Trying to Build a Better Mousetrap

Every once in a while, an item in the news gets me thinking. This is a flash story.

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Barry Hay, George Kooymans: "When I get lonely and I'm sure I've had enough. She sends her comfort comin' in from above."

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My name is Darwyn and I've got a mouse problem. I live too close to the landfill, in what used to be a rural setting. Now it's not so rural, as subdivisions creep towards my post war residence. My brick ranch house was built in the late forties. My parents bought it for a song and a dance in the early nineties. Located just east of Denver, it's close enough to the big city, and far enough from same, to be the perfect mixture for me.

And then they decided to create a mountain where there had never been one. Earthmovers galore scraping and pushing mounds of dirt. Hour after hour, day after day, week after week, those dirt piles reached for the stars. Just guessing, but I think mount landfill towers over five hundred feet now. An impressive feat of engineering.

Prior to that eyesore, I didn't have a mouse problem. Now, I just can't seem to stay ahead of the no longer cute little critters.

Hillary, my wife of nine years, is getting on my nerves complaining about the problem. Yo, dear, I'm not breeding the little bastards. Watching the national news gave me a moment of inspiration. The Cubans were accused of using microwave radio signals to negatively impact the embassy. Making my living in the world of electronics, my interest was piqued.

Some weekends find me wandering the aisles at Mile High Flea Market, looking for bargains. Ignorance is abundant. When relatives discover old electronic gear, unless it is marked Fender or Bose, they assume that it must be some kind of cheap amplifier. Once dismissed as being outdated and unsexy, they are happy to get whatever for it. As such, they are willing to sell for ten dollars, something which is really worth several hundred. We both walk away from the transaction with a smirk, knowing that we pulled a fast one over the other.

I've picked up several military grade radio transmitters. How did these mere mortals at the flea market ever got ahold of them? Now, after watching the newscast, I was inspired to replicate what the Cubans had done.

It was Sunday afternoon. Hillary had run to pick up groceries. I have always tinkered, in the garage, with various electronic projects. As such, Hillary doesn't even ask me what I'm up to. For this project, I ran a dedicated circuit with a twenty amp breaker. After spending all weekend putting my experiment together, I turned up the volume on the four units. If you listened carefully, it sounded a little bit like a bee buzzing nearby. I didn't dare set a foot inside the house.

It cost me less than a hundred to create my little experiment. In the attic, I installed very potent microwave transmitters, positioned in the four corners of the house. All were pointed downward and slightly inward. When you turn them on, they flood the house with very damaging and dangerous microwave signals. My hope is that while we're at work, the mice will have their brains scrambled. If the Cubans, and now the Chinese I hear, think it is viable then I'm willing to give it a try. For the sake of our diplomats, I hope they're wrong.

+ + + +

On Saturday's, glued to our door, was a notice that we needed to sign for a package. We couldn't have missed the Fed Ex truck by ten minutes.

"Hills, during the week, are you ever around here during the day?"

Not even looking up from her magazine "No, been years, why?"

"Someone needs to be here to sign for a package. I think it's our playoff tickets."

"Easier for you than me. You're only ten minutes away."

"Okay, I'll figure it out. Hey, I'm going to try something new on the mice. I'll make sure to shut it down before you get home."

"Whatever. I saw some more little turds in the pantry again."

"I know. They're everywhere. I'm working on it. Give me a week or two."

"Whatever" as she flipped to the next page of her magazine.

Hillary leaves for work, in Denver, about thirty minutes before me, and returns upwards of an hour after me. I work near Buckley AFB and my round trip is a lot less traumatic.

On Monday morning, I flipped the breaker to activate my timers. There were set to turn off at 5 Pm, one half hour before I got home. Let's see how our little squatters like this.

I picked up the playoff tickets from the Fed Ex office. No need to meet them at the house.

Hurrying home, Monday evening, I flipped the breaker to off. I was looking here there and everywhere. Nothing, no mice tits up, and no mice drunk walking around. Undeterred, I repeated my experiment every work day. Five days at over eight hours each day, and no little gray carcasses. I was more than a little disappointed.

+ + + +

Saturday afternoon, while watching Alabama beat the snot out of another patsy, I was pleasantly surprised.

"Honey, look over there, by the bookcase."

Hillary freaked out before actually watching the mouse stumble around.

With something less than a loving tone, Hillary ordered "DO SOMETHING!"

"Just look at the mouse move. Something is wrong with him."

For a few seconds we watched as the mouse wandered around like a drunk."

"Has he been poisoned?"

I shrugged my shoulders "Not with chemicals, at least that I'm aware of."

"Kill him Darwyn! Get him out of here!"

Normally I wouldn't hesitate, but I felt a little compassion for this guy. I'm pretty sure I'm responsible for his demise. Scooping him up, with a napkin, I tossed him far away from the house. Maybe I can patent my electronic mouse trap? Rather than watch the next two touchdowns, I searched for further proof of my diabolic trap. Not sure what killed him, but I did find a lifeless mouse. Him or her on a mouse? How does a commoner like myself determine that? Who cares other than some nameless anon.

We were having leftovers for dinner, when my life changed.

"Darwyn, I think we have another problem."

"What kind of problem?"

"With the house. I think we have a beehive or something. I've heard the buzzing of bees."

"Where did you hear it?"

