a companion for the end of the world

March 2020

There’s this mouse. A propensity for naming pets after country music legends has led to me calling it “Garth” in passing. Friends in low places, and such. I find that he’s the most active in the house after dinner, and while screening Ken Burns documentaries. Coincidentally, we have been drunkenly cruising through a PBS series on the evolution of American country music, and I think that the mouse is concerned by the representation of women on the mainstream airplay charts. I can’t argue with him about that. 

When he moved in months ago, I researched extermination with the intensity of a madwoman. Electric traps, glue traps, ultrasonic traps: I’ve read the reviews on them all. This deep into quarantine, however, he might be the only constant I’ve got, and I’m trying to be better at recognizing when I have a good thing. This far into our relationship, I miss him when he doesn’t come around, especially when I’ve made up an extra plate. The mouse and I have dinner together, and he lets me talk about you. I might love him for that. 

We share a one-bedroom apartment on the west-side of Chicago. It has become a bit of an isolation chamber given the current circumstances, but I’m trying to stay positive. On my good days, it’s a library of classic literature and historical commentary, a complete collection of Electric Light Orchestra on vinyl. I make my bed when it concerns me to, and wash a dish when I’m feeling domestic. I love how the eastern window bathes my desk with sunshine as I fill post-its, and postcards, and notebooks full of story ideas. I play records, loudly, and with the windows open. It helps to fill the space, for two sides of a pressing. If I close my eyes, it’s a party. I just told a joke, and you are there. 

According to the Stendig calendar on the wall, it’s been 86 days since I’ve been touched. These aren’t sexual desires; it’s a hollow space where handshakes, and hugs, and celebration used to live. Often, I stand in the shower, and worship the sensation of pressure on my shoulders. For a woman so in love with her solitude, I find myself wishing for a thousand years of company. 

I think what I want to do most is win at a foot race. I want to sprint, madly, until I trip over a makeshift finish line. I want to tease, and push, and wrestle, and viciously cheat, since I’m really only dependable for about twenty fast meters. In my version of events, we get to spread out on the grass, drowning in laughter, and salt, and freedom. Afterwards, we dance to REO Speedwagon in my kitchen. I rub the dirt off of your face while we wait on a frozen pizza. 

The mouse stares at me blankly from across the room. He’s not great for small talk, and I’m worried that I’m becoming an unaccommodating roommate as the weeks grow into three languorous months.  I’ve become borderline obsessed with literature that discusses the brain, and memory, and am terrified that mine is wasting away as I live each day with only a mouse for company. 

The mouse has pointed out that the hyper-awareness of my own shortcomings only validates the likelihood of optimal cognitive function, and I really can’t argue with him about that. 

In an effort to maintain structure amidst the overwhelming chaos, I become a timekeeper. I write one line a day, hoping to write through what seems to be the end to a collective sense of security. Some days, I write about the people I’ve known, the people I miss. On Fridays, I write about you. On Saturdays, I write about the chicken I roasted. Let future historians wonder what the hell this twenty-five year old woman was cooking for herself while the world burned up in a fury. 

These journals do their best to document the cheap thrills, like walking around topless and letting the kettle whistle for much longer than I normally would, just to make a girl feel like she still has an edge. Then, there are riskier pastimes: cruising LinkedIn after a few cocktails, eating food off of the floor, browsing apartments in Denver.  I wake up at night to raid my refrigerator, and just waste perfectly good sandwiches. 

I have found that a mandatory quarantine is the ideal time to get really into thrash metal, become increasingly concerned about the quality of local tap water, and start an anti-aging skin regimen.  Similarly, it is the absolute worst time to make a cross country move or get into puzzles, because, well,  fuck puzzles. The mouse is with me on this one. Like me, he has a hard time seeing the “big picture,” and doesn’t have the fine motor skills to hold the pieces.

