Rufus the Mouse

This Saturday I woke up at noon, the latest I've slept for God knows how long. I stayed in bed another hour, reading and wishing I had thought to buy some Diet Coke for a hangover cure. (It works almost as well as Gatorade, and doesn't taste like ass. Tell your friends.)



Finally, I dragged my ass out of bed and started thinking of all the shit I had to do. I decided not to do any of it, but to go to the Brookline Booksmith instead. This is why my apartment is a mess, and why I have more books than space on my bookshelves. Actually, part of the reason I was going to Brookline was to try to remedy the latter situation somewhat. I've had three grocery bags full of books in the trunk of my car for months now that I've been meaning to sell back to the Booksmith. Crossing this chore off my list would make me feel better about how I planned on spending the rest of the day, which was sitting around in a puddle of sunshine like a cat, reading my new books and drinking ice coffee (which is not so much like a cat, but what can you do).



So I drove over to Brookline in a much shorter amount of time than it usually takes, in less traffic than there usually is, and got a space right out front, which never happens. It was a beautiful day. I sold back some books, got some others, didn't get a parking ticket. Bliss. As I was heading back toward Rosi, however, I noticed something scampering across the windshield of my car.



A mouse. A goddamn mouse. ON MY CAR. I screamed like a twelve-year-old girl and pulled over. The mouse scampered under the hood of my car and hid there. I could see it peering out at me with its terrified little eyes.



So there I was. Standing by the side of the road. Peering under the hood of my car and jumping back to the sidewalk whenever the mouse made a move, which wasn't often, as I think he was more frightened than I was. Although, ha ha, I dunno. I kept screeching a little every time he moved, to the great merriment and occasional consternation of passersby.



My fear was that the mousie would figure out a way to squish himself through the space in the floor where the pedals came into the cabin of the car, and nibble at my feet with his horrible yellow teeth, causing me to get typhoid just like the kids in El Norte. Goddamn Spanish class. Six years of studying and I don't remember a single tense, but I'll never forget El Norte.



I thought for a minute. I clearly couldn't get back in my car. I clearly couldn't leave my car there. I had to get back to my puddle of sunshine and my loafing. I decided to do what any self-respecting girl would do. I called all the guys I know and whined into their voicemail.



"Hey, Isaac, it's Jen. Um, there's a mouse in my car? Well, okay, not in my car, per se. More on my car. Also around my car. But what I'm mostly worried about is that he'll get through my car and bite my feet with his horrible, horrible teeth. Can you call me back?"



Isaac didn't call me back. Neither did any of the other guys I called, including my Dad. I think their caller ID comes up "HUBLEY -- SHE'S INSANE." I don't blame them, really, for not wanting to man the hotline on a gorgeous summer day.



Anyway, as I was standing there, wondering what to do, I heard a little squeak or something and looked down, and there was my little friend, scampering off into the bushes. I spent another minute or two debating whether or not it was the mouse, until I realized that that really was insane, and that of course it was the same mouse, and that the odds of there being two identical mice crawling around my car were pretty slim. So I got back in my rodent-free vehicle and drove back home with a light heart. Sort of. Every couple of feet or so, I'd think I felt something biting my feet, but since I'm used to being crazy, I didn't worry about it too much.



On the way home I decided his name is Rufus. I'm sure he won't mind.