The Mousekeeper

Edgar Allen Stevens had only been seen once since getting out of prison three months ago— entering a pet store downtown, and wearing a sombrero of all things. Only one person saw him leave— Melissa Muscustos, who also happened to know exactly what he had purchased, and exactly how many.

* * *

The audience sat before a sizeable black stage with scarlet curtains hung to conceal their view. Anxious excitement blanketed these individuals like a mother tucking her children into a bed full of forbidden skittles.

Beyond the fact that one in every three of them were rodents, this crowd was tremendously unique. The reason for this being that each one of them believed that they sat at the centre of the crowd, and were incapable of conceiving otherwise. Even those who clearly sat along the edges were certain they rested in the middle. A brutally ironic part of this credence was that there were an even number of seats.

Sitting four-hundred and sixty-five feet above them, on the thirtieth floor of a business building across the street, was Edgar Allen Stevens who was holding a head of purple cabbage and wearing nothing but a skimpy pair of women’s underwear. What sat between Edgar Allen’s legs is where this story truly begins— A leopard printed McMillan TAC-50 sniper rifle.

You see, using a special bit, at a very low RPM, Edgar was able to drill two holes in the window before him: one to fit the rifle’s barrel, and the other much larger to showcase his Pearly Whites™.

A spotlight appeared on the scarlet curtains and they unveiled slowly.

There she stood.

From her mesmerizing turquoise gaze, to her flawless facial symmetry, to her splendiferous waist-to-hip ratio, her appearance acted as a net cast into a sea full of lustful fish. Her dirty blonde locks found her shoulders in waves and her skin gleamed like exposed glass. The most prominent part of her look however, was her exquisite facial hair. Her lips and jaw hid deeply in the well-groomed bushes of her impressive growth.

She was not wearing a hat on stage, although she did have something on her head— the scope of a McMillan TAC-50 sniper rifle. Edgar chuckled as some of the cabbage came spilling out of his mouth and onto his gun. He thought back to the first time he saw her face.

* * *

Edgar Allen Stevens had recently decided to change his last name. Why? For the same reason anyone does— a fresh start.

Edgar Allen Blevins had a lot in common with Edgar Allen Stevens— a shock of blonde hair, a raspy voice, and the beard of a lumberjack. Where they differed mostly was that Mr. Stevens had gone to jail, and Mr. Blevins had recently acquired a job at an accounting firm after fabricating a Gutenberg-esque business graduate certificate from DePaul University.

Edgar adjusted the cuffs of his white dress-shirt and glanced out the window nervously. He chewed his upper lip and fanned his arms out, allowing his pits to breathe. As he looked around, he noticed that many people in the sushi restaurant were sporting very tall hats. What he hadn’t noticed was the exceptional beard of the server approaching him.

“Can I start you off with something to drink?”

He looked at her beard and then away from it. “A cup of water please, and could I also get a breath mint?”

The server held back a giggle. “Sure thing. Coming right up sir.”

He had his finger in his ear, digging for an itch. “Thank you ma’am.”

The server sat down next to him. “Hello. I’m Melissa. You must be Edgar Allen.”

Edgar jumped in his seat. “You?” His voice lightened. “You.” He snickered. “I mean, I had no idea what you looked like.”

“Haven’t you seen me on the news?” she asked.

He chuckled nervously. “Actually, I haven’t really had much time for the news lately.”

He glanced at her beard for a second longer this time.

Melissa smirked. “Look if you must. The worst thing you can do is pretend not to.”

He exhaled heavily. “You’re right.” He leaned in for a better peep.

She slapped him gently. “I said look, not stare.”

He pointed at her with a chopstick. “You’re right again.” She slapped it out of his hand. “Pointing is for directions,” she said.

He nodded while picking it up off the floor.

“Did you notice that sign?” she asked. “Quite the gig.”

There was a sign outside that read, “Joey Oates - Professional Finisher— I love eating for free, and you don’t want to pay for all that sushi!”. Below this was a picture of a man in a raggedy get-up, and a phone number.

Edgar smiled. “I forgot this place was all-you-can-eat.”

Melissa nodded. “I thought about contacting him once before I realized that he charges you. The man’s being paid to eat fancy sushi! Brilliant.”