Instead of puzzles, we work on putting together the guilt that accompanies a pandemic. There’s the guilt that keeps us indoors, and the guilt that keeps us checking out flights to try to get back home. I check the mail, and I check on my parents, and I check to see if you’ve called. Other days, I just want to sleep. It’s amazing how a surfeit of stillness can make a person so tired. The mouse says I should try and get more exercise, and I really can’t argue with him about that. 

I work from my home office, and watch a new community of runners reinvent themselves as they slog up and down my block. They labor, and pant, and forget to focus on their breathing. I watch one woman who determinedly runs in the same blue t-shirt at 3 o’clock every day, her face contorted into a damp demonstration of self-improvement. I whistle at her initiative and twist open my first beer. 

I can’t speak for the mouse, but I know I could be accomplishing more with this time. I want to learn guitar, and cribbage, and call my friends more often. I shampoo the carpet at least once, but forget to keep up with the dusting. A vague outline of a play remains unopened on my desktop. The mouse has offered to provide feedback, but I’m not feeling inspired enough to effectively transform his critique into something good.

For all of our complaints, the mouse and I acknowledge our privilege, and our circumstantial luck. We are two young, well-fed, and comfortable co-conspirators with plenty to be grateful for. My grandma sends me books, and my mother answers the phone when I need her to. The mouse probably has a family hidden somewhere in the basement, but I see him enough to assume he has some sort of alternative childcare arranged. We sit with Tolstoy, a spotless kitchen, and both sides of a Peter Frampton live album: all luxuries that take a backseat during peacetime. I hope you’re doing ok, given the circumstances. I think of all of the things that I’ll forgive, and crave, and tolerate when all of this is over. I already feel different, in that way. I drink Coors now, and not even as a joke. 

The mouse and I talk about what we want when this is all over. Admittedly, I think that I want some pompous asshole to talk over me in a crowded bar. I want some pompous asshole to stand in front of me at a concert, stepping back on my toes and completely obstructing my view. I want some pompous asshole to check me out, unapologetically, in a crosswalk. I look forward to subway delays, venue bathrooms and bad communal coffee. I want to buy everyone lunch and put too much money into the jukebox. The mouse wants me to go back to working in an office during the week so he can have some space. We bite at each other on Sundays when he’s late for dinner, or when I have had far too much to drink to be acceptable on a work night. 

I toss back a third glass of wine and I wonder if the ancient Sumerians would have felt inspired to invent a measurement for time under these particular conditions. I hide these thoughts in the eggs that I’m frying, my eyes wet as I lose a grip on the evening. To the mouse, I suggest that while they were busy inventing agriculture and the sexagesimal system, the Sumerians also may have realized they could make breakfast for dinner. Instead of being impressed by my profound commentary, the mouse sighs and takes over the cooking. He may have realized that I’m too drunk to effectively flip an egg without breaking the yolk into the adherent pan. 

As a cheap quarantine respite, meals are eaten in front of the television. Per our Sunday agreement, it’s the mouse’s night to pick the documentary. My comment about ancient Sumerian culture has triggered his dry interest in Mesopotamia, so I excuse myself midway through, leaving a single lamp on in the front room. Mice are painfully nearsighted, and I’ve run into the coffee table enough times to know what that feels like. 

I lie awake and listen to the mouse go about his nighttime affairs. I feel a certain sadness settle into my chest as I think about you. I think about the traps I bought yesterday, and wonder if you’d do away with this companion just as I intend to, tomorrow. Without the mouse, I can finally practice my unhealthy quarantine habits in peace. Without the mouse, I can finally write to you, uninterrupted. Without the mouse, I will never again have to share the television remote with an Old World archeology enthusiast who sits too close to the television. With the world ending, I argue that there’s little point in consuming programming that leaves me uninspired and disengaged; however, the mouse gently suggests that once this is all over, those with an understanding of how ancient civilizations fell will be better equipped to keep history from repeating itself. 

And, honestly, I can’t really argue with him about that. 

Illustration by Justine Ussia