Mice Escape

Mice Escape

One mouse two mouse red mouse blue mouse. They’re everywhere! Ewe ewe ewe ewe! How did this happen? What am I going to do? I look at the tipped over cage, glass shattered all over the floor. Shit!

So, I do what any other responsible 26-year-old woman would do: I walk out of the pets store, and say fuck it. I had been working at PetCenter for about two months, and quite frankly, it sucked. The place smelled like ass, non-stop chirping of birds, all sorts of poop pellets everywhere, and a jungle of cages filled with a variety of nasty animals. The place was noisy, gross, and overall a big bore.

I guess you’ve gathered that I’m not an animal lover. Then why work at a pet shop you ask? Well, I saw a help wanted sign outside the door, I needed the money, and that was that.

I’ve been job jumping since I finished college three years ago. After high school, I kept my kickass job as a server at Houlihan’s job, until they closed down back in ’09. I loved that job. Some might say waitressing is hard work: not for me. I loved putting on my sweetass fake smile, greeting tables, up-selling, getting people to buy ginormous alcoholic beverages and greasy-ass appetizers they didn’t even know they wanted.

After Houlihan’s closed down, it was like my life ended. The wait and kitchen staff, my former best friends, well, everyone just went their separate ways. No more going out for drinks after our shifts, no more sneaky cig breaks during free moments, no more anything. It’s like the people I thought were closest to me, it’s like it was all a joke. Now, they all either moved away, or they found new peeps to hang with at their new jobs. And I’m left all on my own with rabbit shit.

I tried finding other serving jobs: Chile’s, Applebee’s, Cheesecake Factory. But, honestly, none of it felt right. It just wasn’t the same. So I’d stay at those jobs a few months, and then move on. I eventually started trying other things: retail (oh, my time at the Gap was such a hoot!) and even the local movie theater. Then I decided to go back to school in 2012, thinking I’d be a nurse. And lo and behold, I actually graduated.

So why have I not moved on to changing IV bags or wiping old peoples’ asses? Well, I suppose that would be just too much reality for me. So, instead, I jump from job to job, hoping I will find my Houlihan’s fit again.

As I walk down the strip mall sidewalk, lighting up a Malboro and leaving the pet store behind, I see a former buddy of mine, a cook at Houlihan’s walking on the other side of the road. “Hey, Jim” I yell toward him. I say it a bit louder, as he hasn’t heard me “Hey, Jim, Jim, Jim!” He continues to walk down the road. I can’t be sure if he didn’t hear me, or he’s ignoring me; I suppose it’s irrelevant at this point.


Fuck him, I think to myself. I walk toward my old beat up Chevy, wondering what I will do next. I lean against the passenger side door, and take out my wallet. I have $28 cash, and a bunch of crumpled receipts. I decide to go score some weed, and that maybe in a stoned haze some reason for being will come to me.

Pointless

POINTLESS

We’re all going to die one day. So if that’s the case, then why does anything matter? What’s the point in doing anything? Why have goals, ambitions; who cares about the future? Aren’t we all just lying in a pool of insignificance?

These thoughts fly through my head as my homeroom teacher finishes the sentence she is writing across the circa 1984 green chalk board. What has she written? “Three goals I have for myself this academic year are…” The sentence is in cursive, a writing style even more antiquated than the chalkboard. Fuck her, fuck this dumb homeroom, this dumb school, fuck life. It’s all so worthless. Yet I take out a notebook, obedience ingrained in my DNA. Here goes nothing.

I think for a few minutes, chewing on my pencil eraser as I do so. I just can’t get over how dumb this is! So ridiculous. Yet I jot some things down all the same.

1. Read more books

2. Make more friends

3. Be kinder and more considerate to my classmates

There, I’ve done it. Now I can rest. I put down my pencil, sigh, and turn toward the 8am sun shining through the classroom windows. Oh, to be home in bed, cuddling my soft pink comforter, the sun glittering through my bedroom window, lost in sleep, unconsciousness protecting me from the monotony of reality, free to play in my dreams. But no - here I am, amongst these fools, in this useless endeavor we call an education.

My homeroom teacher approaches me; I’ve already forgotten her name. She reads over my goals, and smiles. She continues to circulate the room, looking over my classmates’ papers. She nods and smiles periodically, showing the same disinterest as glances over each paper. I continue to chew on my pencil, boredom seeping into me, without having even begun first period yet.

Homeroom Teacher tells everyone to stop writing. She then asks for volunteers to stand up and explain one of their goals. Naturally, not one hand goes up. She then says nervously “Kassy, why don’t we start with you?” I have no idea how she even knows my name already. Whatever. I stand up. I feel my gray linen skirt sticking to my butt, the sweat having built on my legs after sitting for some time, and clandestinely attempt to free it. I’m sure everyone’s seen me, and I begin to feel my face heat up with embarrassment. I clear my throat, and nervously turn to my paper. I read my first goal, “Read more books.” Homeroom Teacher then asks me “What is one book you would like to read?” Stupid bitch. I stare at her, and feel a gush of red infuse my forehead, cheeks, and chin. Of course, I can name no books. I am fifteen, and my summer was spent playing video games and watching reality tv. “Well then,” she retorts “What’s one book you read this summer?” I continue to stand there in silence, humiliation saturating my mind and body, wanting to squeeze myself together into a snail-like spiral and hide from the world.

Ten minutes later, the bell rings, and the students eagerly run out of the classroom. Seven hours later, school has ended. I see Mrs. Homeroom Teacher outside, getting into her car. I see her mutter something, her face forming into an expression of frustration. She closes the driver-side door and quickly walks back toward the school. I stand outside with all of the other kids, gathered to chat while waiting for parent pick-ups and buses. I walk toward Homeroom Teacher’s car, exhilaration beginning to tickle my body. As I get closer, I feel a full-on thrill rush through me, my heart beginning to race, tingles in my arms and legs, and a slight feeling of light headedness. I look around to see if anyone is near, although the truth is, I really don’t care. I take out my Swiss army knife from the front pocket of my green North Face backpack and open it up, pulling the silver, somewhat rusted, knife out. I kneel down, and forcefully thrust the blade into the tire. I then attempt to pull it out, realizing that it is pretty well wedged in. I pull harder, and it comes out, air gushing out of the tire with it, the force pushing me onto my back.


I get up, close my knife, and return it to the front pocket of my backpack. I brush off my skirt and legs, turn around, and head toward home. As I walk down the sidewalk, a feeling of calm reigns over me, as I think that perhaps today I added some meaning to the pool of insignificance we call life.