Would You Sleep with Mice?

“I’ll evict you today,” he said from across his desk, with an almost sexual excitement. “I’ll evict you and ban you for life.”

I reciprocated the dorm director’s glare and replied without fear. “Just for this?”

“Yes! We know you didn’t do it, but you know who did. Tell me now.”

I paused to reflect on the idiotic incident that had brought me there.

Hours earlier, I‘d returned to my dorm room and found my enormous friend, Mike, asleep in my bed. I shook him, “Mike, get out. It’s five o’clock in the morning.” He woke, and slurred, “I wanted to bum a cigarette, but then I saw your bed and it looked so comfy.” I helped him up and he stumbled out of the door. I flopped onto the mattress and landed on something hard. For some drunken reason, Mike had left a fire extinguisher in my bed. I had no idea where he got it or why he brought it there, but I was too exhausted to care. I pushed it aside and fell asleep instantly.

Soon, I awoke to the sound of persistent knocking. Half-conscious and half-dressed, I opened the door and saw my RA. “Hi, have you seen a fire extinguisher? One went missing from the common-room last night.” Innocently, I answered, “Oh, yeah. Someone left it in my room. Here you go.”

He looked at me like I’d just handed him the corpse of a mutilated child. “You didn’t take this?”

“No, I wasn’t here until late last night. You can check the sign-in sheet.”

“So who brought this to your room?”

“I’d rather not say.”

Sternly, he demanded, “Get dressed and go to the director’s office. Now.”

“I’m not going to break my moral code and snitch on a friend,” I told the director. “You can’t possibly be able to kick me out for that.”

With a shitty little smirk, the director slid a highlighted copy of the dorm’s regulations across the desk. Unfortunately, he could absolutely evict me.

My girlfriend lived a floor above, I had a great roommate and a supportive social circle. Being forced to leave my dorm would make me miserable.

“So tell me who stole the fire extinguisher or get out.”

“Okay,” I said.

His eyes filled with anticipation.

“I’ll start packing.” I savored the image of his triumphant smirk collapsing into defeat, then stood up and exited the office.

I moved into a decaying apartment about the size of a compact car. I had to sleep in a bunk-bed beneath an obnoxious, snoring stranger. The room was even infested with mice — but living like that still felt better than being a rat.

Alex Marshi is an American writer and nomad. Please recommend, share, and follow his stories.