I got on a steamboat run by a whistling mouse in a navy gray hat and overalls. No gloves. His name escapes me. Apparently, it’s under trademark. He’s still under trademark. Not copyright. Or, at least, his likeness with the red pants and white gloves and mustard yellow shoes is under trademark. So. No. Gloves. I probably shouldn’t tell you any of this shit. Because he’s under trademark—sorta. But I will, because we’re in a public space. We’re in a Taco Bell, and I’m writing this story on the back of my receipt for a Crunchy Taco Supreme and a large Diet Coke. It’s free writing. Litter. Valuable—or invaluable? Whatever. It’s mine.

Anyway, this mouse on a steamboat was giving me a ride home. It was a cold day and I was feeling hungry for some Taco Bell. But I had to get home, cause it was New Years. And my abuela was over, and you don’t miss New Years with abuela. I asked this mouse if he had any family and he said yes—a father who died in ‘66, an uncle who followed suit in ‘71, and an older brother he hadn’t seen in years and hardly knows anyhow but whom he’s tried to reconnect with. 

What’s his name? I asked.

The mouse shrugged. It’s under trademark.

Is everything under trademark?

If it’s not under copyright, it’s under trademark.

What’s the point of public domain if it’s all under trademark?

There is no public domain. Just like there’s no public space. Not anymore.

I’m in a Taco Bell, wolfing down a Crunchy Taco Supreme while doom-scrolling through Instagram and TikTok. All of these are third spaces owned by someone else. So they aren’t a third space. They aren’t public. I’m in someone else’s purview, someone’s domain. It’s under trademark. I’m under trademark, probably. And copyright—definitely copyright. Just by scribbling these words on this receipt. Just by copying it and sending it off to some obscure and artsy indie litmag to be noticed by a few individuals lost on the public private web. I own myself. Others own a part of myself—for a month. Or six. Or a year. Or however long the rights last. I only own most of myself. 

The mouse dropped me off, waving me off with his cap. He was still whistling. I asked if he felt free and he asked if I thought he felt anything. What was he? Art? Capitalism? Inky black lines in some forgotten sketchbook left somewhere in Kansas? Somebody’s son? Someone’s paycheck? I asked if he’d like to join me for Taco Bell, and he said that would be an unauthorized brand collaboration. 

Where could we talk, then? I asked. 

At the public parks that were no longer public. At the empty shopping malls that shooed you out if you didn’t buy anything. In the chilly parking lots you’d get chased out of for loitering. Anywhere, really. But the safest place was in the margins of an old math textbook you’d forgotten existed or in the vague chicken scratch of a kindergarten drawing. Anywhere unseen. Not remembered. Anywhere but here. 

The clock strikes midnight. I take a sip of my Diet Coke then whistle a song I’d get sued for using. It’s public domain day, but what’s really public anymore? Empty plastic bags, their “THANK YOU”s fluttering in the wind. Abandoned sketches from broken artists. Forgotten dreams that can’t be monetized.

Pushcart Prize and Best of Net nominee Bryana Lorenzo is a Cuban and Nicaraguan American short story writer. She’s had her fiction featured in Outlander Zine, The Graveyard Zine, Rhodora Magazine, Le Château Magazine, The Literary Canteen, Pile Press, Agapanthus Collective, Novus Literary Arts Journal, io Lit, The Talon Review, White Wall Review, Birdie Zine, Occulum Journal, Caustic Frolic Magazine, Same Faces Collective, Art of Life Magazine, As Alive Journal, and Twin Bird Review. She’s currently attending UCLA for Political Science.