FICTION

Rocketmouse

Phillip Barcio

I visited Shaman Daisy’s mobile yurt to get some advice on how to deal with this mouse I started seeing whenever I closed my eyes. 

“Is it like the mouse is painted on the inside of your eyelids?” Shaman Daisy asked.

“No,” I said, “it’s more of a dimensional mouse floating in a void.”

“What color is the void?” she asked.

“Grey,” I said. 

“And the mouse?”

“Brown.”

“Brown mouse in a grey void. Do you wear eye shadow?”

“Sometimes.”

“What color?”

“Sometimes brown, sometimes grey. Think that’s important?”

“Few things are. Has the mouse said anything?”

“I haven’t kept my eyes shut long enough to give it a chance. It’s too scary. It has these big, googly eyes and this creepy smile, like it’s on angel dust.”

“Inter-dimensional dissociative anesthetics could be making a comeback,” she said. “How long since you’ve slept?”

“A couple days. Maybe a week. I’ve lost track of time.”

“Time loss is a common side effect of eye mice.”

“That’s comforting,” I said, “to be common.”

“It’s our commonalities that bind us together,” said Shaman Daisy. “I’m prescribing you a blindfold. Used as directed, though your eyes be open, the world will appear dark. If that fails to precipitate mouse-less sleep, my advice is to be brave and ask the eye mouse what it wants.” 

“What it wants?” I asked. 

“All mice want something,” said Shaman Daisy. “It’s the responsibility of those they visit to determine the nature of that want, and assuage it.” 

“What if I don’t have what it wants?” I asked.

“It wouldn’t have come to you if you didn’t,” said Shaman Daisy.

I used the blindfold as directed that night. It eradicated my perception of light, but my brain still knew my eyes were open. That made sleep impossible. I was hesitant to follow Shaman Daisy’s other suggestion, to ask the mouse what it wanted, but if you don’t trust a doctor, why go see one? 

I shut my eyes. The mouse appeared. It stared at me with its big, googly eyes and toothy smile. I tried to speak, but was too scared. Then, music started playing. The mouse started bouncing to the music. It spun around until its butt was facing me. It had these chubby little butt cheeks—they were bouncing up and down. Then it looked back at me over its shoulder and started singing. I didn’t recognize the song. When it ended, the mouse waved its little paw at me, then disappeared. 

The next morning, the only part of the song I remembered was the phrase “elderberry wine.” I wrote the words on my hand, then went and showed them to Shaman Daisy. She didn’t recognize the words either. 

“Do you think elderberry wine is actually a thing?” I asked. 

“It could be some kind of fermented beverage,” she said. “Made from old berries, perhaps.” 

“I wish I knew for sure. Too bad the Internet left or I could just look it up.” 

“The damn Internet. That’s all anyone talks about. ‘Where’d the Internet go? I can’t live without the Internet.’” 

“A lot of people miss it,” I said.

“The lazy shoppers,” she said.

“And the masturbators,” I added shyly.

“As for this lyric, I suggest you go to one of the vinyl record stores downtown. Show it to whatever sentient being is working the counter. I sense they’ll be able to help.”

“Which vinyl record store?” I asked. “Like two hundred have opened since the Internet went away.”

Shaman Daisy leaned her head back and started to chant. A pen levitated out of her front pocket and scrawled some numbers on the top page of a prescription pad. The page ripped itself free and floated into my hand. “Whichever record store is closest to those coordinates, that’s your next lily pad.” 

“I owe you,” I said.

[Palms up.] “Ama-gi.”

I located the coordinates on my paper atlas and rode my longboard to the destination. I saw three vinyl record stores in the vicinity. The closest was called Permanent Records. I went in and made my way through the stacks to the counter, where a translucent, silver-haired entity was reading one of the local newspapers that had started publishing again post-Internet. 

“You’re here about a lyric,” the entity said.

“Did Shaman Daisy call you?”

“Phones are for posers.” The newspaper disappeared in a poof of smoke. “What’s written on your hand?”

I showed them the lyric. 

They smiled. “Did an eye mouse sing you this song?”

“How’d you know?” I asked.

“How does anyone know anything?” The entity glided out from behind the counter, flew to a section labeled 1972, and picked out a 45rpm. They tossed it to me like a Frisbee. 

I read the label. “‘Crocodile Rock?’”

“B-side,” they said.

I flipped it over. “‘Elderberry Wine,’ by Elton John and Bernie Taupin.”

“Did you see Rocketman?” the entity asked.

“Was that a bio movie?”

“It was.”

“I don’t like bio movies.” 

“Well, this one you should watch.” The entity sidled next to me conspiratorially. “It tells the story of Elton John’s life. Pay special attention to his writing partner.” 

“Bernie Taupin?” I asked.

“The same."

“What about him?”

“You’ll see.” 

I nodded gravely. “How much for the record?”

“No charge,” said the entity. “I’m sensitive to your quest.”

