Tribb's Trouble by Trevor Cole Page B

problem by building something. He made stuff all the time in his garage workshop. Special holders for sharp knives and kitchen gadgets. Odd lamps to light a shelf or a cupboard. Bookcases with secret compartments. Once, Allison complained about having to lift the lid of the compost bin under the sink when her hands were full of kitchen scraps. So Peter made a lever that would lift the lid every time Allison opened the cupboard door.
    Peter’s skill sometimes caused Tribb a bit of embarrassment. Tribb didn’t feel very smart when it came to fixing things around the house. His father hadn’t been much good at it, and so Tribb had never really learned. He could change a light bulb, of course. One time he’d changed a washer on a bathroom tap by looking at the pictures on the package. But that was about it.
    So Tribb always dreaded going over to Allison and Peter’s place for dinner. Every time, Allison had to show Linda the latest cool gadget Peter had made. When Allison pointed out how opening the cupboard door lifted the lid of the compost bin, Linda had been amazed.
    â€œWhy don’t you make something like that for our house?” she asked Tribb.
    Every time Linda wanted him to be more like Peter, Tribb could only shrug. “Peter’s a builder,” he’d say. “I’m a thinker.”
    Linda never seemed fully satisfied with this answer. In fact, lately, Tribb felt that Linda wasn’t much satisfied with him. He knew husbands and wives sometimes went through stages when theyweren’t exactly thrilled with each other. He hoped they were just going through one of those times.
    Anyway, when the two men were getting their beers in the pub, Tribb told Peter about his problem.
    â€œWe’ve got mice in our house.”
    And, of course, the first thing Peter said in reply was, “Great! I’ll build you a mousetrap!”
    Tribb waved him off. “I’m gonna handle this.” He stared at his beer. “Mice,” he muttered. “What is it they call mice? Vermin?” Tribb shuddered. Vermin was a word for pests that carried disease. Like the rats that caused the Plague in Europe hundreds of years ago, the disease that killed millions of people. In Tribb’s mind, mice meant big, big trouble.
    When Linda had shown him the bread bag with the hole in it that morning, she had been horrified. And then she had spent an extra long time cleaning the kitchen counters. He remembered her saying to him, “Mouse droppings are toxic. They make you sick. If they got into Suzy’s food, I’d never forgive myself.”
    The look she gave him had made him feel pretty bad. Tribb thought it said, And I’d never forgive you, either. It was as if having mice in the house was his fault.
    Now Tribb took a gulp of his beer. “I guess I have to buy some mousetraps,” he said.
    â€œWhat kind?” said Peter.
    â€œI don’t know,” said Tribb. “I’ll have to go to the store and see what they’ve got. Maybe just some of those regular wood traps. They work.”
    Peter shook his head. “That’s old technology,” he said. “They’ve got plenty of new ones now.” He took a sip of his beer. “Why don’t you just let me build one for you?”
    Tribb sighed. “I’ll think about it.”
    Peter looked at him and lifted his glass. “Buddy,” he said, “you think too much.”
    On his way home from the pub, Tribb stopped at Home Depot. He had no idea where to find the mousetraps, and he felt too embarrassed to ask a clerk. Telling Peter about his mouse problem was one thing. Telling a stranger was different. The more Tribb thought about the problem, the more embarrassed he felt. Having mice in his home, he thought, said something bad about him.
    Linda had asked him to hire a pest company to deal with the mice. But Tribb had refused. He didn’t want a pest control truck parked in