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Updated 8/24/99

The Life Of Steven S. Mice:

A Guide To Life

(A Non-Fictional AutoBiography)

The name is Steven S. Mice, and the one thing I've never been is a rat. For seventy nine years I've lived in this world, and since I've got a spare minute or two, I've decided that it's time to save all my memories on the printed page, so that if someone were so inclined, he could peruse and maybe learn something from the life of a man who was anything but a mouse...

"Come on, Gramps! The life of a man who was anything but a mouse? Aren't you going a little too far with this Mice thing?"

"The only thing I've ever gone too far with was your grandmother, so keep your tongue. This is my book, and it's based on my life, so I'll tell it my way!" The old man stalked around in his faded turquoise bathrobe and his thin, red slippers. He picked up the Empire State building and checked the clock on it. "And remember, you write exactly what I say and nothing else! No revisions nowhere!"

"Got it." The young man put his fingers over the keyboard and sat up straight, eyes staring into space. In front of him was a glowing screen, across which letters and numbers floated like ghosts on review. The low whir of the computer was the only sound in the house besides the measured tramp of the red slippers across the old wooden floor.

"Grampa?", asked the young man.

"Yes, Joe?"

"When I was driving over here today I couldn't help noticing what a nice day it was. I was thinking, maybe after the first three chapters we could go to Twin Oaks and have a picnic. I could make some sandwiches and..."

"Sorry, but no, Joe. We've just begun this book, and I have so much to write. And remember, we have a deal. After this book is finished, you get to keep this Cuisinart."

"Gramps, how many times have I told you? It's a word processor, not a food processor."

"Whatever it is, it's yours when we finish the book. But not before! So start typing and let's get moving!"

"But Gramps, you never get out and this would be a good time to..."

"NO! I said no and I mean no! Besides a picnic is a waste of money, and I'm on a tight budget."

"Alright Gramps." Joe turned back towards the computer.

"Gramps."

"Yes, Joe?"

"What did the doctors say?"

The old man stopped circling the room and looked out the front porch window. "They said they weren't sure."

They sat there for a moment in silence, then Gramps started talking and Joe began typing.

The depression was the worst thing to happen to this country since the Civil War. People today just don't seem to understand what it was like in those years. They look at old pictures in black and white, and they think it's a documentary about some other country. Maybe if we'd had Polaroid XLs, people would save their money instead of selling themselves for plastic. No money, no food, no hope. I saw men grovel, I saw men sell themselves for bread to give to their families. And after the first year, I saw men just give up and die. Strong, alive, hopeful one day, a walking corpse the next. Whole families would just fade away. I saw just how fragile the world was, how easy it was to vanish into nowhere. The Depression was the worst thing you could imagine. I walked through a nightmare world, a world from which there was no return. And I found I was having trouble remembering the world before. Life was a living hell. I felt like there was something I could do to make it better, but I couldn't put my finger on it. So I just kept on drifting like a ghost through a world of shadows. Then, one day, it just hit me. I finally knew what to do. Right then and there I vowed never to be without money for my family again. No matter what might come, my family would last and prosper and preserve. After a while, of course, the depression became a thing of the past, and the grasshoppers went about their business. But unlike most of them, I'd learned my lesson. There's nothing above money, because money means power. Power to protect yourself and your family. There's really nothing else to say; I devoted my life to earning money, so that my family would always be safe.

Joe stood up, and walked over to the kitchen, shaking his head. "Devoted your life to earning money?! Is that the only thing you learned from the depression?"

"It was more than most people ever learn!" snapped back Gramps, trying to open a vial of medicine. "Everyone swore that if they were ever given the chance, they would never be without money again. But the grasshoppers forgot. I didn't. I watched after it, and nurtured it, and it grew from nothing into a fortune. Through my sweat and work I've saved over three hundred and fifty thousand dollars!! How many other people do you know can leave such a legacy to their family?"

Joe opened the refrigerator. "Are you nuts?! Look what you had to do to get that money. You've lived like a miser for the past seventy years! There's nothing in this refrigerator but a can of Beanie Weenie and a half of a rotten banana! Why don't you spend some of this legacy on yourself for once?"

Gramps angrily threw the medicine vial at Joe, hitting the refrigerator door. "Because that's not what it's for!" he screamed. "It's for the family! With that money you'll all be safe! Nothing can happen to you with that much money!"

Joe slammed the refrigerator door. "Right. Like you don't get three thousand a month with your pension and the interest. You only spend three hundred and fifty a month on yourself, so where does the rest go?"

Gramps sat down heavily on the '57 sofa. "Back into the bank."

