The Walls Had Ears...And Tiny, Little Feet

I’d just moved from Spokane to Sandpoint, Idaho to take an on-air gig at KSPT-AM. It was August and a lot of the temporary summer residents were still in town, which left living space for new full time residents at a premium. But I’d stumbled upon a cozy little A-frame house on 3^rd Street, just a stones’ throw away from the shoreline of beautiful Lake Pend Oreille, and after a short walk-through was only too eager to sign the rental agreement. My work day was generally supposed to end early enough to get home, change clothes and go play. The idea of whiling away the remaining late summer afternoons sunning myself and swimming down at the beach seemed idyllic, and considered myself lucky I’d found such an amazing place to rent.

However, come winter time the setting wasn't so idyllic or amazing. Down the street, the lake lay half frozen and very uninviting. Night fell really early, too, and with only marginal baseboard heat (in only two rooms) and high ceilings, my cozy little home was seldom cozy or particularly hospitable. More often, the place felt like a cold, drafty cave. Plus, as the days shortened and winter settled in, the poor insulation seldom kept the warmth in or outside sounds out. Though I was fortunate to have a pretty nice roof over my head, sleeping there was like camping out- only in the dead of winter and with none of the charm.

 

The house was bleak and eerily clamorous and I seldom got a good night’s sleep; which is never a good thing when you have to be up by 4:15 in the morning. Not only did the paper thin walls refuse to hold the heat, they allowed every little sound to become amplified, both indoors and out. And one typically hostile north Idaho night, wrapped in multiple blankets and trying to coax sleep to come, I began hearing noises. The din was more disturbing than usual because it wasn’t coming from outside, or even from another part of the house. No, this racket was someplace in the same room with me. I strained to listen while my brain worked to de-code what it was. And after several more minutes of sporadic and infrequent bumps in the night, I figured out what it was: the scampering of little feet. Something was living inside the walls. And there was more than one of them.

 

After a few hesitant moments, debating whether I wanted to keep pretending I hadn’t heard what I know I heard, I snapped on the bedside lamp, propped myself on an elbow and waited. Now wide awake, I decided to confront the intruders and see what I was up against. And ten minutes after first drawing my attention, I met the enemy and the enemy was: a tiny field mouse. It scurried out from under the baseboard, across the room, and darted under the door. Damn! But satisfied it wasn't Godzilla flashing through the darkened room but merely a common rodent, I got up and grabbed my old hockey stick.

 

The bedroom door opened into the kitchen. With hockey stick in hand I followed the mouse’s last known destination and fumbled for the light switch over the oven. It took two tried before it clicked on. The bulb was only a 20-watter but cast enough muted light to survey the entire room, and once my eyes adjusted to the shadowy illumination I spotted the tiny creature under the kitchen table. At first, he sat on his haunches sniffing the air. But then he settled back on all fours and appeared to be staring me down, almost daring me to come after him. However if I moved, he’d move, too, and too fast for me to do anything. This could’ve led to a prolonged stalemate which, at 12:30 in the morning, was something I really preferred to avoid. So I took matters into my own hands, stamped my foot on the kitchen floor and loudly yelled “Hey!” And the impromptu plan of action worked.

 

The sudden thud caused the mouse to go into fight-or-flight mode and, choosing flight, he darted the way he’d come: directly towards the bedroom door and exactly where I was standing. He was coming right at me. I didn’t expect him to a retreat my way, but with only the blink of an eye to respond I took aim with my hockey stick and- whack!– the indoor slap shot propelled the mouse at light speed off a cupboard door under the sink. Bouncing off the solid wooden panel with a resounding whunk, the mouse landed on the floor on his back, four feet up and no longer moving, dispatched to rodent heaven. 

 

I know; it was probably overkill and I felt bad for bringing about the little creature’s demise so stunningly violent. On the other hand, it wasn’t a half-bad shot for half-light, half-sleep and half-past midnight. So, feeling pretty good about defending my turf, I went back to bed. But the victory didn't last long. As soon as the light went out, the rest of now-deceased rodent’s clan began stirring again. They were all rapidly milling about and probably organizing a counter-attack from somewhere behind the cheap paneling that masqueraded as a bedroom wall; the only barrier providing separation between me and ....them. However, the remaining mice remained holed up and unseen the rest of night and I was at last able to fall asleep, at least for a couple hours. But I knew they hadn’t left and next day I brought home some mouse traps and scattered them all over the house, dropping one near every orifice where I believed the mice were using as an entrance to my living space.

 

This worked pretty well, too, as later that night I was awakened by the unmistakable snap of trap in action and knew another miniature raider had met its maker. ”Oh, good…got another one”, I mumbled into the darkness. The war wasn't over, though. Sure, the mice had taken casualties. But from the racket of surviving mice still scampering in the woodwork and rafters, it sounded like they'd brought in reinforcements. This left me with the very creepy feeling of being nocturnally overrun. And as I stared at the ceiling knowing I wasn’t going to sleep that night, I knew I’d have to re-think my strategy. Beating back an army of invading rodents massing in my walls with traps, would be about as effective as trying to extinguish a forest fire with a water pistol.

