An Ode Frederick the Mouse

An ode to Frederick:

Dearest Frederick,

We met only two days ago, but it truly feels like a lifetime: a lifetime of surprises, of moments I’ll never forget. Even when I can’t see you, you’re all I think about. Everything you do, no matter how small or minuscule, feels so big to me.

Best,

Meg

I moved into my apartment on October first. Dragged my two suitcases, stupidly overpacked back pack, and two purses on the subway and up the one flight staircase to my Harlem abode. Sure there’s no dishwasher, and everything smells a certain kinda way, and I think that might be black mold in the bathroom, but the room is huge, the bed came with, and it was mine. All mine: my first apartment.

I greeted my roommate who'd put the room on the marketplace and set down my bags in the very much so empty room, sans a closet and a bare, slightly stained mattress. I was happy ... kind of. I'd spent the past several weeks with people 24/7. I've always been an introvert, but the quiet was unsettling. I plopped onto the mattress and surveyed my new home.

That's when I saw it.

Movement in the corner of my room.

A mouse.

A small, Grey, pretty-adorable-but-not-in-my-apartment-please-and-thank-you mouse.

Suddenly I became aware of several things as listed below.

1. There was a mouse in my bedroom

2. The high ceilings — a feature I’d loved — seemed much, much taller

3. There was a mouse living in my bedroom

4. The bigness of the room was ... too big?

5. If there was one mouse in my bedroom, there could easily be many, many more

6. Everything was white. The bare walls, the uncovered mattress, the window sill. It felt like a hospital room.

7. The asshole mouse wasn’t even paying rent

8. I was lonely and scared

Five minutes. I’d lasted five minutes before I ran. I took my back pack, almost forgot my keys, and bolted.

The first night I was meant to sleep in my very first apartment, I stayed in my old dorms with a friend who signed me in. I cried a lot. A blubbering mess: “I’m so pathetic” “how am I going to afford rent” “I miss Georgia” “there’s a fucking MOUSE!”

Admittedly, I was reacting less to the mouse and more to the past weeks I’d spent rushing around. I got drunk and cried some more (“I miss my doooooog!”)

But, by the end of the night, I’d accepted that the root of my sadness and anxiety was not, in fact, the mouse — or Frederick, I’d decided to name him — but rather the newness of my situation. I was living in a neighborhood I’d been to barely a handful of times; I couldn’t rely on my parents for money, and I was facing months of part time jobs in order to scrape by. Yes, I had a mouse, but that was simply a road bump on the ridiculously unpaved, pot-hole filled street I'd decided to drive on.

So I went back to my apartment the next day. I resolved myself to handle the situation. I texted the landlord who promised to send the super the next morning. When I opened the door to my room, nothing scurried away; there was no movement. Perhaps Frederick had moved on to bigger and better apartments. To be safe, I sprayed a mixture of peppermint oil (an anti-mouse tip I'd read on Google) around my bed and at the corners of my room. I settled into my room (after a productive Bed Bath and Beyond trip) and slowly my spirits rose. Yes, there was a mouse in my bedroom, but it was my bedroom, in my apartment; not my school’s, not my parent’s, mine.

I showered, lit a candle, watched a Netflix documentary about haunted houses, popped a sleeping pill, and forced myself to be positive. As I felt myself calm, I stretched out in my queen bed amidst the overkill of soft blankets I'd purchased. I stared at the window at the corner of my room and smiled. My room. All mine.

And that's when Frederick jumped onto my bed.

In retrospect, it was an impressive dive; certainly worthy of an Olympic medal. He leapt from my windowsill (how the hell he got there without me noticing I'll never know) onto my bed. I am not ashamed of the bloodcurdling, B-horror film worthy scream that escaped my mouth. For a moment, Frederick and I simply stared at each other in silence – perhaps it was a look of understanding? – before I jumped onto my feet and hid at the far corner of my bed while he scampered onto the floor to the far shadowy recess of my room.

I immediately called my friend who I'd been staying with:

"Hey, what's up?"

"Frederick."

"The mouse?"

"He jumped on my bed. Can I please spend the night again?"

The responding "Yes" was accompanied by an unfair (in my opinion) amount of laughter. I half-sprinted half-tiptoed to grab shoes and my backpack before I was fleeing my apartment for the second night in a row. I was still in my PJs, but the prospect of spending any more time with Frederick (who was seemingly growing more and more resentful of my presence) was too much to bear, so instead I braved the pouring rain in sleep shorts and a T-shirt.

My roommate texted me; she'd heard the door close: Oh no, mouse again? She'd been extremely apologetic about the whole situation, and assured me that she'd put a trap outside of my room and mention it when the Super came the next day. I felt a bit guilty; Frederick certainly hadn't asked for a person to move in. I'd purchased humane traps but hadn't put them out, and I wasn't sure what traps my roommate would use, but I wasn't in a hurry to revisit the apartment.

On the subway back to my old dorms, all the subway rats seemed to stare at me. They must have known I was an intruder. Frederick had clearly snitched.

I was all too pleased to sleep in a mouse-less abode, but I was frustrated that, for the second night in a row, I was not in my own apartment. However, the next morning my roommate told me they'd caught Frederick.

I won't lie, the third night I struggled to fall asleep until nearly three in the morning. I kept listening for scratches or squeaks. However, there was no sight of any of Frederick's relatives, nor have there been since.

Frederick is likely just the first of many figurative (and possibly literal) mice I will face as I continue living in New York. And fact is, many of my future mice won't have solutions nearly as easy as sleeping at someone else's apartment.

However, I am hopeful. I believe that Frederick taught me an important lesson: living in New York is stupidly difficult. But I can't run away from any of it. Living in New York – actually living as a "real" adult – means I can't skip work the way I skipped classes, and I can't expect to succeed by sitting on my ass. I have to face my mice head on, trap or no trap.