"In the bedroom."

My stomach was cramping. No way could my machine run past the timeout. The breaker controlled the power, and I know I shut it down daily. I tried to act cool as I went into the bedroom, where I heard nothing. My analytical mind was running over the possibilities.

"I'm not hearing the bees. When did you first notice it?"

"I don't know, a few days ago I guess."

"Well grab me the next time you hear it, and I'll check it out."

+ + + +

My first stop was to check the electrical box for the death rays. Hard to screw it up. The breaker, and thus the circuit, worked perfectly. As all appeared to be in good working order, I was absolutely positive that they weren't running other than when they were supposed to be running. Did I really have a bee problem? I crawled around the attic again, and found no sign of bees.

Is Hillary coming home during the day? Have she been exposed to the microwave death rays? I had to find out without raising suspicion.

"Hills, I didn't find any signs of bees. Do you remember what time of day? I think they are more active during the day."

"Not really, probably after work, while I was changing."

My stomach was detecting bullshit. Without proof, I couldn't disagree. Hillary never mentioned the bees again all weekend.

The easiest thing I could think of, to check if Hillary was coming home during the day, was to note her odometer readings. Every night I copied down the mileage. Surprise, surprise, on Tuesday, she drove twice as many miles as Monday. Mileage returned to normal on Wednesday, but spiked again on Thursday. Asking Hillary about her days, as casually as I could, she claimed to be at work each and every day. I had my doubts.

My mice problem seemed on the wane. I'd now removed more than a two dozen little carcasses scattered about the house. We hadn't seen a lively or drunk mouse in a few days.

I didn't know what to do. Confront with my suspicions, or pay for a full blown investigation. It was just a little thing, but I decided to do nothing. While watching the bedtime newscast, Hillary's head twitched a few times. She said nothing about it, but I knew it wasn't normal or my imagination. Over the weekend, I saw several more examples of her lack of agility. Had my wife fried her brain? Rather than risk an infection, I found excuses to avoid having sex with her.

My best friend in the neighborhood lived about a quarter mile away. He'd shown me his security camera setup last summer at a block party. We left the spouses giggling away to sneak back to his house, where he proudly did his show and tell. I paid him a visit and explained what I wanted. Would he monitor the traffic in front of his house and let me know when, if ever, he saw Hillary's sedan drive by.

Confirmation took less than an hour. Reviewing the captured video snippets, he found that Hillary was in fact returning home during the day, which explained the double miles. Tuesday and Thursday were the rendezvous days.

Night after night, the twitches and overall lack of motor control plagued Hillary. She had noticed, and was concerned. With a little prodding, I encouraged her to visit a neurologist. She was late coming home Friday night, as she was able to take an opening made possible due to a cancellation. The neurologist ordered a brain MRI, which forced Hillary to take Monday morning off. The results of the MRI showed a disturbing amount of unexplained dark matter in Hillary's brain.

My friend texted that Hillary was still doing her twice a week drive by. My daily odometer check confirmed his observation.

"Darwyn, I heard those bees again."

"Why didn't you grab me?"

"I think you were out running errands."

"Bedroom again?"

"Yep."

Muttering 'Bitch' under my breath, I checked out the attic. No fucking bees.

Things got very interesting when Hillary told me that a co-worker was also suffering with muscle control issues. The chances of two people, at the same office, coming down with this brain damaging issue, got the health department involved.

I dismantled my little experiment. The total quantity of dead mice now approached one hundred. I hadn't found more than on any day for the last week. I think both of my problems have been solved. I enjoyed a Cuban cigar.

As part of their research, a team from the health department took all sorts of readings inside and outside of my house. Not surprisingly, they came up empty. The mystery of the spastic couple remained just that, a mystery. When the health department ordered me to submit to a physical, including a sperm sample, I had my chance to expose Hillary's affair.

With Hillary looking on, like death warmed over, the representative from the health department laid it out.

"We need to determine if this is sexually transmitted."

I responded quickly "That implies that Hillary and this other guy, where she works, have been having sex. Is that about right Hillary?"

With her voice cracking "It meant nothing Darwyn. I'm so sorry. I shouldn't have done it."

"Your brain is truly damaged if you think that line of crap is going to fly. Pack your bags and leave."

The groans, cries, and tears bothered the health department guy more than me. Hillary was gone by the time I got back from my physical. They would have the result of my MRI in the morning.

+ + + +

Epilogue:

My MRI showed a very healthy brain. They also dismissed any link to sexual activity.

My friends thought I was being cruel, divorcing Hillary during her medical time of need.

"The health department thought it might be sexually transmitted. I'm not affected. Were you having an affair with her too?"

That shut them up, and really caused unrest when I said it to a married couple. Pretty easy to preach without knowing all of the facts.

Without children, ours was a cookie cutter divorce. Friends kept me apprised of Hillary's medical progress. Follow-up MRIs, at six week intervals, showed the dark matter had stabilized. Hillary was putting on a few pounds, as her ability to work out was severely impacted.

Every time I felt a twinge of guilt, I recalled our conversation, where she assured me that she never came home early on a weekday.

My mouse problem returned. I'm trying more traditional methods this time. My new girlfriend works out of the house. I have picked up a few more transmitters at the flea market. One never knows.

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My thoughts go out to our diplomats and their families, if they indeed have suffered permanent damage.