I live in a fifth floor-walk-up apartment. Lovingly, I call my apartment, the penthouse (with breath taking views of the projects and delis). Thanks to cheap rent and abundant space (for New York), I’ve remained in my shabby, but charming old studio apartment.
On one my voyages upstairs, I huffed and puffed. “I miss living in an elevator building” are the words, I proclaim, everyday. On a particularly cold January evening, I rushed up to the penthouse, bracing myself for Wonton soup to sooth and warm the soul.
Quickly, I met the face of fear. My eyes widen with terror. It was the grey creature of death and destruction. It squeaked. “Shit, that’s a mouse,” it was tiny. Rather, than disregarding mighty mouse, I took a calmer route.
With an earth-shattering scream, the mouse grew fearful. He fell a down a flight of stairs. Bolting toward my apartment, I arrived and locked the door. Anxiety raced through me.
Then, I thought about that poor injured mouse, falling down all the flights of stairs.
Poor guy, but it didn’t take away from his wrath of evilness. My heart grew worrisome for home, oddly. Afterwards, I took in deep breaths and listened to show tunes. While being entranced by the sounds of Phantom of the Opera, Evita and Fiddler on the Roof, I soon drifted into a mouse free land.
Months later, I forgot about Mr. Mouse. He was a distant memory. On a spring morning with sparkling blue skies and delicious coffee, I received a nervous text from my friend, Anna. “We have a mouse in our apartment,” she texted.
Being the strapping gay lad, I texted back, “I’ll be over to help you find it.” As I strolled past coffee shops and brownstone blocks, terror returned. “Shit, a mouse. I hate mice. The only mouse, I adore is named Mickey and he lives in Disneyland.”
Hesitatingly, I arrived into the den of anxiety, my friend’s apartment. My favorite neighbors, Anna and Sigourney’s faces spelled terror. Mousetraps lined the floor of the apartment. Furniture was scattered. Only one piece of furniture remained in tact, the couch.
Armed with broomsticks, Anna bravely moved the couch. We had a feeling the mouse was under it. While the couch moved, a sign of terror appeared. “Oh, my god, it’s a mouse tail, yelled Sigourney. Like any rugged and manly man, I took a quick gulp, bolted toward the bathroom and locked myself in.
“Anthony, grow a pair of balls,” said, Anna. I didn’t want to leave the bathroom. It was comfortable and safe. Eventually, I came out of the bathroom and quickly grabbed a broomstick. What looked like a tail, was actually fallen fabric from the couch. After moving the couch and re-arranging the furniture several times, the mouse still didn’t appear.
It was a grueling afternoon of screaming and anxiety. Rather than dialing up my very reliable therapist, I found my Zen place. If you guessed a coffee shop, then congratulations, you’re a fucking genius.
Anna and I sipped on lattes. We forgot about the mouse, which was never captured. Our lattes were a badge of honor for surviving a deeply traumatizing scenario.
Mice are a reality of New York, sort of like shit weather and high rents. Personally having two mouse encounters of a close kind has made me braver.
Fuck it, if I see one mouse, I am going to scream and have a heart attack. Oh and if this does happen, I hope some hunky fire fighter revives me. Cheers to you, Mickey Mouse, Jerry (of Tom & Jerry fame), and (who can forget) Mighty Mouse.