“No, I don’t think I could,” Ragweed admitted.
“Uses his tail. Like, he may be my old mouse,” Clutch said with pride, “but the guy’s an awesome genius.”
“Does your mother paint too?” Ragweed asked.
“Foglight?” Clutch said. “Naw, she’s a poet. She’s writing a mouse epic. Calls it Cheese of Grass. Going to be killer sweet. Word wipeout time. Been working on it for weeks. Should be done any sec now. But, hey, dude, let me introduce you to them.”
They passed down the center of the bus between rows of broken seats. Pictures hung everywhere. Some, Ragweed saw at a glance, were cheese paintings and presumably had been painted by Clutch’s father. But there were other paintings: portraits of mice, landscapes, visions of human nests, streets. There were also twisted objects of all kinds. Ragweed was reminded of the pile of junk in which he had hidden by the railroad.
“My folks have a lot of artist friends,” Clutch whispered by way of explanation. “They can’t sell what they make, so they swap stuff. Hey, Windy! Foggy! What’s up?” Clutch called.
At the front of the old bus were two mice. The large one—Ragweed guessed he was Clutch’s father, the one called Windshield—was quite portly. His scruffy fur was gray-brown like his daughter’s, but so dabbed with color he looked like a spotted creature. All around him was an array of bottle caps, each filled with paint of a different color. The tip of his tail—he was in the middle of painting a picture—was quite green. Ragweed noticed it was the same color as the top of Clutch’s head.
The other mouse, who was small and wiry, was bending intently over the work she was composing on paper, chewing a writing stick. Though Clutch called a greeting, she seemed not to have heard.
Not so with Clutch’s father. He looked around. “Clutch!” he rumbled in as low a voice as Ragweed had ever heard. “What a magnificent surprise!” He bounded forward and gave his daughter an enthusiastic nuzzle, which she returned with equal fervor.
“Hey, Windy,” Clutch said, “this is my new bud, Ragweed. He just blew into town, and like, he already saved my life.”
“Saved your life?” the fat mouse cried, eyes sparking with interest. “Sir,” he exclaimed, “I should like to shake your paw.” He did so with great vigor and enthusiasm. “It is clear, young mouse, you subscribe to the same philosophy as I do, the world of big gestures! Action! Commitment!” He clung to Ragweed’s paw, continuing to shake it. “I’m delighted to meet you! No, correction! Thrilled to meet you! Welcome to the family,” he went on, all the while pumping Ragweed’s paw.
“Oh, well, thank you,” Ragweed said mildly.
“Did you hear, Foggy?” Windshield cried, turning toward his wife. “This delightful young mouse saved our daughter’s life!”
“That’s nice,” Clutch’s mother said. “Be finished in two secs.” Though she seemed to mean it, she was too intent upon her work to break off.
Not so Windshield. “Come on over here, you two. Great to see you, Clutch. Love your hair! You know,” he said, suddenly halting and rising up on his hind legs, as if giving a sermon, “when a stranger saves the life of another stranger—it seems to me that we have reached a major turning point. It means mice are beginning to take care of mice.
“It’s a trend!” he cried with great sweeping motions of one paw. “What has happened will affect other mice. They will affect yet others. The movement will spread and the whole world of mice will change! It’s a revolution!”
“Windy,” Clutch said, “like, can we get something to eat?”
“Of course,” Windshield said good-naturedly. “Foggy,” he called to his wife, “care to join us?”
“Just two secs,” Foglight mumbled again without looking up.
“My wife,” Windshield explained to Ragweed with pride, “is a wonderful writer. Do you know how you can tell a professional writer from an amateur?”
“No.”
“An amateur worries about the work before starting; a professional worries about the work when finished.”
Windshield led the two young mice under a seat, where food was piled about in random fashion. “Help yourself, my dear friends. Now then, Ragweed, the complete story. No detail is too small. How did you preserve my daughter’s life? I desire to hear it all.”
“It was at the Cheese Squeeze Club—” Ragweed began.
“The Cheese Squeeze Club,” Windshield interrupted. “These places where young people congregate are important. When I was young, it was different. We were isolated. Today a whole new feeling has emerged. A sense of belonging. And these clubs mark a turning point! A trend! The world is changing! Revolution is at hand!”
“Windy,” Clutch interrupted, “do you want to know what happened?”
“Certainly.”
“Silversides and Graybar mopped up the club.”
“Cruel, hateful creatures,” Windshield cried. “Holding down the mice of this town! Repressing us. But our time will come.” He clenched a paw and held it high. “We mice shall rise again!”
“Like, tell me about it,” Clutch said.
“Never give up heart,” Windshield proclaimed. “Remember, we’re at a turning point. Notice that a whole new feeling has emerged. A new sense of belonging. A revolution!”
“Hey, Pops,” Clutch said with affection, “like, you’ve said that already.”
“I have?” The artist was truly surprised.
“At least.”
“Oh, well, repetition is the proof of sincerity. Saying what you mean is important. It’s a turning point. A whole new—”
“Windy!” Clutch cried, cutting him off.
Then Ragweed said, “Mr. Windshield, sir, do you think anything can be done about the cats? Like, make them stop hurting you guys?”
Windshield seemed to deflate. “Well, if you put it that way, no. But, young fellow, the power of art will—” He stopped mid-sentence. “That reminds me,” he said. He rushed out from under the seat, headed for the back of the bus, and resumed painting.
Ragweed looked to Clutch. “Like, the power of art will what?” he asked her.
“Beats me,” Clutch said, laughing. “That’s the way the dude always talks. He’s, like, constantly cruising. Dreaming. Except, know what I’m saying, most
