It is 1978.
I am hanging out with my girlfriend, Susie, in the living room of my mother’s house. Mom’s in the kitchen. My brother and sister are out.
Suddenly my mother screams. It is, to use a cliché, ‘bloodcurdling’. As I rise from my chair many possible scenarios are going through my mind. Could she have just stabbed herself accidentally? I propel myself up the steps, through the entry way into the dining room. Susie is right behind me.
The scene that confronts me as I round the corner into the kitchen is straight out of a Warner Brothers cartoon. My mother is standing on her tiptoes on the footstool I made in shop class (Yes, it held together that long). On the floor looking up at her is a teeny tiny little mouse. Teeny. Mouse.
I know she has a fear of these things, but I can’t help myself. I start laughing, and not just a little. I laugh hysterically. I grab an empty coffee can off the counter. The mouse turns and shoots past me out of the kitchen. While Susie helps my mom down, I give chase. The mouse scurries through the dining room, across the entry way, and then jumps down the two steps into the shag carpet in the living room. I’m still laughing as I reach the living room.
Suddenly the mouse stops. I stop. Just as my mom and Susie come around the corner, the mouse turns and without hesitation runs straight at me.
I think I made a sound. I’m fairly sure I did. It probably sounded like I was scared. Maybe. A little.
The mouse beelines for me and, before I can move a muscle, reaches my ankle and disappears under my pants cuff.
I start dancing. I shake my leg, trying to dislodge the little fella and protect the, uh, you know. The mouse is persistent. He makes it past my knee. I grab my thigh, trying to keep it from achieving the target. I finally manage to dislodge it and it falls back down onto the floor. The mouse retraces it’s ‘steps’ back to the kitchen.
It goes right past my mom, but she’s not scared. She’s laughing at ME now.
Can’t say I blame her.