I rented a copy of Rocketman from one of the video stores that had recently re-opened, then went home and listened to “Elderberry Wine” repeatedly until I memorized the lyrics. Then I popped some Amish popcorn and put the movie on. An actor named Jamie Bell played Bernie Taupin. He looked eerily familiar — googly eyes, toothy grin, floppy ears, little nose. Halfway through the movie, I shut my eyes. The mouse appeared. “Elderberry Wine” started playing. When the mouse started singing, I joined in. The look on its little face was ecstatic. I got excited by its excitement, and we both started screaming the lyrics at maximum volume. When the song ended, the mouse waved its little paw, then disappeared. 

I woke feeling the riddle was solved. I anticipated no return of the eye mouse. But that night when I closed my eyes, there it was again, smiling, googly-eyed, jiggling its little mouse butt. It sang “Elderberry Wine,” waved, then disappeared. 

I reported this to Shaman Daisy. She had me sing her the song.

“Maybe the mouse wants to marry you,” she said.

“Where’d you get that?” I asked 

“That part in the chorus,” she said. “Something about wanting a wife to help out on the farm or something? Do you identify as a particular gender?” 

“Male,” I said. 

“Oh, then never mind. If it wanted to marry you, it probably would have picked a song that uses the word ‘husband,’ or a non-gendered word like ‘spouse.’ Unless I’m thinking too literally.” 

“What other way is there to think about words?” 

“Sub-textually,” she said. “Meta-linguistically. There are innumerable ways to think about anything. Which means we should consider another possibility — your eye mouse might be psychotic. I read about a 12-year-old girl in Orlando who was taunted for weeks by a psychotic eye mouse. It kept asking for more and more outlandish things. First, it wanted a square Twinkie, then a twenty-foot strip of stygian blue VELCRO® Brand hook-and-loop fastener.” 

“I’ve never even seen stygian blue VELCRO® Brand hook-and-loop fastener,” I said. 

“No one has,” said Shaman Daisy. “Anyway, if it turns out your eye mouse is psychotic, just say, ‘Fuck off, eye mouse.’ That’s what worked for the child.” 

That night, when the eye mouse appeared, I said, “Fuck off, eye mouse.”

It did not fuck off. It smiled, jiggled its butt, sang “Elderberry Wine,” then disappeared.

I updated Shaman Daisy.

“I guess it’s not psychotic,” she said. “Remind me what it is you do for a living.”

“Is that relevant?” I asked.

“It’s by pondering irrelevant things that we grow,” she said.

“I work at the Encyclopedia Mammalia.” 

“Which department?”

“Rectifications.”

“So would you say you amend the historical record?”

“I might.”

“Would you say eye mice are an underrepresented community in the Encyclopedia Mammalia?”

“Our focus is on corporeal beings, not para-ocular,” I said.

“That’s metaphysical bias,” said Shaman Daisy.

“I never looked at it that way before.”

“The more you know.” She waved her hand in an arc, manifesting a rainbow, then handed me a coin from the pot of gold at the rainbow’s end. “Tonight, when you see the eye mouse, offer it this gold coin to just leave you alone.” 

“Money talks,” I said.

[Pistol fingers.] “Zi dug.”

That night, when the eye mouse appeared, I said, “Behold, creature. I have a coin from the pot of gold at the end of a Shaman’s rainbow. It is yours if you just leave me alone.”

The eye mouse frowned and twitched its little nose. “There are more important currencies than money,” it said.

“There are?” I said. “Like what?” 

“Like friendship,” it said, “and music.”

“Are you Bernie Taupin?” I asked.

“Who’s that?”

“Elton John’s writing partner. You look like the guy who played him in Rocketman.”

“My name’s Carl,” said the eye mouse.

“Are you here to address the lack of eye mouse representation in the Encyclopedia Mammalia, Carl?”

“The what?” 

“Never mind,” I said. “Please, just tell me what you want so I can get back to my normal sleep schedule.” 

“I thought you knew,” said Carl. “The other night. You sang with me.”

“Wait,” I said. “You just want someone to sing with?”

“Sure,” said Carl. “Life is boring in my dimension. Everybody just sits around waiting for food to be delivered to them. They don’t go out. They sure as hell don’t sing.”

“It was like that in this dimension, too,” I said, “until the Internet went away.”

“How’d y’all get it to leave?” Carl asked.

“We don’t know,” I said. “It just left.”

“Do you know where it went?”

“Back to hell we assume.” 

Music started playing. Carl flashed me a big, toothy smile and started shaking his butt. We sang “Elderberry Wine” over and over together that night. Between renditions, we asked each other more questions. Carl asked what it’s like to be human. I asked how many other dimensions there are besides his and mine. My answer to his question was that it mostly sucks. His answer to mine was six.

Phillip Barcio is an award-winning author, journalist, social media skeptic, animal protector, and bucket hat enthusiast. He’s based in the small town where Bob Ross filmed The Joy of Painting. Phillip’s writing has been published in Boulevard Magazine, Western Humanities Review, Michigan Quarterly Review, Space Squid, and other fine publications.