MISTER MOUSE

John Armstrong

mister mouse I love you but get out of my house

and we’re out the front door and onto third avenue like a couple of bad burglars me and

mister mouse and it’s not even early yet but I’ve never felt more awake like maybe instead of

caffeine they should do instead: adrenaline! and I’m holding my dislocated sock drawer way

out in front of me like a tray of eels containing 1. my socks and 2. you mister mouse cosy and

hidden and scrabbling softly and it’s misting softly down like you’d imagine it would do

under the late night lights of london town and my socks are already damp both in the drawer

and on my feet because I didn’t even think to put on my shoes and I’m resisting revulsion at

what my toes might be meeting down there on the street just as I resisted revulsion at you

mister mouse when I first saw you hesitating by the bin and your tail! even if based on the

way sorcha first squealed I expected a forearm rat with fingernail fangs and not a dumpy

marsupial less cunning than a box of fish fingers but you instantly became our house mascot

mister mouse because after all in the beginning when things are new and hard you’re

supposed to have mice and everybody wanted to call the man with the traps because of all

your little shits by the weetabix but I convinced them to let me sort it maybe because I hate

the thought of somebody’s home filled up with traps so I lay in wait for you mister mouse

lying awake rolling slowly sleepless around my bed because you became my responsibility

mister mouse and what is responsibility if not a 5am mission under a bleary sky and how far

is far enough that you can’t find your way back home but look at us! I’m usually so terrible at

leaving the house I’m almost late for every audition because I have to stand there looking at

the hob and then go half way to the door and then turn around and go back and stand there

looking at the hob and then go three quarters to the door and then turn around and go back

and stand there looking at the hob counting one two three one two three one two three one

two three one two three so that even if there’s this sick certainty in my stomach that flames

will burst up the second I turn my back at least I’ve counted to three five times so when the

firemen are busy wrapping my housemates in tinfoil blankets out on third avenue at least I

can say I tried my best mister mouse I counted to three five times! now look at us stepping

out without a second thought like brand new babies with soft beautiful brains not even

worrying whether we pulled the door behind us because I’m too busy worrying about

honestly you mister mouse because how can you expect to survive out here in this city full of

ois and mates and are you having a laughs and you like a soft pouch full of tiny mouse bones

and me in my soggy rotten socks how will we survive mister mouse when I catch a chill and

have to lay in bed for weeks and miss all my auditions and who will bring me tea and toast

and rub my head? I used to imagine life like a piling up but now I think maybe it’s more like

a gentle gnawing away because I’m losing pieces just as fast as I’m gaining them and I don’t

think I ever had to properly say goodbye to anything until I was already too old to learn how

so now even the tiniest departures are painful but there’s no time for that now because now

we’re approaching the park railings and what better place for mister mouse to build his house

than among the bushes and crisp packets so I stand in my pyjamas in the rain trying to decide

how best to separate you from my socks without flinging everything all down around me like

depressed confetti because respectfully mister mouse I’m still not sure I can stand the sight of

you and your tail so I set the drawer down on the pavement and look up into the streetlight

hoping that you’ll make a run for it while I’m pretending to be distracted and I even give the

drawer a soft little kick with my big toe but when I look down I can still see the tremble of

you beneath my socks and I think mister mouse we should make a pact to worry about each

other as much as possible because I think the more we worry about each other the less we

worry about ourselves and the less we get caught in our household traps and the more we can

work to build better things for each other because if it were me instead of you hiding in that

drawer I could never have carried it out of the front door without even putting on my shoes so

here’s my decision mister mouse I’m giving you my drawer and all my socks as a gift

because each sock for you is as big as a sleeping bag and I can always buy new socks mister

mouse but you cannot because you are after all a no money mouse who never made rent and

this way I can shut the front door behind me and drape my wet socks over the back of a

kitchen chair and climb the stairs back into bed and lie there worrying about somebody else

safe in the knowledge that somebody else out there is worrying about me.