An Old Man's Tale -- Whatever It Takes

There’s an old sailing man trapped in his granddaughter’s house now too old to conquer the seas, too frail to even master the stairs, shut in this ranch-style house in Billfordstown, a burden more ignored then revered.
He spends his days running the dishwasher, no matter what it contains, over and over again and sits on the linoleum huddled like bait, his ear pressed firmly against the brown metal front of the pulsating machine, listening.
His eyes flutter as the sound brings him in contact with the water, the engine aboard riding the crests.
He drools as he sits, cries when its done, and with brown spotted hands he starts the process again, hour upon hour, day upon day, until the man of the house enters the kitchen and yells.
“Do you know how much money you’re costing me old man.”
And the once proud captain crawls back to his room, where he remains, waiting for the next crack of dawn and the chance to ride the waves again.

A Goat's Tale -- Milking in the Evening

A man spent days with the movements of goats. Painstakingly imitating, mirroring -- subtleties defined, generalities embraced. He had had enough of the tight smiled brush offs and the turned head giggles. He had had enough of being a dog nobody wished to collar. Loneliness had crept over him like the dull film on a smoker’s windshield, solitude was a thud, hollow in his ears.
So he had turned to the goats for companionship. He longed to be among them and be one of the herd, admiring their nonchalance when dealing with society. He watched the goats eat. He watched how they slept. He watched how they would shake the flies off and stare into nothing as if they were trying to figure out why the world turned as it did. For days and for days, the man learned. For days and for days, the man practiced goat.
After the time it takes to do such things, the man had mastered his craft. He was so good at goat that hardly an expert could distinguish him from a full blood. Every nuance of goat he executed with deft certainty. He nibbled on corn cobs and nuzzled udders and ears. He had become one of them and he walked among them with a full goat swagger. The goats of the herd embraced him and he felt a companionship like never before.
So he stayed with the goats and began a contented part of his life.
But like all happiness, this one, too, was fleeting. As is a goat’s lot in life, one day he was herded up with the rest and taken to Billfordstown to auction.
After a fierce bidding war, the man was separated from his herd and sold solo to a large pink man with thick pink hands and well-scrubbed pink cheeks. A man who, it turns out, had given up his banking job in Billfordstown and had bought a hobby farm. A man who wanted to get back to the land. A man who wanted to teach his two teenage daughters the fine Christian values of work and family. A man in need of a fine milking goat.
After a bumpy ride up the new gravel drive, the man pulled his red pick-up next to his freshly painted pen and unloaded and unleashed his new goat. He gathered his family together around him and they all watched with a smile as the new goat sniffed and ambled around its new home.
“It looks confused,” said the youngest daughter, her pigtails bouncing with each syllable.
“It looks lonely,” said the other daughter with a heavy, damp voice.
“It is up to you girls to comfort the goat,” said the pink man, resting his pink hands on their heads, “It is up to you girls to make this goat a part of our happy family.”
The days passed into autumn and the girls learned the ways of their goat. The goat gave them his milk gladly and though the cheese it made was far too salty and runny to eat, they kept to their duties. Sometimes together, sometimes apart, always in the evening. Winter came and went quickly that year and as the spring thaw neared, the pink man gathered his family together by the pen and proclaimed, “This is the life man is meant to live!” The two girls giggled as the goat pawed at their swollen bellies. The pink man’s wife, with a flat look in her eye, looked at all that surrounded her and mumbled to no one in particular, “Tonight, I think, maybe I’ll milk the goat.”

