“You afraid to touch it?” said a guy leaning up against a Ford Mustang.

I said yeah, and looked around my car for something to probe the mouse with. Something like a straw or pen, maybe even an old bank envelope. The poor thing was frozen solid on the windshield. Who knows how many blocks it had sustained that grip, withstanding the force of the air streaming across the windshield of my old Subaru.

The guy moved closer. He had a black sweatshirt that said “Redneck Army.” He was gap-toothed and lean.

“I work over at the Sewer District. I touch shit all day!”

The man clenched his index, thumb, and middle finger like a pair of chopsticks and pinched the soft underbelly of the mouse. It ran off towards the windshield wipers. The man laughed, saying something about the mouse living in the body of the engine.

After it was safely in the grass I thanked the guy, like he’d done some service, some dirty job for me, and then felt bad about it. Like I couldn’t have dealt with a fucking mouse? I thought about my increasing sensitivity as I sanitized my hands with a jelly-like paste.

I buzzed by his Ford Mustang, making sure to turn down the electro house beat I had pumping prior to the whole mouse thing – opting for something a bit more wholesome. Something with guitar. Something with a little soul and grit.

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