the NYC Department of Health warns: “Feed a pigeon, feed a rat.”
That evening, still starved for access, I accepted my friend Lily’s plus-one to the New York launch of Sally Rooney’s new novel, Intermezzo, hosted by Emma Roberts’s book club, Belletrist, at the Irish Arts Center. There’s something so ratlike about being a plus-one—not really invited but tagging along all the same. Maybe it’s a fact of life that wherever people go, so will their plus ones, feeding off free food and gnawing through electrical wiring.
Feeling insecure at this star-studded event, I pulled my one-time-use press badge out of my tote and hung it around my neck. My trick immediately worked (this wasn’t my first day at the attention-seeking rodeo). I was peppered with questions by inquisitive literary types seeking stories and characters, and “reporter from the National Urban Rat Summit” certainly fit the bill. I thought back to the guidelines packaged with my newly minted press card and wondered if this counted as “misuse or misrepresentation,” i.e., wielding media credentials “while not acting in a newsgathering capacity.” I shrug off the concern—it is my first day on the job.
There’s something so ratlike about being a plus-one—not really invited but tagging along all the same.
Parallels between rats and humans are easy to draw. (Readers will note that this very publication has an anthropomorphized rat as its mascot.) It’s more difficult to mount an investigative report to assess the motives of the mayor’s antivermin campaign or gauge its chances of success. So, opting for the path of least resistance, as weary creatures are wont to do, I arranged to meet up with my building super, Said, to get his thoughts on urban rat population dynamics.
Rats roam unmitigated in Bushwick, one of four citywide designated rat mitigation zones, but Said has done a commendable job keeping the area out front clean. He suggests some pretty smart, no-nonsense strategies the city could use to address the rat issue (education, changing trash pickup, closing up holes in buildings), many of which were discussed at a virtual “rat academy” training session offered by the city that I later attended. He is approachable and thoughtful. He’s one of the reasons (besides cheap rent) that I don’t want to leave my apartment even though my block is kind of busted.
But toward the end of the interview, Said got conspiratorial. He started spouting about how they could get rid of the rat problem if they wanted to. That Western governments actually want us to live among the rats. That in Spain they just passed a law that forbids killing rats (true). That in France you can marry animals (not true). It’s not really adding up, but it reminds me of something I noticed at the summit: When a janitor carried the trash out of the conference room to which I was denied entry, I noticed soiled coffee cups tossed in clear plastic bags—a violation of city policy. Maybe I’m nitpicking, but shouldn’t the rat czar be getting this kind of thing right? And haven’t I been equating myself to rats this entire column? Have I been poisoned into believing I’m no better than a rat? Said certainly doesn’t want to be a rat. But maybe it’s because he lives on the ground floor. He needs to distinguish his home from theirs. He’s the bouncer to my third-floor homo sapien summit of one.
At around 3 a.m. on an unseasonably warm Saturday night– cum–Sunday morning in October, I headed over to an underground rave that had been promoted with a rat-themed flyer captioned by its hosts as “the rat government-in-exile is coming overground,” where “New York’s raggedy trash lords have infiltrated all strategic departments & installed one of our own as Rat Czar.” The party hosts have broadcast that the door is prioritizing women, and I’m not one. To make matters worse, I was just at a pregame with a thirty-gay-men-to-zero-women ratio. To make up for that, I’m in costume, wearing a silicone breastplate while my date dons a plastic rat nose. The door is a disaster—“We’re going to start refunding tickets,” I hear the doorkeep yell in the direction of some gay guys. I strain to repress my fight-or-flight response. It’s fine, I tell myself. They are not talking to me. I am a woman. I am dating a rat. Approaching the front of the line, I’m asked if I have tickets. “No,” I say, “but I was texting with squeak, squeak, squeak.” Whatever I squealed did the trick; I scurried into the rat den. Maybe Said was right to be concerned. Either way, access finally granted.