1987: We were hurrying through an Irish downpour
rain. Three children in the car crying, “The movie starts in five
minutes…” Tears and desperation flowed. Down my face.
A parking place, had to find a parking
place. Dammit. There’s one, but it’s a tight one, and I’ll have to
parallel park with traffic behind me. “Quiet, kids, let me get
parked.” Lord, help me! I hate parallel parking…
Zip, Zang, and I was in the spot.
Perfect. The kids leapt out the passenger side onto the concrete. Me?
I had to crawl out into traffic, where a river rampaged down the
gutter, and cars sprayed me.
On a pelting run, we made it to the ticket
window, and paid the snotty teenager who said, “Movie’s already started,
ya’ know…” Pushing the kids ahead of me, I whispered all sorts of mild
profanity in response to the teenager.
We found our friends and settled into
watching “The American Tail”. A poor Eastern European family of mice
were emigrating to America. They got separated, with poor #@^& boy,
Fievel, trying to find his way back to the family. Fievel was
befriended by unlikely carnivores, chased by likely carnivores.
The key song, “Somewhere Out There” is sung
as a duet, with Fievel in one part of the city and his saccharine sweet
sister in the other. My mood softened a little, but not enough.
I watched the movie with a jaundiced eye. A cynical heart. Still cold
and wet from my traffic shower bath, I saw that mouse, @*#% Fievel,
escape certain death time and time again.
Inevitable reunion ended the movie with
music swelling and my kids laughing happily. All I could think was,
“Why didn’t they kill that #@$* mouse?”
Fast
forward to 2012: I still think that Fievel should have bit the dust in
the first 30 minutes. The sister would have made a much better lead.
Fievel didn't have a brain in his mouse head, or an ounce of common
sense in his furry mouse body. His survival was a matter of luck.