 

Outnumbered, I needed heavier artillery. And for the big guns I'd need the assistance of Eleanor Bailey, the house's property manager. However, she didn't like me and hadn't from day one. I had no idea why, either because I can get along with everybody. But Eleanor was a nasty disagreeable person whose off-putting vulgar dialog and curt, insolence upon our first meeting should have made it abundantly clear that we weren't going to hit it off. The woman was as approachable as a wounded, cornered porcupine and I’m surprised she consented to rent to me at all. “I don't generally rent to punks”, she snorted when I inquired about the house. I suppose the rebuke was supposed to shock me into looking elsewhere. But off to such a good start, she put me even more at ease by growling, "I hate college kids and single people. You’re all trash." 

 

Speaking with the deep throated gravelly snarl of a life-long chain smoker, I’d never felt more unwelcome in somebody’s presence in my life. But the biggest mark against me was my source of employment. I have no idea what the radio station had done to piss her off, but Eleanor had a long simmering hate-on for KSPT. "You work at g-d K- Sucks-Putrid-Turds? I can't stand those guys. Or you guys" Yep, Eleanor was a real peach. Anyway, being too young, too single and being one of "those guys" made me someone of ill repute and, I guess, a bad risk. However, despite how badly my current life status offended her, she couldn’t find or make up enough stuff to invalidate the U.S. Fair Housing Act, so Eleanor had no choice but to approve the rental agreement. She didn’t have to like it though, and made it obvious she didn’t from the day I moved in.

 

She assumed everything was always the tenant’s fault, or in this case, my fault. The first week I was there I noticed a small hole in the bathroom window and asked to have it fixed. She said I must’ve broken it when I moved in, which was completely untrue because none of my stuff was in the bathroom except a razor and toothbrush. I also asked to have the other windows weather stripped before the weather turned cold but she said it’d already been done. It hadn’t. I ended up doing it myself. The bathroom window did get replaced, but not for 6 months because I couldn’t convince her I hadn’t done it. Yet even if I had, she was obligated to have it repaired as soon as possible, whether she charged me for it or not.  And how I could be blamed for the mice, I wasn’t sure. Yet at first she sure tried, insinuating, because, as a guy I must’ve been a poor housekeeper.

 

However, that was the last straw.

 

I’m really not a very confrontational person and can generally put up with a lot of crap before snapping. But I’d reached that point. And taking a tack I’d learned playing sports- that often the best defense is a good offense- I decided to offend her. Hanging up the phone after she’d blown me off about the mice a second time, I took one of the dead ones to her office and dropped it on her desk. “I’ll leave it there and bring back a new one each day until you do something about it.” Grousing that I'd stooped to such "disgusting blackmail", nevertheless Eleanor agreed to send an exterminator out “as soon as possible” (translation- as soon as she got around to it). So I picked up the gift I’d brought, but before I left she got in a few last shots.

 

“Don’t you dare bother me again about this you g.d. cocky son-of-a bitch”, she bristled and barked. "I wish you'd never g.d. darkened my doorway.  Yeah, me too. But between smoker’s coughs, on my way she invited me to send her the 'g.d' exterminator's bill. “And then I don’t want to hear from you again until the g.d. 1^st of the month. Got it!?”  Yeah I got it. But such people skills. So good with the public and such a way with the language: she’d dropped about 4  g.d’s on me in under 10 seconds, which must’ve been some sort of record. Anyway, I guess Eleanor really liked saying 'g.d' a lot (a term so offensive to me today, I won’t even write it out), but I wouldn't want to be standing near her in a lightning storm. What a piece of work.  Or piece of something. But living down to all my expectations, she didn't have the exterminator show up until 10:30 the following Monday morning. Which meant four more days- and nights- of living with my tiny house guests.  Thank you so much, Eleanor.

But when Exterminator Man was at last able to get to work, he really went to work. Eleanor let him in while I was at work and when I got home a few hours later, the rat-killer proudly showed off a bucket full of exterminated mice. Three dozen of them; three freaking dozen! No wonder it felt like I’d been under siege. No wonder it felt like an occupying legion of swiftly moving little pests had moved in with me. No wonder I’d dropped one of the dead ones in Eleanor’s lap- there were a lot more where that one had come from. But after an 8 day struggle, the War of the Wodents was over. And I won. I even slept a little better after that, too. 

However, I still had to write a check every first of the month to the loveable and charming, Eleanor Bailey, who remained entrenched in her belief that being a 28 year-old single male living in one of her units was close to criminal. Stubborness, and my affection for the location of the house had, for as long as I could take it, dig in my heels and stay. But you also can sense when you're not really welcome, too. And shortly after the mice moved out, I began looking for a new place to move into. But KSPT saved me the trouble by canning me 8 weeks later. Oh, well. So I stayed put until my last day in Sandpoint.

It was Saturday, March 31, 1984. It was the last day I worked at KSPT; the day I left town for the last time; the last day I was ever at Eleanor's closed office. And when I dropped the key off in her mail slot, I left something else behind, too. It’d been wrapped up and tucked away in a freezer on my back porch and seemed like  the perfect going away gift for my dear friend, Eleanor- a little, tiny well-preserved dead mouse.