A phone call just alerted me that Hi-5 is on television.  You know, just in case I want to watch overly animated twenty year olds sing to a room full of dancing pre-schoolers.  I guess it’s today’s version of the Micky Mouse Club or something (which I watched religiously as a child, thank you very much).

My son enjoys sing-along shows, but also wants Red Hot Chili Peppers playing full blast.  I hide the CD as often as I can.  Yesterday he burned a CD with only the song Mombo Number 5 on it.  The same song, five times in a row.  “Because I like it,” he says, smiling, making the ride to school, well, five times more irritating then just one Mombo would be.

The oddest, but maybe the sweetest one, has to be the Lawrence Welk cassette tape that he pops in (with headphones) once in awhile.  He holds real still when he listens to Lawrence Welk, and I wonder what an eight year old boy can be thinking, hearing those sounds.  Does he actually enjoy the music?  Or does he only enjoy the memory of his great-grandpa listening to that very same tape?  What is it like to be eight years old and in love with a great-grandpa dead now for one year? 

I could reach out and touch him.  I could ask him.  But to see him there, sitting so quiet and lost in his own thoughts, it would seem like a crime.  He is miles away.  A lifetime.  His great-grandpa’s lifetime.  My arms would have a hard time wrapping themselves around all that.

The week I moved into my new apartment, seven cars were broken into on the street out front and one was stolen.  My first thought at the time was of course, What the hell have I gotten myself into this time?” But my work van had been left alone, the vandals concentrating on the little Hondas and Toyotas all around it.  Maybe the thieves were too short to see through the windows of the van.  I don’t know.

But I have two vans - one for work and one for play.  Naturally, the work van is the only one that gets driven, while the play van has been banished to the back parking lot for the last two months, where it sits patiently awaiting my arrival.  One tire is flat, which I like to think of as my security system.

I’m not quite sure why I keep the extra play van.  Maybe in the back of my mind an idea rattles around that someday I may go out on a date or something, and that whoever is riding in the seat next to me might not have as great as an appreciation as I do for the sound of tools bumping up and down on metal shelves.  I’ll admit, it’s an acquired taste.  But I like to think that all of that rolling and clanging is a just a reminder that I’ll be ready for any emergency or situation that life throws my way, as long as it can be handled with power tools and various fasteners.  Wood glue and clamps - sure.  Irrigation controllers - no problem.  A broken water main?  Look no further!  Step aside!  I’ll shut that baby down. 

But it seems that as I drove around saving the citizens of this fine city from all of the various minor disasters that strike every spring, the poor, neglected play van was under attack.  A vandal, it seems, had struck again, only this time it was my play van that was the sole target.  And the sad part of the whole story is that the attack had been going on for weeks under my very eyes.  Each time I walked past the van on my way to the dumpster, I would look the van over and make sure everything was okay.  No broken windows.  No stolen items.  Only the one flat tire and a growing layer of dust.  Everything seemed just fine.  Nothing a new tire and a wash wouldn’t fix right up.

But Sunday my son and I decided it was time to open the thing up and give it a cleaning.  Maybe even get that tire fixed.  Was my subconcious preparing for a date?  Who knows.  But as much of a surprise as that would be, it couldn’t have shocked me as much as what waited for us when we opened the doors of the van and were faced with the work of the two-month vandal.

My play van has been attacked by a mouse!

Little holes in leather seats.  Huge piles of seat foam, shredded and dropped into mounds under small holes in the bottom seat cushions.  Seat belts, chewed through and dropped onto the floor as if in protest of Oregon’s mandatory seat belt laws.

I can just see me now, explaining to the officer that has pulled me over, “Really officer, I’d be wearing my seat belt . . . . but . . . ahhhh . . . a mouse ate them.” That’s an $80.00 ticket I won’t get out of.

A pack of gum, left in the console, has been chewed.  The glove box is open, rifled through, the owner’s manual relieved of it’s binding.  And of course, there are the droppings.  Little black poops scattered here and there, the aftermath of the destruction.  But they’re not all black.  In fact, about 80% of them are pure white, which leads me to believe that there is very little food value in seat foam.  Maybe that’s why airlines will recommend using your seat cushion as a flotation device, but never suggest that it will also serve as your only food source until help arrives.

So the week begins with yet another thing.  Just one more thing to add to the list of things.  Things that must be dealt with.

My son thinks the van is now haunted by a mouse.  I, on the other hand, am just thankful that mice can’t get their paws on spray paint.  Although I must admit I’m a little curious what mouse graffiti would look like.

Hidden within my DNA lies a string of code capable of producing a giant.  My son’s unchecked growth proves everything.  This, combined with poor to very poor shopping skills, resulted this morning in a boy lost inside of a much too baggy of shorts.  Even for this day and age.  Last night’s trip to the store had not been as successful as I had hoped.

Should I send my eight year old son to school looking like a teenage wanna be rapster, or head back to the store for a belt?  I took deep breaths as we drove back to the store.  Mostly, just because mornings are never quite hectic enough.

But the trip was a success, without the conversation collapsing into a contest of wills and him yelling out, “I hate shopping with you dad!” and me saying something witty back like, “Well, I . . . ahhh . . . well . . . come on, let’s get going.” I refuse to allow my hatred of shopping to unleash itself upon a child. 

A nice belt was purchased.  Only $4.00 plus room to grow.  A real bargain.  As we drove away, I assured him that he had made a good choice.

“Plus,” I said, “With that six or seven inch overhang on the end, that belt should last quite awhile.  More then a year even.”

“Dad!  Are you crazy?  Nothing lasts a year.”

“That belt better.  I can’t imagine you getting seven inches bigger around in one year.”

He pondered that one for a second, before answering.

“That would be disturbing.”

Just how long can a dead mouse stink?  It’s a question I’m afraid I’m destined to learn more about.

I suspect my little vandal mouse chewed his way to the end of an air conditioning duct, where his little jaw, exhausted after the long meal of three seatbelt straps, one bench seat cushion, various tasty hard plastic snacks, a large roast bone (who knows where that came from?), and one thick owner’s manual, finally stopped moving and gave up the ghost. 

And a mouse without the ability to chew is really no mouse at all.  A non-chewing mouse is commonly referred to as a dead mouse, and a dead mouse in an air conditioning duct is commonly referred to as . . . well, I’m at a loss for quite the right word. 

But on the bright side, the smell only lasts for about a minute after you’ve turned on the fan.  So I have that going for me.  On the other side, however, I get to drive around thinking that I’m breathing dead mouse air.  So I find myself taking small, shallow breaths.  Barely breathing as I drive around town.  This could be a problem.  I’m a decent size guy, after all.  I need my air.

But maybe its not dead mouse air.  Maybe its only mouse poop air, which in some strange way of reasoning, is a step down on the ladder of disturbing thoughts.  But I don’t know.  It’s really hard to say.  I’m just a coarse man relying on an untrained nose.  A nose, I might add, that never has been good at distinguishing between life’s finer differences.  I even have a brother who has no smell at all.  Wait, that’s not quite right.  What I mean to say is that he has no ability to smell.  That’s what happens when you fall into the dump pit and land on your head.  But that’s a different story.

On the other hand, maybe I should just sell the van to my brother.  With the exception of holding up his sunglasses, his nose is useless.  He’d never suspect a thing.