That's from a Tom Waits song. Do you listen to Tom Waits?
Later on in the same song he sings:
'A rat always knows when he is in with weasels"
I'm not sure what that means. It sounds like it means something. I don't know enough about rats. I think I'd be able to tell the difference between a rat and a weasel. I think. Though I'm not sure I'd be able to tell the difference between rat and a mouse. I once saw a rat and thought it was a mouse. Or maybe it really was a mouse. Like I said, I just don't know enough about it.
I was living in England at the time. North London. There were drinks for a birthday in a pub in Angel. I knew some of the people there. Enough to enjoy about thirty minutes of drinks and small talk. About two and a half pints worth. One of the guys there used to serve drinks at the bar we hung out at after work and it was his girlfriend who had brought along her sister - The Hairdresser.
The Hairdresser was two months into trying to come out the other side of a bad break-up. He had cheated on her with the girl who stood behind the front desk at the hairdressers. It had gone on for months and the whole time they were carrying on behind her back she had no idea. One day she came home from work and they were both waiting for her in the living room - the soon-to-be-ex boyfriend and the co-worker. They told her they were in love and that they wanted to live together and that she needed to choose whether she wanted to keep the apartment on her own or move out and let them move in.
That sounds like a rough evening with a couple of weasels.
Anyways, she chose to move out. She felt she wouldn't be able to afford such a large place on her own and besides - who wouldn't want to just cut and run as far as possible from the walls and the frames of that whole scene. Sometimes, moving on takes more than simply moving away. And sometimes it is just enough.
She found a room in a creaky, wooden share-house in Hackney. Nowadays, that part of London is cleaner than it was then - and even now, it looks like you're seeing it through glasses that you've pulled out of a muddy puddle. So, back then, it was truly filthy. Not in an unsafe way. It's didn't feel broken down and criminal and loose. It was just a dirty and unclean part of town and everyone who lived there accepted it as being that way and lived through, around and as a part of all that.
She missed her old apartment. Her old neighborhood. Her old job. She missed most of what she once had. And she was just now beginning to feel like she was coming out the other end.
I heard the first part of the story in the pub in Angel, whilst angling for an invite back to hers. The second half I heard in the taxi once I'd scored that invite.
We rose up the three concrete steps leading up from the side-walk to her house. She negotiated the lock with her key and held open the door for me. Just a couple of steps inside began a wooden stairway. She led me up them and then down the corridor at the top. She had spoken so much at the pub and in the cab. It was one, single story and she told it precisely and steady and we were locked in. Her voice was in control. But, as we reached the end of the hallway and climbed the attic-ladder up to her room, I realised not a word had been spoken since we stepped out of the cab. She was less certain and I was following her lead.
It was a surprisingly airy and large attic. The walls and the ceiling were covered in thick white paint - the same shade as the linen covering the low-rise bed pushed under a window opened out to the night. The bed was covered - it's full length - by a double line of a pillows - who would ever need that much support for their head? The floorboards had started off as painted black and were now fading into a dark brown, as they fell the victim of scuffed stiletto heels, spilled oil and broken vases. There was no light fixture above and she circled the room, flicking on all of the many worn and shabby lampshades scattered around.
She sat down on the end of the bed. I sat down next to her and looked across at the two, free-standing, cast-iron clothes racks facing us. They were both over-stuffed with thick fabrics and warm colours. Sometimes all you got don't fit on all of your hooks. And sometimes it is just enough.
"You ok?" I asked.
"Yeah. I just need... It's the first time I've had anyone over here. The first time I've really done anything like this since, you know..." her voice faltered. She spoke quieter compared to when she was telling her story. "I came back with a guy last week. I met him at work and he took me out to dinner. We came back here to the house, but then I didn't let him in."
I laughed "Really? What do you mean - you came back but you didn't let him in?"
She looked at me for a tiny moment, trying to decide how she felt about my reaction and question. She hadn't expected me to laugh. She smiled.
"Well, I liked him. He was nice enough. Tall and young." She smiled again. "Really young... Anyways, so we had dinner not far from here and then he asked to come back with me and I said yes. But when we got here... I don't know... I just got scared. I'm not sure of what. Just a little scared and anxious and then as I opened the door I froze up. I told him I had changed my mind and that he needed to leave. He was a little crushed, but he was quite polite about it. He kinda just went on his way."
I reached down to slide her shoes off.
"How young?" I asked and turned to unlaced my own boots.
"What?"
"How young? You said he was young. How young?"
"Haha. That's the part of that story you wanna focus on?"
"Well, it seemed like the part of the story you were most interested in."
"You're probably right. Haha. He was twenty one - a full ten years younger than me. There's something about attracting a well younger man that does wonders for a scorned woman."
"Indeed."
The falter was gone and the steadiness returned.
We turned quiet again and this silence was slow and comfortable. She had dressed lightly for a mid-summer's eve and I there was not much clothing to slip off her. I started to push some of the pillows onto the floor. She laughed and joined in. After we cleared the way, she tugged at my blue shirt and started undoing the buttons. Most times in my life, the girl has unbuttoned from the top down. The Hairdresser began to unbutton from the bottom up.
We fell back onto the last two pillows remaining and kissed. I pressed her down and reached behind her neck to hold her. She pushed back up at me, turning me onto my back and rolling herself on-top. There was no physical-negotiation. There was no need to feel out or wait for the other's response to a lead. No need to ask or check or look for what we were or were wanting. The Hairdresser and I were just away with each other. It was lust and it was impulsive and it was comfortable. And it was needed. Sometimes after everything goes wrong you need everything to go right. And sometimes one thing going right is just enough.
And that's when I saw it. The mouse. Or the rat that I thought was a mouse. Like I said above, I don't know enough about it to know exactly what it was. In that moment, with her on-top of me with her face and lips pushed into my neck, my first thought was that it was a mouse. It ran out from behind one of the clothing racks and stopped after a couple of feet and was staring up at us. Only I could see it. I reached again for behind her neck to hold her head in that position nestled into me.
I hadn't known this girl for longer than a few hours, but I knew her well enough to know that if she saw the little critter on the other edge of the room, this erotic therapy would be over. There would be a shrill and then a freak-out and then this impulsive passion would be replaced with that wrong kind of silence. And then there would be a break and time and that is when the fear and doubt creeps in and they'd be a second-guess and then I'd be out on the street with my own version of that twenty one year old's polite disappearance act.
So, I really had no choice. I held her body closer onto mine and stared beyond her and back at the little brown creature. I hoped he would be scared. Scared of me staring back at him. And he would hustle back to from wherever he came for long enough for me and The Hairdresser to exhaust ourselves and the situation. A gave him a mean look. A scowl. A look trying to assert control.
And it worked. Exactly as I hoped. After about thirty seconds the mouse disappeared back to his hiding place and about four hours after that I jumped into another cab and left for my own hiding place.
I'm not telling you that it matters and that you learn to tell the difference between a rat and a mouse. It doesn't matter. It certainly didn't matter here. You can remember the details of your own stories whichever way you want. All that does matter is that the rats and the mice that seem to be there will vanish if you really want to make them disappear. And if that doesn't work, well.... in that case, I think you got yourself a weasel.