Edgar pointed to a table across from them and laughed. “I bet those guys won’t need any help.” Eight men were seated at the table, each weighing well over two-hundred and fifty pounds. A few of the chefs kept glancing over at them with highly strung eyes.

Melissa’s eyebrows furrowed. “I wouldn’t be so sure.” She nodded at the head chef standing at the back of the kitchen, smirking. “Look at her. Too confident.”

A server approached their table. “Hi. My name is Oliver and I will be your server tonight. Can I start you two off with some water?”

Melissa grabbed Edgar’s arm. “Yes. That would be fine. May we also acquire some breath mints?”

“Of course you may. I’ll be back in just a moment to take your order.”

“Thank you kindly,” she said.

Melissa pointed at Edgar with a chopstick. “Gotta keep that breath clean, you never know.”

Edgar tried to smack the chopstick out of her hand but missed. “You’re good.”

Melissa shrugged. “Maybe I am.”

They both laughed at this until the water came.

Melissa ordered miso soup and a few different rolls. Edgar got the okonomiyaki and some kimchi. Not one millimetre of soup or sauce touched anywhere but Melissa’s fork and mouth. The same could not be said for Edgar, but luckily, nothing got on his nice white shirt.

“You don’t strike me as a dessert person,” said Edgar.

“Nor do you, I.”

“I am not.”

“Nor am I.”

He threw his head in her direction. “Then I guess we should get down to business.”

She exhaled through her nose. “Should we, Edgar Allen?”

“You can call me Edgar if you’d like.”

“Not if we’re getting down to business.”

“Fair enough.”

The server removed their empty plates. Edgar noticed something strange happening at one of the tables. A delicate piece of salmon was limply drooping onto a man’s forehead. The man quickly tucked it back under his tall hat. A piece of tempura slid out from beneath a woman’s fedora and she tucked it back too. Edgar had only now realized what was going on with all the hats and he giggled.

Melissa tossed a mint in her mouth. “Oh yes, that. I forgot people still did that. If you don’t finish your meal they charge you through the roof. You could buy quite the hat with that kind of money.”

Edgar choked on his water in laughter, and Melissa patted his back and filled up his cup at the same time.

He continued choking. “Business. No more side tracks.”

“You chose the wrong place then. Italian restaurants are for business,” she said.

“And why is that?” he asked.

She stared at him. “Because they don’t offer all-you-can-eat.”

He realized after she said this how badly he wanted her. How did she keep saying the right thing? Did she? Or did he make it the right thing in his head no matter what she said? He didn’t care. He just wanted her. He took another sip of water.

She focused on him. “What did you go to jail for Edgar? I’ve been dying to know.”

He choked on his water again. “What do you— How did you?”

She laughed. “C’mon. You changed Stevens to Blevins.”

He thought about it and then chuckled. He then looked at her quizzically, stroking his chin. “Well, I’ve never told that to anyone except my old cellmate Frank.”

She smiled invitingly “But am I anyone?”

“No, you’re someone. Fair point,” he said.

He told her about his former profession as a hot yoga instructor. He told her about the unforgivable thing he used to do. A thing so unforgivable that even his own mother was appalled that they let him out of prison after only one year. You see, Edgar Allen had this horrible habit. The temptation of it was just too delicious to resist.

He used to tell his students to bring cash to each class so they could purchase baked goods from him afterwards for charity. Then what he would do is tell them to inhale. They would of course oblige. That’s it.

He, a master of sweaty stretching, never gave them the go-ahead to exhale. And once everyone in the room had passed out, he would rummage their fat green wallets like a little child.

Melissa chortled. “Why didn’t you wear a disguise? You could’ve done it for much longer.”

“The guilt. A disguise would’ve been too dishonest.”

"What about the baked goods then?”

His voice became stern. “I never lied about that. I used to put a single cupcake on each of them.”

A tear ran down Melissa’s cheek and she put a finger to her mouth to prevent herself from bursting like a clipless grenade. “Give me your wallet,” she said.

Edgar laughed and forked it over.

She examined its confines. “You’re not an organ donor.”

Edgar shook his head. “I think allowing your body to decompose is a lot like being an organ donor, giving it back to the earth.”

Melissa thought for a second. “I agree. Two branches off the same tree. So why’d you want to meet me here tonight?”

