Tie Bar Monologue

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I pulled together a load of darks, tossed them in the wash and plopped on the couch with the July issue of GQ Men Magazine. It included such vital pointers as, “There is no need to match your umbrella to your outfit.” And “remember: a tie bar will amp up any suit.” A half hour later, the laundry was done. I flipped open the lid, pulled fistfuls of damp clothes from the tangle and tossed them into the dryer. As I gathered the last of the stragglers, something in the bottom of the washer caught my eye. “Is that…?” The blood rushed from my face before I could finish the sentence. Because it was. It lay there on the bottom of the washing machine. Crumpled against a navy blue dress sock. A dead mouse. I’ve always liked to think that I’d be…show more content…
“We’ll get a new washing machine.” I reached for the newspaper then I realized that this too would never work. It was too risky. I’d probably get a hernia trying to haul the old one to the curb. Or, worse, the lid could bounce open, exposing the dead mouse to my line of vision. I scanned the kitchen for potential mouse removal tools. Spatula. Too unstable. Kitchen Fork. Too gross. Tongs! That’d work. Not only could I avoid skewering the dead mouse, there’d be a ten-inch buffer of steel between us. I lifted the tongs from the hook and squeezed the spring-loaded handle. The steel tips clacked together. This made me sad. I love my tongs. I fingered the ridges, thinking of all the great food we’ve flipped together. I couldn’t do it so I called Emily and told her about the situation. She said, “Are you serious John? Handle it like a man!” She laughed and hung up on…show more content…
I washed my hands again and glanced at Mimi, gnawing on the leg of the kitchen table. That’s when inspiration struck. “Mimi, you’re a genius!” She wagged her tail and continued chewing the table. I reached into the cabinet and pulled out a wadded plastic Safeway bag. I inverted it over my hand like a glove and slowly approached the laundry room. I’m not sure why I felt the need to sneak up on the washing machine. It just seemed like the right thing to do under the circumstances. I clutched the bag like a revolver and peeked over the lip of the washer. I was hoping an owl had swooped in and carried the mouse away while I wasn’t looking. But I had no such luck. The dead mouse was curled in a fetal position. Eyes closed. Fur damp. Its tail traced the curve of the washing machine basin. The mouse didn’t look like Mickey or Minnie, Feival or Jerry, Danger Mouse, Mighty Mouse, Pinky or the Brain. Suddenly, I felt deeply

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