A Bloodied Mouse
Monday, May 1st, 2006“Hey, pointy shoes!”
Susan glanced quickly down at her feet. Yup, she was wearing pointy shoes, but that doesn’t mean stop walking.
“Pointy shoes? Wanna buy an owl t-shirt?”
An owl T-shirt? Huh, who knows, maybe I do want an owl T-shirt, Susan thought, turning toward the card table set up near the wall. A scruffy, chubby man sat behind the table in a red-and-black striped sweater. On one side of the table sat a pile of t-shirts. The man looked down at her shoes then up at her face and grinned.
“Ten bucks, special for Miss Pointy Shoes.” Susan picked up a shirt. A swooping owl clenched a bloody mouse in its talons. The caption beneath the picture read “DON’T LET IT GET AWAY!”
“The name is Susan, not pointy shoes.”
“I’m very sorry. You have very nice, pointy shoes. My name is Derrick. That shirt you’re holding is very popular with executive types.”
“Is that so?” Susan said, placing the shirt gently back on top of the pile.
“Yeah well, executive types and disillusioned bird watchers. I do a lot of business with disillusioned bird watchers. But… hmm… a pointy-shoed type might be interested in the newest volume of Owl Sounds.”
“Is this a tape of actual owl sounds?”
“Mostly, yes.”
“Mostly?”
“A percentage are simulated. I’ve found that most of my customers find the natural frequency of owl sounds unsatisfying, so I add in a few of my own. My regular customers swear by it as a treatment for insomnia.”
“How exactly do you simulate owl sounds?”
“I’d prefer not to say,” For a moment, the man looked hurt, “My bumper stickers also sell quite well.”
“Is 1996 the year of the owl or something?” Susan leafed through the bumper stickers: GIVE A HOOT!, MY OTHER CAR IS AN OWL, OWL BE JUST FINE.
“Year of the owl?” Derrick chortled, “no of course not, how silly.”
“I guess I’m just confused about why you’re selling owl merchandise at a New Year’s Eve party.”
“Oh, I’m an old friend of Omar and Wanda.” He seemed to believe this needed no explanation. Susan stared blankly back at him. He gestured to the party behind her. “…the hosts… I also used to work with Lily. They let me set up merch booths at their parties.”
“I guess I don’t really know the hosts.”
“How did you get invited then?”
“I’m here with Kate…”
“Yes, Kate, she used to date Anders, right?”
“Um, mayyybe… I vaguely remember the name Anders…”
“Between you and me, he’s kind of a douche. Acts like he’s better than everybody. A couple years ago he freaked out and just took off. Now he lives alone in a small town in the desert.”
“Wait,” Susan attempted to reign in the conversation, “just clear this up for me: why are you selling owl paraphernalia?”
“Well, I don’t like the term ‘paraphernalia’. I prefer ‘merchandise’.”
“Why” Susan closed her eyes, successfully suppressing frustration, “do you like owls?”
A thoughtfulness overtook the face of the scruffy owl man. He stared past Susan, briefly scratched in the area of both his nipples and blinked a tuplet.
“I’ve often asked myself that question. I remember seeing a large Horned owl in the forest when I was maybe four years old and having nightmares for weeks. The way its head moved and how it silently watched me from its perch; I couldn’t get it out of my mind. It seemed to know what I was thinking, to force me to question the very nature of my being. Of course, the owl is known as a wise bird, but it is also a vicious beast, often swallowing its prey whole. It’s mysterious and cruel, able to see the darkest shadows in even in the darkest night.”
He scratched at his chin and Susan let him ponder in silence.
“Plus, these bloody talons are badass.” He held up the T-shirt for Susan again. She nodded in unenthusiastic agreement. “Just imagine a big ol’ Horned owl swooping up a mouse in almost complete darkness. How crazy would it be to see that, like on a camping trip or something, right?”
At that moment a clearly drunk woman spilled a vodka cranberry on a man directly behind Susan. He started waving his arms and shouting “what the fuck!” and Susan moved to the left of the merch booth.
“I gotta go, Kate’s probably looking for me.”
“Sure, of course. You should sign the mailing list, though. I send out a mailing twice a month, with special events and sometimes free items.”
“Ooh, free items. I can’t pass that up, can I?” Susan gladly wrote down her address, amused by Derrick the owl man, his red-and-black striped sweater, slightly repulsive facial hair and enthusiasm, feeling just a little sad for him.