Joe walked over to Gramps and sat down besides him. "I know. Gramps, you didn't have to go blind."

"They wanted too much goddamn money!"

"Too much money?! The total bill for the operation was less than twenty thousand. But noooo, you wouldn't pay. And now you're blind."

"I can see!"

"What, two feet in front of your face? Gramps, get the bypass. Before it's too late."

"No. It's too much." Gramps sat there, chest heaving in and out. Slowly, his breathing slowed down to his distinctive wheeze, and he stood up and padded out to the living room. "Now, come on, Joe, I'm not feeling too good. If we could get back to the book?"

Joe stood up went over to the computer. "Why don't you write the truth?"

"What?"

"The truth is, you're not really worried about our safety. You're worried about us not bothering to remember you, about yourself disappearing. The money's just your way of forcing us to remember you."

"Listen here, goddamn you, you don't want to remember me, you don't want my money, fine! That's just fine. But why don't you put your money where your mouth is? If the money means oh so little to you, why don't you just stand up, get your coat, and walk on out that door."

Joe went into the living room and grabbed his coat off the back of his chair. "Ok! Ok! That is how I feel about the money. I'm just going to walk on out and you can get someone else to write the memoirs of a lemming!!" Joe began packing up the computer.

"Joe, aren't you forgetting something?"

Joe turned and threw down his coat. "What?!" he screamed. "What am I forgetting!?"

Gramps smiled and walked over to the window, peering out through the yellowed shutters. "The computer's yours after you finish writing the memoirs. Not before."

Joe opened his mouth but didn't say anything. He sat down in front of the partially packed computer. He thought about his book, and the others he wanted to write. Joe picked up the forty meg drive, measuring its weight. Then he carefully set it down, yanked his coat on, and left, slamming the door as he went.

Gramps sat down, and looked at the Empire State Building. Six forty five. He picked up his bank statement for the last year, and began tallying it up again.

Fifteen minutes later, Gramps had just reached July, when the door opened, and Joe came in and began reassembling the computer. Gramps set the statement back down, and watched as Joe reattached the hard drive, plugged the computer back in, and wiped the keyboard off. He loaded the file, sat up straight in the chair, and then broke down sobbing.

Gramps checked his balance again, and waited ten more minutes before he said, "You know, Joe, that computer I bought was a floor model. Funny how I never got around to taking off the price tag." Gramps waited some more, and had reached October before he said, "Don't feel bad. You're father couldn't do it either."

So, there I was, out of a job, out of money, out of luck. I threw down my cap, and stomped out of the office to show everyone how I wasn't going to take it, how I wasn't going to be pushed around. But there wasn't any use in it. They knew. I knew they knew. I hated every last one of them, because they knew when they were going to get their pay, when they were going to eat. And I didn't. There were children back at home, but soon there wouldn't be any home. It was nineteen thirty one when I first contemplated suicide.

I went to the park to look for any newspapers that might have been dropped. I couldn't find any, but I found out why. A couple of old bums, three of 'em, were standing around a trashcan with burning newspapers inside. It was about six o'clock, and it was getting dark soon.

I walked up to them to get warm and to get a better look. The smoke from the wet newspapers as so thick I couldn't make them out. But they could see me.

"Hello, there" said the one in the middle. "Come to gather some heat, or perhaps while away the hours?"

I squinted at them, smoke stinging my eyes. "Both. Neither. It doesn't matter much anymore."

The one in the middle kinda chuckled. "Yes, well, you're among your fellows then. My name is Doctor Felder, and on my left is Doctor Medlin, and on my right is Doctor Richardson. We were employed by Princeton but, well, with things being so bad there's just fewer students there, and not much of a need for professors without tenure. We came to New York City on a quest."

"A quest?" I asked.

"We're looking for something." he explained.

"Oh, yeah, I get it. Looking for what?"

"Well, whatever comes our way. And that seems to be you!" He seemed to find this the world's greatest joke, and cracked up while his buddies continued to warm their hands.

"Well, hardy har har. I don't need to hang around for this." I turned to go, but he called me back.

"Wait a minute. I'm sorry. It's just, I lost most of my money in the crash, right after a fortune teller told me I would, and nowadays, I'm ready to accept anything as destiny. Please, stay for a moment and talk. Who knows, we could have been destined to meet here." He started laughing, but this time I laughed with him. He was alright, I could tell, though his friends were two silent birds.

"Say, Steve, what are you going to do now?"

"I don't know. I can't just pull up and go looking for a job, I've got a family. I can't just leave 'em."

"Well, Steve, I know how you feel. No one wants to abandon his family. They look to you for guidance, support. But you can't give it to them, you can't give what you don't have."

