After two more blocks, Clutch announced, “Here we are.”
They had reached a small, broken-down building. A dilapidated sign reading “Sam’s Shoe Shine” hung over a door frame without a door.
Clutch flipped her skateboard up and carried it over the threshold. Ragweed followed.
Whatever structure there was on the outside of the building, inside all had collapsed. Broken beams and cracked wallboard created a ceiling barely ten inches above the heads of the mice. Leading the way, Clutch moved right then left, then right again. “We keep it tight,” she explained. “Like, to keep the cats out if they ever find it, which I seriously doubt.”
At the end of the corridor the two mice scrambled through a hole in the wall, entering an open area with a ceiling made of rusty screening. At the other side of the area was a counter. Behind it stood an enormously fat mouse with large ears, brown fur, and a scaly tail. He was offering up cracker crumbs and cheese to those who asked.
“Mayor of Mouse Town,” Clutch said, with a nod to the mouse. “Goes by the name of Radiator.”
The area was alive with mice of many colors, shapes, and sizes. Ragweed noticed a few golden mice, some deer mice, a few short-tailed grasshopper mice, lots of house mice—like Clutch—even an occasional meadow-jumping mouse. Ragweed had never seen so many different kinds of mice in one place.
A few were alone. Most, however, were in groups about small piles of crumbs and cheese. Talk—loud, constant squeaking—made it hard to hear.
“Hey, mouse, over here,” Clutch shouted over the din to Ragweed. “Meet my band buds.”
Clutch threaded her way through the crowd. “Hey, dude,” mice called to her. “What’s happening?” “What’s up?” “Hey, sweetheart!”
In contrast, Ragweed bumped his way through the mice. “Excuse me. Sorry. Pardon. I do beg your pardon. Thanks.” Under the stares of the mice, he felt very much the outsider.
“Hey, dudes, what’s up?” Clutch cried. She had reached the far corner of the room. Two very different mice were sitting about a small pile of crumbs. “This is my new bud, Ragweed,” she announced. “Just trickled into town.”
The two mice looked up casually. Their faces showed no emotion.
“This is Dipstick,” Clutch went on. “One big bad drummer. He’s a grasshopper mouse.”
“Whatever,” Dipstick murmured with a nod of his head. He had cinnamon-colored fur on his back, a white belly, and a white-tipped tail.
“And this dude is Lugnut,” Clutch continued. “Pygmy mouse.”
Gray-brown in color, Lugnut was half the size of Ragweed, with tiny, delicate paws. His lidded eyes made him appear very sleepy. “He’s on the bass,” Clutch explained. “Awesome noise.”
“What’s up, dude?” Lugnut said to Ragweed in a soft drawl.
“I’m very pleased to meet you both,” Ragweed said.
“Yo, mouse, whatever,” Dipstick said. “Hunker down and toss a crumb.” He gestured to the pile.
“Thank you.” Ragweed sat down and out of politeness took a bit.
“When’s our set?” Clutch asked.
“Soon.”
After a moment, Ragweed said, “What’s a set?”
Dipstick rolled his eyes. Lugnut darted an unbelieving glance at Ragweed, then at Clutch.
“Hey, like,” she said, “he just blew into town.”
“Yeah, right,” Lugnut murmured. “A set is our performance,” he explained to Ragweed. “Ten, twelve tunes. We do three sets a night.”
Dipstick hopped up. “Anyone want something to drink?”
Clutch looked at Ragweed. “What do they have?” Ragweed asked.
“Nectar. Honey. Water.”
“Water, thank you.”
“Anyone else?”
The other mice shook their heads. Dipstick went off.
Ragweed watched the crowd. Most of the mice seemed to be arguing, yet without anger. He wondered that there was so much to talk about. Then it dawned on him: these mice enjoyed squeaking at one another. He found it fascinating.
Clutch leaned over to Lugnut. “This dude here,” she indicated Ragweed, “gets off the train and, like, who do you think is waiting to say hello?”
Lugnut gazed at Ragweed. “Graybar? Silversides?”
Clutch nodded.
“Busted,” Lugnut muttered.
Dipstick came back with a bottle cap filled with water in one paw. He gave it to Ragweed. “Radiator says we’re on,” he announced.
Clutch and Lugnut heaved themselves up. “Enjoy the sound,” Clutch said. “Keep an eye on my deck, will you?”
“Deck?” Ragweed asked.
“Skateboard.”
“Oh, sure.”
Lugnut shook his head in disbelief as the trio eased their way through the crowd. Ragweed heard him say, “Your dude’s an airhead.”
“Hey, like, he’s funky,” Clutch returned.
“Yeah, right,” Dipstick said.
Ragweed sighed, drew in the skateboard, took a sip of water, then settled in to watch. For a moment he lost sight of his new friends, only to see them reappear on the far side of the room on what looked like a small platform.
Dipstick seated himself amid a number of small tuna-fish cans. Lugnut carried a large guitar made from a red plastic spoon and string. His guitar was bigger than the one Clutch had and made the tiny mouse seem even smaller than he was. As for Clutch, she was in front of the other two, tuning her own guitar.
Radiator, who had been behind the counter, waddled to the platform. “Okay, guys,” he called out to the crowd. “Glad you could make it down here tonight to the Cheese Squeeze Club. Our house band, the Be-Flat Tires, is going to do a set. How about giving these cool dudes some Cheese Squeeze Club paw!”
Some ragged applause and a few squeaks were heard.
Clutch stepped forward. “How you dudes doing?”
“Want some funk!” came a reply.
“Okay!” Clutch continued. “We’re one short tonight. Sorry to tell you, but Silversides gaffled Muffler.”
Moans and groans rose from the crowd.
Clutch continued. “Hey, no one said being a mouse is easy. Nothing we can do about it but keep on trucking. That’s the way Muffler would have wanted it. Right? Right! So, like, let’s get into some sweet Be-Flat Tires grooves. Anyway, we’re dedicating tonight’s show to Muffler. Okay.” She turned to her band and nodded her green head. “One, two, three . . .”
The music began.
Ragweed