Edgar’s face lit up like a bearded jack-o-lantern. “Well, I’m looking for a keeper of mouses— a mousekeeper if you will. I’ve heard you’re one of the best.”

Melissa took a swig of water. “I believe that’s fair and accurate.”

Edgar spoke quickly. “Would you like to look at my mouses’ portfolios?”

Melissa spoke slower than she had all night. “I already have. They’re quite impressive.”

Edgar blushed. “Can you start next Wednesday?”

“No,” she said. “You have five years to get them in order, starting tomorrow.”

The restaurant grew silent. Everyone glanced over at the table with the eight large men. They were sweating heavily. Three of them were on the floor, and the other five were holding their stomachs. On their table rested a single edamame bean, with many green skins next to it. The head chef let out a triumphant laugh from the back of the kitchen.

“Five years?” said Edgar, but when he turned Melissa was gone.

* * *

Five years and one day later, Edgar Allen was tying his tie in the mirror while coffee brewed and cabbage hash browns sizzled. At precisely seven am, he walked over to a miniature door by the television, and knocked on it using its tiny handle. “Time to wake up boys.”

A small mouse named Pilot opened the door and scurried out with his brother Pallet. Edgar perched himself down at the table, sipped his joe, and read the news. Next to his breakfast sat another table the size of a brick with various fruits, seeds, and grains spread out on it. The two mice, Pilot and Pallet, climbed up the leg of the larger table and indulged alongside Edgar Allen.

At seven-thirty, they heard a knock at the human sized door followed by the sound of a sugary-soft voice. “Mousekeeping. Mousekeeping. Here to keep your mouses.”

Edgar opened the door and Pilot and Pallet rushed over. “Have them back by six?”

Melissa nodded with a mouse in each hand and walked away.

After finishing his coffee, Edgar did a spinorama in the mirror followed by a double finger point. “You got this.”

When he arrived at work, he entered a large glass-paneled building with golden letters imprinted on the entrance— MICKEY AND SONS ACCOUNTING.

Thirty floors up, and Edgar encountered a lovely receptionist named Kyle. “Morning Mr. Blevins, would you like me to show you to your new office?”

“Indeed I would Kyle. Thank you.”

On the desk in his office, there were two things: one, a nameplate reading Edgar Blevins — MANAGER, and two, a large head of purple cabbage. Edgar laughed and explained to young Kyle that it was an inside joke he had with one of the firm’s partners. When the door closed, he rubbed the surname Blevins on the nameplate and snickered.

At six pm that day, Edgar played sudoku in his kitchen with the pungent smell of teriyaki sauce filling the air. He listened to the sound of crackling cabbage for five minutes before hearing a knock at the door.

“Mouse-return. Mouse-return. Here to return your mouses.”

Melissa released Pilot and Pallet at ground level and they scurried over to Edgar.

“Thank you Melissa. How was your day with them?”

“Exceptional. They’re already showing immense signs of promise.”

“Glad to hear it. Same time tomorrow?”

“Of course.”

They kissed each other’s hands goodbye. Edgar said nothing about her tardiness because what’s five minutes?

The next day she dropped them off at six-ten but what’s five minutes?

On Monday she brought them back at six-fifteen. Tuesday six-twenty, and a week after she started she was twenty-five minutes late.

Not until forty-five did Edgar finally say something. “You’re late.”

“I know and I must apologize Mr. Stevens. Blevins. Whatever you go by these days. It’s just—

Edgar Allen got a little angry. “No excuses Melissa. I’ve been reheating their food. Six o’clock means six o’clock.”

Her face was stoic. “I’m sorry.”

His intensity lightened. “It’s fine. Just don’t let it happen again.”

She smiled tensely but warmly. And so did he.

The following evening she dropped them off at exactly six. In fact, she kept it at a strict six for twelve days straight. As for the day after that, Edgar Allen received a phone call. “Hello?”

Melissa spoke in a forged niceness. “Hi Mr. Stevens. Just calling to inform you that Pilot and Pallet will not be able to make it home tonight.”

Edgar panicked. “What? What are you talking about? What happened to them?”

“Nothing. We’re just— working on something,” she said soothingly.

“Excuse me? Melissa, you bring my mouses back to me right now!”

