SOMETIMES, merely existing is not enough. It just simply isn't enough, and this is what I have found in my daily routine which, after giving myself a bit of time to actually sit back and look at it, is not all that it could be. What am I doing? I found myself asking, as I carelessly tucked into a bit of cheese that had been carelessly strewn on a nearby path by a careless tourist. And I failed to come up with a satisfying answer. This is what I do, isn't it, I scavenge the area for food disregarded by tourists, and only now have I come to realise the monotony of this way of life.
I rested my jaw and gazed across the harbour as I contemplated a day in the life of me, your humble narrator.
I wake up, usually alone, with a scrap of newsprint shielding me from the brisk morning. I find a shard of glass in which I can unearth some kind of reflection, and proceed to judge myself, to which a soundtrack of sighs accompanies.
Then I survey the surrounding area in search of food, and my lord is it scarce! I search high, I search low, I go to, I go fro, I look here, I look there, what to eat, I don't care. Suffice to say, I usually find something.
Then I read the lines under which I found my bed the previous night. I usually discard the New York Post and its lurid sensationalism, apart from the latest on the Knicks, for which the Post can't be beaten. On most days, the New York Times is the choice:
A spokesman for the New York Public Library said Mr. Ferriero was not available to comment this afternoon. Leaving his current position would mean an almost certain pay cut. In 2005, . . .
A tear in the paper often prevents further reading; alas, not much print is needed to cover a small being such as myself, and I rarely gain any substantial knowledge into any story. Still, it gives me something to do as I have breakfast.
From then on my day can be summed up in one word - food - or rather, the pursuit of food. This activity, combined with an appreciation of the view out there across the water to the unknown everything which lays beyond the island on which I live, is my life.
So, as I sat on the grey/white stone ridge one pleasant morn, my cheese momentarily put to one side, I took a little bit of stock. Beyond the grass lay the steep cliff falling down to the rocks which would disappear under the water, and then reappear. Cruise liners drifted past, led by tugboats, to drop off hundreds of people who will pass me by over the next few days.
Yes, I am proud of my home. But, I am careful not to show off. This is in part because of my humble nature, for we are a humble kind, and in part due to the fact that I'm sure I've noticed people avoiding me, maybe even repulsed by me. What am I, a rat? Most certainly not! I am, and I must compose myself for this proud moment - ahem - I am Gilbert, the Mouse. No need to bow, I'll just give you a few moments to take that in.
So, call me crazy, but I have detected the quite obvious stench of poison in the area. Can you believe it! How careless, I say. How obscure! Makes me wonder how welcome I am on this island I think of as my home.
And, while I'm complaining, I may as well voice my concern about the sanitary conditions of the area. Soon after the sun rises various maintenance people come out and all that is good in this area is taken away. Breadcrumbs - swept away, apple cores - swept away, dead seagull - it all goes. all to benefit tourists and bring in this cash, cash, cash that everyone thinks so highly of. All the while, the local residents, such as myself, who, I might add, were here first, have to live in completely unsatisfactory living conditions. Positively pristine, it is around here! I tell you, if one more litter bin appears in my neighbourhood I'm moving.
No, I don't mean that, that's too drastic, I take it back. For this is my home, and any mouse the world over would be envious of such an abode, of this I am convinced.
It was during one of these moments of reflection when I decided that maybe instead of following my nose, I'd will see where my intrigue leads. According to my sundial (fashioned out of a discarded paper plate and an ice cream cone) it was going on for 10:30 AM, and the place was starting to get busy.
I decided to enjoy a contemplative stroll around the neighbourhood and set off with a small bag made from cling film containing a few breadcrumbs. Before long I came across one of my neighbours, Hector. I wondered if he'd ever thought about his place in this world.
"Hey, Hect . . . "
"Seen any food? Im starving."
"Um. . . no. Hey, I was wondering what you thought about . . . "
"Sorry, gotta go find some food, " he said licking his lips, unable to keep still. He scurried off in the direction I had come from. You'd think he'd never eaten before in his life, he was so eager. For Hector, nothing was further from the truth.
I looked back at him as he waddled off across the grass, his tail leaping uncontrollably as his big rear end bounded from side to side. He could do with a diet, I thought. There's a bit of cucumber back there, he's just going to ignore it, never satisfied with anything less than a bucket of chicken. I continued onwards.
As I rounded the corner I realised I was close to another neighbour's home. I wandered in to find Arthur nibbling on a biscuit. Food does seem to be of overwhelming concern to us, I thought.
"Hello!" said Arthur, upon noticing my arrival.
"Hi, Arthur," I replied. "How are you?"
"Quite well, good friend, quite well. The Knick's are up, I see."
"Indeed they are," I said, being reminded of that other primal concern we share, maybe it's not all food.
"Arthur, have you ever thought about the meaning of life?"
"Oh Gilbert, you and your needless pondering." Arthur replied with a shake of the head. "What is it this time? Did a baby point and laugh at you? Did a bigger mouse steal a chicken nugget from you? You need more productive ways of dealing with these little, um . . . happenings than to keep coming round here questioning the meaning of life." He chuckled to himself and I rolled my eyes; Arthur was always like this. He liked to think himself wise, and was always happy to attempt to put someone in their place, albeit without the slightest hint of disdain, never patronising. For him, in my opinion, it was a defence mechanism.
Arthur had always led a somewhat sheltered life. Neither of us have been further our own neighbourhood, but Arthur has never been further than 5 feet from his 'front door' (no more than a small rock). Whenever I would broach the subject of travelling further afield he'd defend his reluctance with phrases like "Pah! Utter tosh. I have everything I need right here, no need to wander afar." This overtly self-assured declaration only brings to light the obviousness of the real answer, that he is afraid.
"No, Arthur," I continued. "I was just thinking about how we live so instinctively, you know? We only really think about food, there must be something more."
"Living in a dreamworld, you are, Gilbert," said Arthur. "Come on, have some of this biscuit."
"That's exactly what I mean! All that matters now is that biscuit, and I'm strangely compelled to accept your delightful offer, thank you."
After I had succumbed to the lure of that fine biscuit, I got back to the issue at hand. I asked Arthur whether he knew the name of the island we lived on. No, he replied, neither is it of concern to me. Well, I'm going to find out, I told him. Round the other side of the island is a sign, near where the boats came in, and thats where I am going today.
"But you can't!" Arthur was horrified. "The tourists! There's tourists!"
"I know," I replied with a nod, intending to come across all heroic and brave.
"You're a fool, Gilbert, a fool!"
