Page 60 of Grumpy Puck

“Is it bad PR?”I ask.“I thought they reallydidspread the plague.”

She shakes her head.“Recent studies have debunked that theory.It was humans who spread it, not rats.”

I give Wolfgang an apologetic nod.“I didn’t realize.”

“Few people do.The reality is, rats are cute and intelligent creatures.When it comes to cohabitation with people, they are superior to cats in every way, yet the bad PR is making it so they are not nearly as mainstream as felines.Worse still, people create things such as rat traps and rat poison—which are terrible.”

I nod.“Your shows are meant to cast rats in a more positive light?”

“Exactly.My goal is to help the great work that Pixar started withRatatouille.Work that was continued by rodent heroes such as the Pizza Rat.”

I glance at the streets of New York outside, half expecting to see a rat carrying a slice of pizza as we speak.“I think I get it.”

Hell, I myself have been on the other end of bad PR—though, granted, it might actually have been deserved in my case.

“So,” I say.“If you did have a show, what would the rats be doing?”

For the rest of our trip, she tells me in minute detail, and I realize something I never would have imagined.

I’d like to see this rat show of hers.

The fundraiser is the kind of fancy that is only possible in New York.If it had a theme, it would be “old money” and/or “snobbery.”Most of the women wear pearls that they seem very eager to clutch, and the men all have a rare-for-hockey combo of soft hands and never-been-broken noses.

Just thinking about striking up a conversation with any of these people causes my blood pressure to spike way more than it would if I had to step into a boxing ring with a heavyweight champion.

“Let’s set up here.”Calliope gestures at one of the long tables in the middle of the room.

“Sure.”

Glad to have an excuse to postpone having to shmooze, I carry the bag with rat paraphernalia over to the table and watch as Calliope sets it all up.

“Now I’ll do my thing, and people will hopefully come over,” she says.

At her urging, the rats play soccer—an activity chosen because it’s a sport and therefore should allow me to segue into mentioning my foundation.

A couple of people gather and watch in fascination until the performance is finished, with Marco—or maybe Polo—scoring the last goal.

“That was amazing,” says one of the men, turning to his wife.“Wasn’t it, Sugar?”

I open my mouth to somehow talk about the fundraiser, but Sugar butts in, asking if Calliope has a business card.

“No,” Calliope replies.“Sorry.This isn’t about me.”She nods my way.“The performance was a means to draw attention to Michael’s foundation.”

Everyone turns my way, so I launch into the speech I’ve rehearsed so often in my head.To my shock, not only are they interested, a few even pull out their checkbooks—including Sugar’s husband.

“Now that that’s settled,” Sugar says, turning to Calliope, “how do I reach you in case I want to hire you to put on a show like that for me?”

Using nearby napkins, Calliope writes down her number.

“Thanks,” Sugar says and departs.

“Damn,” I say.“You might just get your show sooner than you thought.”

Calliope shakes her head.“I want to be performing in theaters or circuses.Sugar clearly has a private event, like a birthday, in mind.”

“Still.She might have a guest at her event who owns a theater or a circus.”

“How about we focus on you for now?”Calliope sets up the soccer game again, and it draws an even bigger crowd.

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