At the end of The Silence of the Lambs, rookie agent Starling finds herself in a musty, pitch-black basement, face-to-face with her uber-creepy nemesis Buffalo Bill. Though armed with a loaded gun (and that Jodie Foster pursed-lip intensity), Starling helplessly darts her big blue eyes around in the thick darkness, hoping her instincts will tell her where to point her loaded weapon, while Bill watches her struggle at arm's length distance, through night vision goggles. It's the ultimate psychological thriller moment.
According to recent observations, there are Buffalo Bills roaming all over New York City. They are brown. Or grey. They are small. They eat peanut butter and chew through garbage bags, and run around in ovens, as if they long to be forever confined to tiny spaces with no exit. They keep you up at night with their rustling of plastic bags, and munching on crumbs, leaving you to clean up triangular piles of shredded something before you leave for work. They can fit through holes you don't even know exist, and invite their little friends over for a midnight party, at your expense. They are immune to sticky traps, steel wool, cheese (manchego AND gruyere), and have learned to defy both gravity and genetics by climbing up furniture and thoughtlessly scampering across 400-thread count Egyptian cotton bedspreads. They crap everywhere, making you wonder if you have eaten lots of rye bread, carelessly spilling caraway seeds in odd places like your closet. They aim to terrorize. They are mice. And in this city, they're smart.
My friend "Charlie," has just returned from battle. (As a [slightly paranoid] precaution, names have been changed. For all we know, our Big Apple mice are now literate, and will use this blog entry to seek sweet revenge.) Charlie vs. The Mouse began with the standard signs: droppings in corners and strange places, chewed up wood chips, faint sounds of scampering feet in the night, and offensive garbage bag invasion. The traps were laid, but the first few nights were rather sleepless, after all, it's difficult to fall into REM sleep when music and lights are on. "Can you hear those footsteps over my music? That's the loudest mouse I've ever heard! [Sigh. Moan. .. inaudible cursing..] What am I gonna do," cried Charlie one night during a 1 am emergency phonecall. It had been many days with little paws in the night; she was starting to get desperate. And bleary-eyed.
We didn't see Charlie for nearly another week. The battle consumed her thoughts; strategies took up full time residence in the left hemisphere of her cerebrum. Much free time was spent wrestling furniture away from walls, purchasing high-tech traps, searching meticulously in the dark, for secret passageways, and zoning in on specific areas from which she was sure the evil sounds were emanating. To add insult to injury Charlie discovered to her horror [and delight] a fake mouse, rather a cat toy, leftover from previous tenants in the far corner under her bed. The ensuing hilarity was stopped short by the discovery of droppings on her kitchen countertop, the one sacred place we thought mice weren't allowed to rest their filthy little paws.
Then one dewey morning, just as the sun peered over the East River, the mouse made a fatal mistake. It seemed the chopped meat was just too tempting. (The expensive Spanish cheeses, and meat at $9.50 a pound had made Charlie even more resentful of her ungrateful invaders.) The red shelving unit muffled its footsteps, but Charlie had developed super-human hearing, able to hear even the faintest of rodent movement. The time had come. It was now or never! Running at full speed, Charlie flew across the kitchen armed with a broom. THWACK! BAM! (Further evidence of the battle would show up throughout the day, in the form of a large tender bruise to Charlie's right forearm). The footsteps were silenced; rustling was no more; the only sound came from NY1 on TV, as Pat Kiernan read the morning's headlines.
Squeamish readers, avert your eyes... run to your mommies! There was blood. There was an appendage. There was faint movement, which, upon further investigation, turned out to be involuntary nerve twitching. Death was imminent. After the flood of adrenalin dissipated, Charlie was left to face the reality of disposing of a messy, deceased rodent. Luckily, there was a voice in the hallway. Charlie managed to convince her unsuspecting neighbor to gingerly sweep up the remains of her intruder, and furtively dispose of it. But Charlie didn't let down her guard just yet - the crime scene was quickly disinfected, the furniture put back in its place, and fresh traps were laid, just in case a rodent recon mission was ordered. Then the sense of accomplishment arrived in full force, and she had battle scars to prove it.
Suddenly Charlie was free. Like an uncaged bird, she rejoined society and once again felt she could invite friends over for a leisurely dinner, or wine in the backyard, without worrying that they would suspect a mouse invasion, after seeing cheese on the floor, or bulky containers of steel wool, or a broom next to the bed. It was bliss.