Stephen's Tale -- Jewish Single's Night

Even though he wasn’t Jewish, Steven was determined to find a bride at Jewish Singles Night tonight. He would have to fake it for awhile, but how hard could that be. He must remember not to bring up the Nazis. He would have to come clean eventually, but by then his princess would be too much in love to leave and these were modern times, after all. He had heard of plenty of mixed marriages, many of them happy and fruitful. And that was what Stephen was after, happiness and fruitfulness.
He had grown so weary of the Christian girls he had met at his church socials. They lacked the intellectual pretension and hairy swarthiness that he, of late, had found so attractive. He had grown tired of Suburbans with American flag window decals, he had grown tired of white pop rap and conversations about the proximity of the Gap in relation to Old Navy. Stephen longed for discourse and ethnic food, feminist folksingers and Subarus. When Stephen heard about Jewish Singles Night at the local temple he thought his prospects were looking up. “A Jewish girl would easily play the exotic lover role,” thought Stephen.
Stephen spent hours preening for the event. How would a 35-year-old single Jewish real estate agent style his hair (for this was the role he decided upon)? How would he wear his clothes? What would his opening line be?
“How long have you been a Jewish Single?”
“Do you agree with Israel’s stance on the Palestinian question?”
“Do you know where a guy could get a good matzo ball in this town?”
There were so many possibilities that it was difficult to decide. Moments passed and Stephen settled on a side part for his hair, a white button down shirt tucked tightly into a pressed pair of chinos, and an opening monologue consisting of a simple and short, completely made-up biography focusing on a loving but overbearing mother who would be so thrilled if only he married a nice Jewish girl and provided grandkids to spoil. Armed thusly, Stephen’s confidence grew. “Tonight I shall me my bride,” he thought, checking his nose hairs in the mirror one last time.
Stephen locked his apartment door, climbed behind the wheel of his 1991 Volvo 940 Turbo, started the engine, put the radio on the alternative rock station, and headed out. As he drove, though, Stephen began to panic. Everywhere he looked on his journey he began to see signs. Jesus fishes on SUV’s, Jesus Loves You bumper stickers on mini-vans, a Christian bookstore where only yesterday there had been a used record store, a blood red sunset, a noticeable drop in the outside temperature. Why did he seem to be the focus of so much in-your-face Jesus? Was god trying to tell him something? Stop him from making a mistake? Did Jesus not want him to change teams? Stephen found himself starting to get nervous, starting to get flushed, starting to get sweaty. His mind filled with second-guessing and he was about to turn around and go home. It was then he realized that he was sitting in the parking lot of Temple Beth Israel, Temple Beth Israel where Jewish Singles Night was being held.
“Fuck it,” Stephen said under his breath and calming himself down, “I’ll just go in and see what happens.”
Stephen got out of his car, bent over and locked it. Then he turned around and headed towards the front entrance of Temple Beth Israel.
Sheila Blomberg’s cell phone rang and she looked down to answer it. She wasn’t really sure what happened as the hood of her Subaru crumpled into Stephen’s spleen, killing him instantly.

