No More Screaming Mickeys

When I was living in the Motel Marquis crack motel, construction began on the vacant Vietnamese Cat Sacrificing Voodoo lot next door and the construction chased all the field mice in to our motel rooms.

The motel owner, being frugal, gave us tenants cheap glue strips to catch the mice. The mice would be attracted to the smell, then find themselves glued to the strip. They would scream bloody murder in their little Mickey voices. Scream and scream and scream all night long or until I got up and crushed them. I’ll never forget the sounds of those little Mickey screams. You haven’t really experienced horror until you’ve been woken in the middle of the night by screaming Mickeys.

A year later in the homeless shelter, I was in bed and I heard the Mickey screams again. They were coming from my closet. I freaked out. I didn’t know the little boogers knew how to use the elevators to get to my fourth floor room. Smart little Mickeys.

So, in an anxiety filled panic, I tossed my jam-packed closet frenetically looking for the screaming Mickeys until I finally decided to go outside for a breather. When I left my room, I saw that the guy in the next room was washing down his closet with a squeeky cloth. It wasn’t screaming Mickeys. It was my compulsive neighbor.

I told this story to my homeless, RV-dwelling attorney one day when he was complaining about the recent spate of tricks God had been playing on him.

“What does that have to do with God’s cruel tricks?” Don asked after I told him this story.

“It means that you can’t always trust your imagination,” I explained, “Sometimes you gotta go out and get the facts, whether it be screaming Mickeys or trickster gods.”

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