She kept her frustratingly polite tone. “I’m sorry to upset you Mr. Stevens. It’s not my intention. If I were to bring them back right now, they would surely never prosper. At this moment, I need them. And they need me. All I’m asking for is tonight.”

Edgar huffed. “Alright. Okay. Tonight should be fine. For their progress.” He exhaled softly. “I trust you Melissa. But you bring them back to me tomorrow. Six pm.”

Melissa hung up the phone. Edgar didn’t like that. But that was sort of her style, he thought.

The next morning Edgar came very close to knocking on their miniature door but held back just in time. He hardly got anything done at work, but that didn’t matter because Edgar Blevins was a well-respected man around the office.

For the entire day, all of his thoughts were for Pilot and Pallet. There was simply nothing young Kyle could do to cheer his boss up. Edgar simply wanted to be home, to hear their little squeaks at six pm.

Little did he know that he wouldn’t be hearing those squeaks for another three months.

* * *

The purple cabbage in Edgar’s hand was now the size of a baseball, and he held the scope of a sniper rifle on Melissa’s head.

The humans in the crowd were chanting. “Mice, mice, mice! Give us our sugar and spice! Mice, mice, mice! Please don’t make us have to ask twice!”

In their previous performance, nine months ago, Mousekeeper United had shocked the crowd at Madison Square Garden. Led by Melissa, the Mousekeeper herself, they jumped through electrical hoops, performed some beautiful silhouette dancing, and closed it off with a bang— a literal bang. She had trained them to set off human-size fireworks. Can you imagine seeing something so physically small create such an explosion? Me neither.

In order to capture the full experience of what went on during this hectic evening, I have a suggestion for you. Play the song ‘Born to Be Alive’ by Patrick Hernandez on my command.

The performance was projected onto a jumbotron behind the stage. Half of the mouses wore dresses and half wore tuxedos. No one knows who wore what, not even Melissa. They came out doing the tango. Cue the music.

Thousands of eyes tranced as if the dancing had some hypnotic effect. Their movements were swift, tight, shapeless and attractive. Even John Falcon, a professional dancer and dance instructor in the crowd agreed that not one step was missed. Every mouse toe delicately placed, every hip maneuver in unison with their partner and the music. The tango quickly turned into a samba which smoothly faded into a salsa and then a highland dance.

During the highland dance, every fourth mouse pulled out two pairs of double-sided matches and held them above their heads in the shapes of diamonds. Several mice took swigs from tiny flasks and breathed mighty flames upon the sets of matches. The flaming sticks were then launched into the air and caught by each mouse while they all tap-danced. They spun the torches so quickly that there appeared to be hundreds of solid bright circles on stage.

The spotlight shot up to the rafters as a mouse descended from a fabric silk curtain. The mouse didn’t appear to be wearing clothes but had tie-dyed fur, a rainbow top hat, and round-rimmed rainbow sunglasses. The mouse lowered beautifully with the song, as its little body tangled and unraveled itself seamlessly. The song neared its end just as the rainbow mouse touched the stage. The camera zoomed in. The mouse opened its mouth. “Born to be alive,” he said in a squeaky human-like voice. You may stop the music now.

Now this was perhaps the greatest feat ever performed by a rodent. The mouse spoke. Not only that, but it sang—in tune— but the crowd hardly noticed. Because while the mouse hit these final notes, a shot was fired.

The blistering sound of a sniper bullet sailed past the audience. A second spotlight showcased her bearded beauty. The silver bullet destined for her brain was interrupted. And where did it stop? Right between the rainbow mouse’s teeth right after he said the word ‘alive’. He then landed on his feet and spit the bullet into the crowd. The Mousekeeper looked up at the building across the street and winked. The spotlight panned over once more— Edgar Allen Stevens took a bow.

The crowd had been completely stunned into silence. They wanted so desperately to applaud, but could not— they had run out of claps.

Luckily a man living in a tent nearby just so happened to be selling claps. They stormed over to the tent and demanded claps immediately. The man sold them at five cents a piece. Most audience members purchased over a hundred dollars worth.

They bolted back to their seats to find an empty stage but it did not matter. They unloaded their artillery of claps simultaneously and with such force that it started to drizzle. They didn’t stop clapping for another four hours. It was during these hours that each and every audience member realized that it was impossible to be in the centre of the crowd, for the crowd had become one.