Morty The Mouse

2 Sep

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I don’t remember many things about my freshman year of college. It was a dark time, really all of college was a dark time for me.

I do remember, however, that we had a mouse in the ceiling.

I believe, but am not sure, that we named him Morty.

Morty lived above my dorm room. Whenever we heard him scampering around we would hit a broom above our heads. “Morty, keep moving!” “Morty, take a hike!”

I don’t remember much about my freshman year, but I do remember Morty.

If that was his name.

One of the reasons I wanted to have our wedding on the Cape was because I wanted to introduce my family and friends to this place that has meant so much to me. They say we remember experiences over things, and I wanted this experience.

I wanted these memories.

My second night on the Cape my little sister came running in my room. “THERE’S A MOUSE!” she screamed. “There’s a mouse. I saw its poop and then I heard it scamper and I closed my eyes so I didn’t actually see it but I know there’s a mouse!”

I had just started The Secret History by Donna Tartt and was very uninterested. “What would you like me to do?” I asked. “I can’t kill a mouse with my bare hands.”

By this time I was deep into Donna Tartt’s personal life, her famously private famously private personal life. Reading quotes about how privacy is the last luxury.

“What do you think about the line on social media? The line between sharing something extremely private and between that private thing helping other people?” I asked.

Jessica continued to talk about the mouse. About how she was hearing it above her head (but never when I was nearby), about her wild imaginings of how this mouse not only existed but was out to kill her.

When I had to leave to go to the bathroom I said I would collect her belongings from the possible mouse room. “I’ll also check out the poop,” I promised.

“Well…actually…” she began.

It turns out that “well actually” meant she knew deep in her heart that it wasn’t mouse poop on the stairs. That her hysteria over her mouse caused her to exaggerate a story I already wasn’t sold on.

“Like you’ve never exaggerated a stressful situation before!” she called out as I shone a flashlight on the carpet, looking for poop.

(There was none.)

(Of course.)

Later, after we had settled in to the same room where we would be enduring the rest of the night I said, “You know, I wanted to have my wedding here for the memories and I guess it’s already working. We’ll always have this mouse.”

She laughed and laughed.

I didn’t.

You see,

I don’t remember much about my freshman year of college but I do remember Morty the mouse.

If that was his name, anyway.

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