I shook my head. "Yeah, I know. But, well, I got this matchbook here with an address for some free food, um, some mission down on ninth street..."

Felder reached over the fire and grabbed the matchbook. I swear, that overcoat must have been godawful heavy, because I couldn't hold my hands nearer than a foot without yanking 'em away after a second or two. But Felder didn't flinch at all. He was one tough cookie.

"Hmmm. Yes, how noble of them" he said, looking at the cover, "but you realize that they're just taking advantage of you, don't you?"

"Huh? What do you mean?"

"I mean, you're not getting a free ride. You just think you are, and that's what they're counting on. They want you in their debt, so afterwards, they can force you to work for them because you owe it to them."

"Really? How do you know?"

Felder stepped a little closer to the can, so I could see him better, I guess, then said, "I'll tell you how I know. I used to be one of them."

I squinted my eyes to try and make out what he was wearing. My eyes were really watery, but he had on some kind of black jacket. "What? You mean you used to be part of that mission?"

"Not just a part. I was a big man in the business. At least, I was before I took a fall."

"What happened?"

"Well, the boss..."

"You mean the mission leader?"

"No, not the mission leader. The Big Man. He hates me because I didn't bow down to him all the time. He's a meglomaniac, a real nut case, and he didn't take kindly to me and some of the boys talking about it. I kept on going along with it until he brought in some outsider to take over. And I was his right hand man!"

"That's pretty low."

"You bet that's pretty low! How would you feel if that happened to you?"

"I'd want to do something about it."

"And that's what I did. I organized a protest, motivated some people, and then BAM!"

"Bam?"

"Yes, bam. He threw us all out. Most people he throws out, they get to come back in after they've served some time. But not us! Oh, no! We never get to come back."

"So, you're not a practicing member anymore?"

"Oh, I practice alright. But not their way. I go around making sure people don't get suckered in like I did."

Geez, I thought, this guy must really know what he's talking about. "Okay, maybe they're not such a hot idea, but what do I do in the meantime? How do I put dinner on the table?"

Felder leaned over the fire. "I'll tell you, my friend." He motioned me closer, and suddenly the fire wasn't too hot anymore.

"Yeah?" I said.

"Look what's on the inside of the matchbook." He handed me back the matchbook. I took it, and looked on the inside. It was a help wanted ad for people to work at a fire department. The address was across the street. I turned, and there were a couple of guys getting ready to put a banner up. Part of it came undone, and I could see the letters "HEL." I guessed the rest, and made up my mind to be the first in line. I turned around to say goodbye to the Professor, but the smoke hit me full in the eyes, and I couldn't see for a couple of seconds. By the time I got the tears out of my eyes, I looked up and they were gone. That didn't surprise me a lot when I thought about those two bozos, but the Professor, well, he seemed a real friendly sort of guy. I walked around the trashcan to see them, but I couldn't. I would have gone after them, to thank the Professor for pointing out that ad, but I saw people starting to stop around the fire station, and I knew if I didn't go right then, I'd be number four hundred and fifty instead of number four. I took off running and got there just in time. I was the last guy they hired. I would have saved the matchbook, but I must have lost it when I was running. It didn't matter, though. I got the job, and if I couldn't save the matchbook, well, I'd save the money then.

Joe looked up from the computer and shook his head. "Gramps, you'd better check over what's going in this little testimony of yours and edit out these inconsistencies."

"What?"

Joe rolled his chair back across the creaking floorboards. "Well, first off, Felder had a heavy overcoat on when he leaned over the fire. Then you look at him and he's got a jacket on. How did he know your name, anyway. You hadn't told him before. And what's he a professor of anyway? Must have been psychology from the way he played his game."

Gramps kicked a Flash Gordon trashcan across the room at Joe. "What is coming out of that mouth of yours, boy!? What do you mean 'played his game'?"

Joe arched his back. "Oh, come on, Gramps. He wasn't part of any Church, and there's been no real movement against the Pope for the last ninety years. He was testing your religious motivations. Psychologists do it all the time. It was just a test, Gramps."

"Well, if it was a test, I passed with flying colors. I got that job, and by playing my cards right I built my fortune, by God. Now the whole family, and that includes you, you ungrateful brat, is safe and secure."

"You should have saved yourself." said Joe.

"I did!" snapped Gramps. "I saved myself and I saved my family. You wouldn't be here now if it weren't for me being able to feed your father."

Joe stared at the screen. "My father wouldn't be an emotional basket case if you had put in a little time being a father instead of just a provider."

"There wasn't time to do both. And I was a good father, but your dad is just a no good stupid little...."

