Right, so today the Orkin Guy shows up at my cubicle-that-is-not-a-cubicle in our temporary space, looking all bloodthirsty and eyeing my jugular and my nostrils and fingers.
Okay, I lie, he seemed actually too gentle to be someone who passes out painful demises by poison and other Apparati of the Pest Control Legions. He was rather Cliff Clavinish. But he inquired as to whether he could put down some sticky traps near my cubicle-that-is-not-a-cubicle. Because the mice have followed me to work. Okay, I lie again, they are a different mouse family, but I would still rather see them alive than dead.
One look at my face and he said, “I’ll put these someplace else.”
I froze. “I mean, sticky is sticky, right? Like, death sticky. As in, no peeling off without losing limbs and blood.” I began to whimper.
“Yeah,” he repeated. “I’ll…go somewhere else.”
I burst into tears the other week at work when I got there to find a dead mouse in my corner, looking like he had fallen asleep sweetly, under a spiderweb. Bursting into ragged sobs Is a Bad Thing to Do at the office, generally. Weeping at the sight of a dead mouse at the office is a category on its own. At least it cements my position as a “Creative.”
A very nice temp (not hired for this particular duty) removed him for me. I would have professed my love for her but I could not stop weeping over the tragic gray fellow.
We are moving to new headquarters soon but I sort of hope the live mice follow me and I can build them a habitrail thing under my Real Real Cubicle when I get it. If they promise to stay there and be quiet as mice and, you know, not stinky, or copulate-y or anything.
Because THAT would be a cool cubicle. That’s what a writer’s cubicle should look like. I’ll start dressing like Ally Sheedy in The Breakfast Club and sing whispery Violent Femmes lyrics to them and chew on pencils and let them chew on pencils too. Who wants to be my cubicle mate?
Saw one of our home-based mice at home last night, scooting around the seltzer boxes and into the dining-room-that-is-not-a-dining-room, behind the striped couch that doesn’t belong or not belong in a dining-room-that-is-not-a-dining-room. He was gray with a cute white tuxedo, all sleek and soft and terribly cute. He was the George Clooney of mice. If he could talk he would have some charming wry understatement about the poor quality of crumbage on our countertops, and I would only love him more.
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