CHAPTER 5
Clutch
RAGWEED PRESSED AGAINST the blocked hole—only to have it suddenly open. A paw reached out, grabbed Ragweed’s shoulder, and pulled him forcibly inside. Then, just as Silversides was completing her pounce, the piece of wood—for that was what had been blocking the hole—slammed in her face.
Stunned, a panting Ragweed lay upon a not very clean rug. It took a moment before he could focus. A female mouse was looking down at him.
She was tall and thin as a stick, though her leanness suggested toughness, nothing brittle. Her fur was gray-brown in color, except for the top of her head, which had been dyed green. Her nose was blunt, her whiskers poorly groomed. From her left ear dangled a purple plastic bead at the end of a tiny chain.
“Hey, dude, what’s up?” she said.
Ragweed blinked. “What?”
“Like, Silversides almost snuff you, mouse?”
“Silversides?”
“Hey, mouse, you saying you didn’t see that sucker coming down on you?”
“You mean . . . that cat?”
The mouse laughed. “Like, she wasn’t a bus, was she?”
Not understanding what was being said to him, Ragweed looked around the space into which he had been pulled. It had a lofty ceiling with windows all around the top. At one end there was a wheel attached to a bar that stuck out from a wall. Other stick-like things rose up from the floor.
“What is this . . . place?” Ragweed asked.
“It’s a Ford Mustang,” the mouse replied. “Sixty-six. Hardtop. Like, tight, right?”
“Oh,” Ragweed said, not particularly enlightened.
The car was astonishingly messy. Off to one side was an unkempt mound of shredded cloth—a bed, Ragweed guessed. Crumbs lay scattered everywhere. Pieces of paper littered the area. A strip of wood with four wheels—Ragweed had no idea what that was—had been tossed into a corner. A wooden spoon on which several strings had been stretched from the narrow end to the wide end was affixed to a wall.
“You got a name, dude?” the mouse asked.
“Ragweed.”
“That’s cool,” the mouse said. “What’s it mean?”
“Mean? Well, I suppose it’s a plant. But I never think of it that way.”
“Awesome,” the city mouse said and held out a paw.
Ragweed offered his, but instead of shaking it, the house mouse slapped it. “Gotcha!” she said.
“May I ask your name?” Ragweed inquired politely.
“Clutch.”
“Clutch?”
“Clutch, dude, like in a car.”
“And . . . and a . . . car?” Ragweed inquired.
Clutch laughed. “What you’re sitting in, dude. Big metal things, on wheels. With motors, stink, and noise. They haul people around.”
“Oh, yes. And . . . thanks for saving me.”
“Hey, no problem. See, that Silversides is an uptown cat. She and her pal, Graybar, hang around, you know, sort of like guards. Like, they go for any little meat on the feet with a different beat. Know what I’m saying? Bad to the bone.”
Ragweed shuddered. “I guess.”
“I mean, she heads up an organization called Felines Enraged About Rodents. F.E.A.R. Trying to keep the town clean and pure. Like, they don’t want any riffraff—that’s us mice—coming in. And what’s already here, see, has to be right, decent, and respectful. That is, right, decent, and respectful according to them. Know what I’m saying?”
“What’s a rodent?” Ragweed asked.
“Like, a fancy name for mouse,” Clutch said. “Hey, mouse, exactly how new are you around here?”
“I . . . just got off the train.”
“From the country?”
“How did you know?”
“Hey, I see it all the time. The train pulls in. Dudes getting off to take a peek. Know what I’m saying? Trying to get a life, right? Wanting to check things out. But, like, you’re all so green the grass is envious.”
“Oh,” Ragweed said.
“Anyway, welcome to where it’s at, mouse. You want action, you’ve planted right. Like, I’m saying, dude, this place—Mouse Town—ain’t pretty, but, hey, it’s cool. This town hops. This town does tricks. You do it right, it’s totally rave. Awesome. Check it out.”
Ragweed blinked. “I beg your pardon.”
“Like, this is phat city,” Clutch went on. “It’s down. Sweet. Tight. Out of town, downtown. The hot spot. It rules. You cool enough to hang with me, dude?”
“Actually, I’m quite warm,” replied an utterly bewildered Ragweed. “I had to run very fast to get away from that cat.”
Clutch laughed. “Hey, mouse, you are seriously alien. Look, when I say cool, I mean, you know, like, it’s good. Get it. Phat?”
“Fat?”
“That means cool, dude. Sweet.”
“Oh, okay! Yes, thank you. I hope I am fat . . . sort of,” Ragweed stammered. “Do you live here?”
“Yo, dude, this is my pad. I can think of other cars I’d like better, but being on my own is my thing. Took what I could get. The freedom is worth it, mouse! Like, so sweet. My buds come, go. A few parties to lighten the load now and then, know what I’m saying? Mostly, though, just me, dude. I rip for liberty. Like, dude, I do what I do when I feel like doing it.”
“And . . . and what exactly do you . . . do?” Ragweed asked.
“Hey, dude, I see it this way: Nothing happens in the world without noise. Know what I’m saying? So I’m a musician. Make the sound. Tickle the strings. Like, that’s my axe over there, see?” Clutch nodded to the wooden spoon with threads on it that hung on the wall.
“I’m afraid I don’t know what that is,” Ragweed said.
Clutch gazed at him in wonderment. “It’s a guitar, dude. Hey, like, you really must be some kind of Zeke.”
“A what?”
“Never mind,” Clutch said with a grin. “Like, there’s two things I’m into. Music. You know, rock and roll. And the skateboard scene. I’ve got wheels and a way-down-funky band. We call ourselves the Be-Flat Tires. Pretty cool, don’t you think? Actually, we’re one short. I mean, Ragweed, I’m puffing serious about Silversides. Like, she chewed Muffler last week. Know what I’m saying? Said she didn’t like his singing. Said only cats should do that. Makes me want to uncork my guts.”
“Who was . . . Muffler?” Ragweed asked.
“Our lead singer. Hey, dude, can you sing?”
“I . . . I don’t think so.”
“Bummer. We could use another throat. Anyway, dude, you can crash here as long as you want to. Make yourself at home.