"Gramps!" Gramps broke off. Joe poised his finger above a button. "Do you know what happens if I press this button? Do you? Of course you don't. What will happen is that the entire file, all your memoirs will disappear into a puff of computer smoke. It sometimes happens accidentally. It's not really that hard at all to do it on purpose."

"You do that, Joe, and you'll never get this computer. Do I have to hold up your price tag again?"

Joe turned towards Gramps. "Nope. On the other hand, you'll probably have a heart attack when I delete it all, so you won't have time to tell anyone it's not really mine." Joe's finger stabbed down at the button.

"JOE!!!" yelled Gramps, but it was too late. Joe's finger pushed the button.

"There it all goes." said Joe. Gramps was holding his heart, trying 9to get his breathing under control again.

Joe smiled. "Just a joke, Gramps. I didn't delete it."

The expression on Gramps face turned from fright to rage. "If you ever..!!"

"What? Better keep the mouth under control, old man. You're not bound for this world very long. You ever talk about my father again, the whole file goes. You leave him out of it, I'll finish writing your memoirs. Deal?"

Gramps sat wheezing for a moment, then said, "Deal."

"Well." said Joe. "Now we know what both of our price tags say."

In the end, a man is what he's made of himself. Everyone's done good things, and everyone's done bad, but what's important is the final tally. People know if they've been good or bad, but I don't think it's possible to suddenly become good, no matter how hard you want to be. I think you've got to make up for what you've done. If a man's done enough good to outweigh what he's done bad, then I'd say he was a good man. But if he hasn't, then there's not much left to talk about.

The End

"What did you do?"

Gramps looked up. The building was the only reminder of Gramps' life allowed in the hospital room. It reported the time at 11:30. Gramps was bundled up in his wheelchair, with a needle sticking in his arm and a small machine making beeps next to him. The snows of December lay outside, glistening in the moonlight. "What?" he asked weakly.

Joe started saving the file. "What did you do?", he repeated softly. "What are trying to atone for?"

"Nothing. Why.?"

"Because all of this - the money, the lifestyle - it's all penance, isn't it? You're trying to make up for what you've done"

"No, I'm trying to make up for what I haven't done."

Joe turned off the computer and went to pick up his coat on the door. "What you haven't done? That doesn't make any sense. Penance redeems you from acts with negative values, at least according to Websters."

Gramps moved to adjust the needle in his arm. "Joe, the fifteenth rule of life is don't look in a dictionary for philosophical truths. Maybe you're satisfied with dying at zero value, but I'm not. When I die, I'm going to be..."

"...holier than thou? Why's it so important, Gramps?" Joe put on his coat and turned the doorknob.

Gramps turned his head. "Why's life important, Joe? I don't want to die."

Joe let go of the doorknob, walked back to the bed, leaned over and whispered into Gramp's ear, "Gramps, we all have to die sometime."

Gramps twisted his arm around the I.V. tube and grabbed Joe's jacket. "I don't!!" he hissed into Joe's ear, pulling him closer. "As long as the book's around, I'll be too." Gramps released his grip, and fell back into the hospital bed.

Joe felt Gramps wrist, and looked at a machine with straight lines and a constant buzz. "Nurse." he said. He went and yanked open the door. "NURSE!!!"

By the time morning came, all the immediate arrangements had been taken care of. Joe went walking out of the hospital with the disk in his pocket and the computer under his arm. There had been a lot of ugly looks when they found he had snuck in after hours, but it didn't make much of a difference. After all, he wasn't going back anytime soon. He went to his car and put the computer in the trunk. Then he drove over to the post office. Inside, he made out an envelope to the address Gramps had given him and put the disk inside. He stamped the envelope, and walked over to the window, lost in thought.

The woman behind the window said, "Sir? May I help you sir?"

Joe looked startled, then said, "Yes, I'd like to mail this, please."

He handed the woman the envelope. She picked it up, and almost threw it into the pile before she noticed the address. "Are you a writer?" she asked with a shy smile.

"Yes. Well, not yet. My grandfather was, though."

"Oh, really?"

"Yes." Joe pointed at the address on the envelope. "Do you know anything about this publisher?"

"Yes. I submit my work to them as well. I'm trying to be a writer, but I'm stuck here until I get published. Anyway, they're one of the largest firms in the world. You get published by them, people will read you."

People will read you thought Joe. He thought for a moment, then said, "Miss, could I have that envelope back please?"

"Is there some problem with it?"

"No, I've just changed my mind about submitting it."

"Why?" she asked.

"Well, I was thinking, the last thing the world needs to read is a story about a carpenter who never got beyond working with wood."