Creature Comforts

I look down into the train station stairs and consider my shoe. What if I trip on the laces? How far would I fall? How long would I lie there? Would there be blood? Would anyone save my life? I ask a new question with each step, gripping the green railing, peeling off paint all the way down. The F pulls in as I reach the bottom and I’m through the doors before I can transition from questioning the risks of the stairs to the risks of the train. I assess myself from 14th street to 2nd Avenue. Am I dizzy? Am I hungry? Is my appendix aching? What is my bpm? My hand rummages around my bag with its own agenda. I finger the stiff corner of an unopened bag of peanuts. The sharp plastic needling into the cushion of my index finger steadies my heart rate. I’m fine. And I should be. There’s literally nothing wrong. We pull into the station and I walk home alone.

I live by myself. Everything has it’s place and I make the arrangements. My pants are stacked between my bookshelves. My limes live with my bananas in a big white bowl. My purses hang on all available doorknobs. In the mornings, I wake up early enough to languish in bed and play my word games. I should establish a routine, a routine is on my list of things to do, but so far I haven’t gotten to it yet.

One morning in early December, while putting off the day, I caught a movement in my peripheral. I looked over at my bag hanging on my closet doorknob in time to see a mouse swinging from the belt of a wrap dress I’d worn to a wedding in October. It swung itself with confidence directly into my purse and disappeared into its depths. I sat straight up and screamed out “No!” to no one but the mouse. I could see its tiny round body pressing against my bag — a gift from my youngest friend for my birthday. Somehow both vintage and a vestige of youth. I heard it munching on the peanuts.

The snacks in my purse are armor against possible discomfort. Sometimes the same protein bar or ziploc of nuts will sit in my purse for weeks at time. I rarely need them, but their presence makes me feel protected. Like if I was stuck somewhere too long between lunch and dinner, I’d have something to tide me over. Or if I was kidnapped and my kidnapper was holding me hostage, I would be able to have a couple of bites of something to get me through however long it would take for him to give me a snack. Or if nuclear fallout happened while I was on the subway and I was an unlucky survivor, I would have my nuts and I could make it a few more hours, if not days. At least until I found the nearest shotgun and put it in my mouth. I do not want to survive a nuclear fall out. I don’t have the skills, I don’t have the stamina, and I medically have to watch tv every day. Anyway. Stuff like that. But I never accounted for the mouse. My safety snacks betrayed me.

I left my apartment to take a walk and give the mouse some time to finish his feast and go. I only brought my keys (and, like, my phone…but that doesn’t count). I thought about control. How badly I want it. How trying to have it brought a mouse in my house. I wished I could need nothing. I wished I could photosynthesize and be full on sunshine. I wished I could shed my body. My anxiety was high and death was everywhere. I felt like I was in a Final Destination movie and at any moment I was going to step on a piece of extra sticky gum  that would stick me to the sidewalk as a construction beam fell through my head. I turned around and started walking back to my apartment. I felt dizzy. What would happen if I tripped?, I wondered. How long would I lie there? Would there be blood? Would anyone save my life?

I got home and listened for sounds of crunching. Nothing. I poked my bag with the end of my vacuum. No movement was detected. I undid the button to check the carnage. The nuts were gone. Their plastic bag was shredded. And there were little tiny holes in the fabric of the inner pocket. But the mouse was gone. Sometimes things take care of themselves, I guess. As for me, I need a new system for keeping myself alive.