I got on the dorm elevator to go downstairs and outside. It stopped on the 3rd floor. The doors slid open onto a chaotic scene: college students, male and female, some screaming and some laughing, crowded around a sophomore clutching a plastic bin. As the shouting mob boarded my elevator one of them warned me, “careful, there’s a mouse.” I looked in the bin and sure enough, head caught in a shower cabby, was a little brown rodent.
As the elevator slowly made its way down to the lobby, with barbaric howls and cackles, the group deliberated loudly on what to do with the mouse. A scrawny girl screeched, “kill it!” The guy holding it laughed that he didn’t know how to without somebody getting mad at him for it. An ugly, fat sophomore with a beard snorted, “that’s what you get if you’re a rodent,” and looked around for approval.
The doors finally opened again and the mob streamed out towards the front desk, recognizing a friend there who had a fear of mice. As she screamed and backed away, the crowd laughed even more and the hall rang with their din. I squeezed my way through to get to the door and out of the heat.
I went to go play piano. The mouse would probably not make it out. The ugly guys would go back to their rooms after it was all over, after the glory of the mouse had worn off fully, masturbate, and fall asleep, because no amount of mice could ever find them romance. The girls would sit in their rooms and wonder what had become of their lives, and wonder at the people they had chosen to associate with. The mouse was probably better off than they are.