by Brad

August 9, 2007

NOT MANY PEOPLE ARE NAMED AFTER PLANE CRASHES

And I'm up while the dawn is breaking
Even though my heart is aching
I should be drinking a toast to absent friends
Instead of these comedians

I was having a bad night at work this past Saturday night, so I wasn't in the best of moods when Wendy called to tell me we had a bat in the house. Actually, I was distracted a little because of the job and I thought she said we had a bat. We already had a 112-pound black lab. Why did Wendy see the need to go to an exotic pet store and buy a bat? I was stuck in the office for another couple hours and there was nothing I could do to stop her from naming this bat Buffy, Spike, Angel, Fang, or the most obvious of all bat names--Raymond (I shudder to think).

Eventually, it sank in that the bat was not intended to be a permanent part of our household. It had somehow found its way into this house that we call home and it was now my duty--when I came home--to get rid of this bat. Not exactly an ideal way to cap off an evening, but it beats having a bat named Raymond perched on your shoulder while trying to enjoy the latest installment of The Closer. It can't be done.

Wendy had the good sense to sequester the bat in one of the rooms
upstairs. She closed and sealed the door and even remembered to cut off the light to the room before doing all this. Me? I would have run out of there screaming like a pack of second graders on an intense sugar rush.

I have no experience with bats, other than baseball bats. Like most
people, or most people who grew up in the South at least, I've watched bats fly and swoop around during the dusk hours while they chased insects. Sometimes they got a little too close for comfort, but for the most part, I haven't given bats much thought in years. My intention was to get it out of the house that we call home alive. I would only kill in self defense. That's how I roll.

Sure I was pissed that the bat had invaded our home, and in this area
off of Exit 149, the law of the land seems to be shoot first and ask
questions later. Or, beat the snot out of someone first and then ask
him if he's had enough. The bat, however, was a novelty. It was the
first one I've ever had to deal with, so the rule on the spot was let
it live. If a second bat ever appeared in the house again--even if it
was the same bat--it might not be so lucky. Plus bats have that
creepy-cool factor. So why not let bats live?

I suited up when I got home because I didn't know if I was dealing
with a rabid bat, or not. This region of North Carolina has had quite
a few cases of rabid animals and I'm in no mood to get 10,000 rabies shots in the stomach. Or wherever rabies shots are administered. I put on a hooded sweatshirt (hoodies, as the kids say) with the hood
drawn-up tight, some work gloves and some safety glasses. I also
carried a broom. I didn't see myself as some naturally gifted "bat
whisperer," so I thought some physical persuasion toward an open
window might be in order.

The time had arrived. I kissed Wendy for what I hoped wouldn't be for
the last time. And from a scene straight out of Young Frankenstein,
I ordered Wendy to not open the door, no matter what she heard on the other side.

The bat made its presence known the second I opened the door. It let out a little screech from somewhere in the darkness. I think the
little fucker was claiming territory on the room. The urge to go into
a Bill Cosby you're-not-paying-rent-so-don't-tell-me-this-is-your -room rant was strong, but I resisted the urge. I had heard stories about bats playing head games on its victims and I didn't want to be such easy prey. I turned on the lights. Advantage, me. The bat let out another little screech, but he still didn't reveal his position. I
took the broom handle and began poking in dark corners and between furniture, waiting for something akin to the original intro to Scooby Doo Where Are You! to take place.

I worked my way over to the first window and got it and the screen
opened. When I went over to the second window, I caught a whiff of
either bat piss or bat guano. And isn't it something that we call it dog shit, cow shit, cat shit, bird shit, etc., but when it comes to bats, it's bat guano? The only time shit applies to bat is when describing someone/something as bat-shit crazy. Anyway, I knew the bat was nearby. It was being coy and not giving away its position. Amazing, I was playing a game of chess--so to speak--with a bat and the bat was besting me. Then again, I don't know how to play chess, so go me. I was just as much a Cinderella story.

But soon I had it at checkmate. I poked the broomstick handle up into
the curtain valance, just above the second window, and out flew the
bat. The last laugh, however, was on me. The bat startled me when it flew out and I let out a yell. I stumbled backward into the auxiliary
desk, tripping over it and into a Rob Petrie-ish pratfall. The broom made an impressive clatter on the hardwood floor.

"Are you OK?" I heard Wendy from the other side of the door.

"I found it," I replied.

The bat flew in circles above me and I would swat at it in an attempt
to herd it toward one of the open windows and out to freedom. It was having none of that. It kept flying in circles. Again, I'm no expert,
but the bat seemed to be following the course of the ceiling fan, which was on, and that I failed to mention earlier when describing the
room (my bad). Since the fan blades were bigger, the bat must have
took them to be the alpha of the group and it was trying to keep up
with them and ignoring my swats of freedom.

I reached up to turn off the ceiling fan and it appeared the bat swooped down at me. The bastard. I tried again. Same reaction. I admit this ticked me off a little and when I swatted at the bat, there might have been a little more malice in my swing. I connected and the bat went across the room. I'm sure the bat was more stunned than me, but I stood there just as long as it did after making contact. Had it been planned, I could have rushed over, scooped up the bat and placed it outside the window and shut the windows. The end and they all lived happily ever after. Instead, the bat--and I swear it did this--shook the cobwebs out of its head and took off flying again. I did manage to get the ceiling fan turned off and the bat stopped flying in circles. It flew in no actual pattern and it looked like it was looking for a place to land.

It perched itself--in old-school upside-down bat style--on the molding
above one of the open windows and that's where I left it for the night. For one thing, I was tired. It had been a long night at work and the ordeal with the bat had not been my top choice for unwinding. I was also drenched in sweat. Like most of the southeast, we're in the
midst of a heatwave and even at two in the morning the temperature was in the upper 70s. Don't get me started on the humidity. I still had on the hooded sweatshirt (aka hoodie) and work gloves, and I was drenched in sweat. I felt like I was carrying "Rosey" Grier and Ray Milland on my back.

After struggling for a few minutes, I wrenched open the door. Wendy
had a good grip on it and she made good on her word not to let me out. I promised her that if the bat was still there in the morning, I would bag it somehow and get it outside. And if I had to, I would kill it. There was no way, I was keeping two windows open now that we had committed to the AC. I went downstairs and had a semi-celebratory beer and watched a little bit of a chopped-up version of the excellent Unforgiven on TNT (they allegedly know drama).

There was no sign of the bat in the morning. I took the trusty broomstick to every inch of that room and came up batless. The lure of the open window won out over the comfort of a modestly-decorated second-story room. I was relieved because I had no idea how I was going to catch it without getting bit and I had no desire to kill it. Give me a rat, a mouse, or even a squirrel. Those I don't mind killing.

But that's another story. For god knows when.

One final note: Had it turned out that Wendy had gone to an exotic pet store and bought a bat, I was going to campaign to name it Tim. If it was good enough for The Replacements, then it's good enough for a bat.


Write Brad at exit149@gmail.com

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