Fight Song A Novel - By Joshua Mohr Page 0,57
a pile of fluorescent orange that needs to be swept up. If there’s some magic out there that can help him avoid the dust pan, well, it sure sounds good right about now.
What’s wrong with a mouse man?
When last Coffen reviewed the hallowed tenets of babysitting, it was his understanding that the custody of said baby in the said sitter’s stead was a temporary arrangement. As in, thanks, Tilda, for taking wee mousy Schumann off Coffen’s hands for a few hours, but he’s now come to reclaim the great rodent booty that is Bob’s neighbor.
However, a certain Taco Shed employee doesn’t want to cough him up.
“His family gets home soon,” Coffen says to Tilda, standing in the doorway of her apartment early the following morning and hoping that this idea contains the cocktail of persuasion. “We’ve got to get him back to his life.”
It’s approximately 6:30 AM on Monday morning. The mouse runs around Tilda’s cupped hands. “I think he’s happy. We were up all night together; we bonded in a very spiritual way. He has a look in his eyes that tells me he’d like to stay like this forever. Honestly, this might be the kind of change that he truly wanted.”
“Can I please have him back?”
“He might be the perfect man for me,” Tilda says.
“He’s not a man.”
“Sure he is, but he’s also so small he can’t hurt me, and that’s what I’ve always wanted.”
Schumann makes some chirpy, mousy noises and is clearly shaking his wee head to the contrary of her statements.
“He has a wife and kid,” Coffen says.
“He told me all about them way back when he first started being one of my intercom clients. And he told me a lot after we did it in the SUV. Honestly, I don’t think he’d miss too much sleep over never seeing them again.”
“He’s a good father.”
“But maybe he’d make a better mouse, at least for the foreseeable future, and trust me: I’ll take incredible care of him.”
“I don’t doubt it.”
“He’s the perfect pet,” she says.
Coffen wants to say something supportive, something about how extraordinary she is and that she deserves a partner of the same species. Sure, she’s had a stable of bad relationships. Yes, life can be hard. No, she’s not perfect. But she can’t wrap her heart in muscles, like a fragile trinket in bubble wrap and stop trying to find somebody who might make her happy. Those are all the things Coffen hopes to convey, and it comes out like this: “You don’t need a mouse man, Tilda.”
“What’s wrong with a mouse man?”
“How will you two ever dance together?”
“That’s a sacrifice I’m willing to make.”
“You deserve a full-blown human being.”
“Not sure I want one of those.”
Schumann now stands solely on his hind legs and is shaking his wee head.
“But look at how he’s shaking his head,” Coffen offers up.
“His head’s not moving.”
“I can see him shaking it.”
“I don’t think so.”
“Look at him.”
“That’s an optical illusion,” says Tilda.
“What is?”
“His head shaking.”
“I thought you said he wasn’t even moving his head!”
“Damn,” she says. “Entrapped again. You got me.” She hands Schumann over to Bob, placing him in his flattened palms. Schumann gives a creepy wee mousy smile and scampers up to perch on Coffen’s shoulder. He smells like something … jasmine? Coffen sniffs Schumann several times.
“I doused him in lavender body oil,” Tilda says. “Honestly, the natural smell was wretched.”
“Makes sense, I guess.”
“The magician turning him back?” she asks.
“Supposedly. We’re meeting this morning.”
“Can I come? I’ve never seen real magic before.”
“I’m not sure he’d appreciate me bringing you along.”
“Only one way to know for sure.”
“I shouldn’t.”
“Call him and ask,” she says.
Coffen caves in and calls.
“Are you seriously asking me that?” Björn says. “My hangover’s no joke.”
“I am unfortunately asking you that, yes.”
“My god, Coffen, you are high-maintenance.”
“Can she come?”
“I haven’t even decided that I’m going to turn him back.”
“I’m sure he’s learned his lesson,” Coffen says.
“How are you sure of that?”
“Tell him we can meet at Taco Shed and I’ll throw in a round of breakfast Mexican lasagnas on the house,” says Tilda. “As many as he can eat.”
Coffen relays the offer, and the magician says, “I agree to the proposed terms. See you in twenty.”
In twenty, Coffen, Tilda, and Schumann stand face-to-face with Björn. Bob introduces her to the magician, who’s wearing sunglasses; his moustache is smashed and he stinks like booze.
“Looks like you had a long night of floff-mongering,” says Bob.
“It was pure madness.”
“Can I make you boys breakfast?” Tilda asks, and all parties