The bliss lasted 48 hours.... then faint scampering reared its ugly head.
Was it another mouse?
A monster under the bed?
In this fair city, we may never really know what lurks behind our walls. Or in our ovens.
According to recent observations, there are Buffalo Bills roaming all over New York City. They are brown. Or grey. They are small. They eat peanut butter and chew through garbage bags, and run around in ovens, as if they long to be forever confined to tiny spaces with no exit. They keep you up at night with their rustling of plastic bags, and munching on crumbs, leaving you to clean up triangular piles of shredded something before you leave for work. They can fit through holes you don't even know exist, and invite their little friends over for a midnight party, at your expense. They are immune to sticky traps, steel wool, cheese (manchego AND gruyere), and have learned to defy both gravity and genetics by climbing up furniture and thoughtlessly scampering across 400-thread count Egyptian cotton bedspreads. They crap everywhere, making you wonder if you have eaten lots of rye bread, carelessly spilling caraway seeds in odd places like your closet. They aim to terrorize. They are mice. And in this city, they're smart.
My friend "Charlie," has just returned from battle. (As a [slightly paranoid] precaution, names have been changed. For all we know, our Big Apple mice are now literate, and will use this blog entry to seek sweet revenge.) Charlie vs. The Mouse began with the standard signs: droppings in corners and strange places, chewed up wood chips, faint sounds of scampering feet in the night, and offensive garbage bag invasion. The traps were laid, but the first few nights were rather sleepless, after all, it's difficult to fall into REM sleep when music and lights are on. "Can you hear those footsteps over my music? That's the loudest mouse I've ever heard! [Sigh. Moan. .. inaudible cursing..] What am I gonna do," cried Charlie one night during a 1 am emergency phonecall. It had been many days with little paws in the night; she was starting to get desperate. And bleary-eyed.
We didn't see Charlie for nearly another week. The battle consumed her thoughts; strategies took up full time residence in the left hemisphere of her cerebrum. Much free time was spent wrestling furniture away from walls, purchasing high-tech traps, searching meticulously in the dark, for secret passageways, and zoning in on specific areas from which she was sure the evil sounds were emanating. To add insult to injury Charlie discovered to her horror [and delight] a fake mouse, rather a cat toy, leftover from previous tenants in the far corner under her bed. The ensuing hilarity was stopped short by the discovery of droppings on her kitchen countertop, the one sacred place we thought mice weren't allowed to rest their filthy little paws.
Then one dewey morning, just as the sun peered over the East River, the mouse made a fatal mistake. It seemed the chopped meat was just too tempting. (The expensive Spanish cheeses, and meat at $9.50 a pound had made Charlie even more resentful of her ungrateful invaders.) The red shelving unit muffled its footsteps, but Charlie had developed super-human hearing, able to hear even the faintest of rodent movement. The time had come. It was now or never! Running at full speed, Charlie flew across the kitchen armed with a broom. THWACK! BAM! (Further evidence of the battle would show up throughout the day, in the form of a large tender bruise to Charlie's right forearm). The footsteps were silenced; rustling was no more; the only sound came from NY1 on TV, as Pat Kiernan read the morning's headlines.
Squeamish readers, avert your eyes... run to your mommies! There was blood. There was an appendage. There was faint movement, which, upon further investigation, turned out to be involuntary nerve twitching. Death was imminent. After the flood of adrenalin dissipated, Charlie was left to face the reality of disposing of a messy, deceased rodent. Luckily, there was a voice in the hallway. Charlie managed to convince her unsuspecting neighbor to gingerly sweep up the remains of her intruder, and furtively dispose of it. But Charlie didn't let down her guard just yet - the crime scene was quickly disinfected, the furniture put back in its place, and fresh traps were laid, just in case a rodent recon mission was ordered. Then the sense of accomplishment arrived in full force, and she had battle scars to prove it.
Suddenly Charlie was free. Like an uncaged bird, she rejoined society and once again felt she could invite friends over for a leisurely dinner, or wine in the backyard, without worrying that they would suspect a mouse invasion, after seeing cheese on the floor, or bulky containers of steel wool, or a broom next to the bed. It was bliss.
The bliss lasted 48 hours.... then faint scampering reared its ugly head.
Was it another mouse?
A monster under the bed?
In this fair city, we may never really know what lurks behind our walls. Or in our ovens.
1 comment:
Wow! You are a fantastic writer! This piece is so well written. (And I may know who the real Charlie is, but I won't tell). I love it!
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