My friend Mitch told me this story a few years ago. Something about it has stuck with me. He tells the story as a tragedy. But it's always been a comedy to me.
Mitch awoke as he did every Monday; a deep groan, then both legs kicked out from under the sheet. He pulled himself over his gut to sit and hang his head, rubbing his eyes with his palms. That morning was on schedule just like every other, but unbeknownst to Mitch, events of the day would change his life forever.
As he made his way across the creaky hardwood to the bathroom for "the three s's," he saw it from the corner of his eye. On the threshold of Bella's closet was something suspicious. At first, he thought it was a turd that Bella's cat had shat. But upon further investigation, he saw it was a shriveled dead mouse — tail and body covered in dark, coagulated blood. No doubt the victim of that same cat. The kill was relatively new. Not too parched, not too moist. Mitch estimated the time of death to be within the last twelve hours.
He looked over to see Bella in bed, snug as a bug. Mitch was running late, and he figured she would clean it up when she got up, so he decided to leave the carcass where it lay.
Bella was Mitch's girlfriend of eight months. He told me often that she could be The One. She was smart and socially savvy. I liked her immediately, as did everyone else. She had a robust figure and spoke with a slight, cute lisp. They had spent almost every day together since they met.
Mitch returned home that night around 5:30. Bella was gone for the dinner shift. He made his way through the den and into the kitchen for his third Diet Coke of the day. The mouse hadn't crossed his mind since morning. But that changed as he kicked back a swig. His sights shot along the can, down the hallway to the bedroom door.
"No way it's still there," he said to the can.
But he was wrong. A little dryer and a little less recognizable, there it lay, untouched.
Mitch went to the bathroom for some tissue, disinfectant, and wood cleaner. He fumbled through the bottles under the sink and moved stuff around in the closet, but he couldn't locate the disinfectant. Irritated, he cut the search short, and, once again, decided to leave the mouse where it lay.
Mitch reheated some Thai and entered his Chill Station, located at the south end of the couch. The mouse faded from his thoughts as his mind floated back and forth between the TV and phone zones.
Before he knew it, Bella was gently rocking him awake. "It's ten o'clock," she whispered. "Time for bed."
The next morning, he did not look for the mouse. Maybe it'll be pleasant surprise, he thought. I'll get out of the shower and just happen to notice... it's gone! And even though she worked all night, she still had the gumption to de-mouse her closet. And all things will be right in the world.
But, once again, that was not the case. The mouse remained. Dry and probably stuck to the wood by now.
He figured Bella must have worked late and would get it in the morning.
She didn't.
After dinner, as they cleaned the kitchen, Mitch wanted to say something.
He imagined the conversation:
"Hey sweetie, did you see that dead mouse in your closet?"
Or
"Why haven't you picked that thing up?"
He thought about the responses and rebuttals — the resulting argument — the inevitable reprisals. And, whatever happened, he was sure the burning question would never be truly answered: why?
Mitch began and ended the day with the same conclusion — just stay out of it.
For the next three days, Mitch made a morning and evening mouse check. He always stared a little too long, like he was waiting for a response.
Mitch began to dream about the mouse. Sometimes, it would be enlarged, and its mangled body would sprout a head resembling Bella's. The head would mimic Bella's lisp, gradually becoming an uncontrolled, bloody spit-fest. Other nights, the dream would be tricky; Bella would slip into bed and lay her head on Mitch's chest, then begin rubbing her pelvis against his. It took a minute, but Mitch would realize the tickles on his legs weren't Bella's overgrown leg hairs, but the bloody dried hairs of the dead mouse.
"Aghhhh!" he would yell, jolting himself awake with a full-body spasm.
At our weekly beer meeting, Mitch told me how the situation was affecting their relationship.
"I can't get over the mouse," he said. "She's just leaving it there. She has to be stepping over it twice a day to get in and out of the closet. It's crazy!"
"Why don't you just say something?" I asked.
"I can't. I have to see what happens without my interference. I mean, how long can she do it? Forever?"
At other meetings, he would tell me how his feelings for her were beginning to change. Her robust figure, which Mitch once saw as strong and beautiful, seemed more loose and doughy. Her lisp, one of his favorite things about her, became sloppy.
"I feel so guilty. Am I the shallowest person in the world?"
I always responded the same way: "Just say something and get it over with."
"I know, I know, I just can't ... not yet."
As time went on, we discussed the mouse less and less. He could tell I was growing tired of the complaining and I could tell he was tired of it, too.
About every third get-together, I would say, "Mouse?"
"Still there," Mitch would respond with a sigh or a mild grit of his teeth.
That was the extent of the discussion for months. Then, one night, as soon as Mitch walked through the door, I could tell something was different. His shoulders were back and he walked with purpose to our table.
"Guess what?" he said with wide eyes.
"What's up?"
"Bella and I broke up."
"Dang! I'm sorry."
"You won't believe it," he continued. "You remember the mouse, right?"
"Are you serious? Yes, I remember the mouse."
"Well, I finally confronted her. I just couldn't take it anymore. We were arguing about dishes or something, and it just came out. I asked her why she never picked up that nasty dead mouse. 'What dead mouse?' she said. 'The one in your closet. What do you mean what mouse? How many dead mice do you have laying around?'
"'There's no dead mouse in my closet,' she said. 'Show me.' So, I proudly strutted towards her closet to point out the horror. 'Right there! See?' She peeked into the closet in disbelief. But when she saw the body, her face went blank. She folded her arms and kicked her hip out. 'That's NOT a mouse,' she said.
'What do you mean?' I said. 'There it is! Right there! There's the body and there's the tail!'
'No! You idiot!' she responded. 'That's the string and that's the tampon.'"
THE END