Neal's Tale -- Losing Interest in Myself

It all started when I saw my mother naked for the first time once I was old enough to be unsettled by the sight. No, wait, it was my father that I saw, so much black tangled hair and his meat erect there as if calling out a challenge. No, not erect, flaccid, as if dead, and then he … wait. No. It all started when my sister saw me naked when I was old enough to feel uncomfortable by the situation. I remember how her eyes widened, seeing me as she had never seen me before. I became something else that day, a fidgeting sort of creature whose self-esteem grew and thickened as my penis followed suit. That is when it started. Wait. I got it wrong again. It was when my wife suddenly pointed and laughed at my penis. Ever since then I’ve lost my way. I am no longer the man I used to be or even the man I once thought that I was.
On good nights – nights where the moon hangs pregnant in the sky and all the neighborhood dogs walk sideways unsure of the single purpose anymore – then I catch a glimpse of my self askance in the mirror. But any serious examination leads to disappointment. Who have I become and where did I get all this crap? It was time to get serious and start piecing this shit together, to unlock this puzzle as it were, this laundry list of insanity I seemed to be saddled with.
I had to start, of course, with Delores. Delores and her malcontent. My blushing bride of twenty odd years had become my nursemaid. When I was weeping and crawling across the Pergo like some spurned puppy, she was cooing in my ear and smoothing my hair. When I fixated on the number nine to the point where I was walking into things and drooling on my shirt, she was there to do the math. If only she hadn’t laughed at my penis – if only she hadn’t made her new role so damned apparent – if only – if only – then maybe I could have held it together. But now I am adrift.
Or maybe it’s not really her fault. Maybe I just deserve all this. I’ve become a sham at work, distracted in my day-to-day, and wild in my surmise. Maybe I have created this beast myself through too many left-footed missteps.
The more I think about this the less I actually care. I’m losing interest in my own demise and the realization of my lack of interest doesn’t interest me at all. Where does a man go when he loses interest in his own life story? What next then, dear, to fill the void? My grandfather used to tell me that no matter how delicious a woman may be, a glass is always far easier to pick up.
Maybe that’s my solution – a trough of whiskey and I the poor unsaddled filly having just crossed Monument Valley with a toothless ape on my back. Is it really that easy? Drown my sorrows? I’ll bet you ten to one those fuckers can swim.
Perhaps I should deal with this dilemma head on – confront the man I hoped to be and lay down a sheet of probing questions, beginning of course with “What the fuck happened?” I must stay focused here – gird my loins and tighten my belt. Time to come face to face with reality and … wait … hold on … shit. I can’t remember my own face anymore. I need something solid to hold on to …
“Delores!”

Daniel's Tale -- Cast Shadows Blur

Cast shadows blur
In the yellow lantern light
Of the half moon
Sunk low in the Western night
And the dog scratches once more
On what’s left of the red door
Perhaps it wants to come in
Perhaps it wants to flee this darkness
But I must first and foremost
Taste the chalk of the Vicodin
Dusting the back of my throat
Wondering if this was indeed
Part of the package
When I woke up this morning
Mistaking this day
For last year
While you so gently
Shifted your weight
Beneath the duvet
And snored.

Garett's Tale -- Ease Up

It’s not like you need to think hard
About these things

Like horse head cocked as the traffic hums by
Or thick crinkled paged book festooned with dust
Or hands on the clock click whizzing around

No, these are simple things to be enjoyed at this moment

Ice-cream drip on the tongue
Snow flake on the eyelash
Hands that smell like a god-damn puppy for Christ’s sake

Get your teeth out of your skull
Look around
Breath
And bounce on the balls of your feet

The band will begin shortly
Wait until you see the light show
And the explosions

They’re extravagant.

Donald's Tale -- Shoelaces

Donald tried to tie the laces of his shoes as if he was a famous pastry chef having trouble with his walnut pie. The filling too runny, the dough will not set, and the waiter comes in with an order for more. The chef panics, throwing the onions and meat loaf into the mix, stirring vigorously hoping it will thicken. He shoves the dough down his pants trying to speed the setting process with the chill of his long neglected groin. The waiter pleads, “Where is the pie, where is the pie?” Sweat beads on the brow of the chef as he thickens and sets, thickens and sets. Now he throws it all together hurriedly and jams it under his arm, then thinks of the goat in the petting zoo that he saw in the happier times of his childhood, praying this will generate heat.

But the pie never cooks.

The waiter is stiffed.

The chef collapses to the floor in a heap that resembles more a white frosted sponge cake then a person, fetal and crying.

Finally, Donald gives up on his laces and slides his feet into his warm comfy slippers with a sigh of a job well done.

Jack's Tale -- The Bats of Billfordstown

It’s a quiet night in Billfordstown. The cat is curled up on the couch, purring. My 2 month old boy lays sleeping in my arms as I rock back and forth in front of the T.V. A reporter with a bad toupee is saying that some country is threatening some other country with complete annihilation if a third country doesn’t back away from an entirely different country altogether. It’s confusing. The fact that I haven’t slept more than three hours a night in the past three months is not helping either.
First it was those midnight anxiety attacks before the baby was born. You know, those “Who am I kidding, thinking that I can be the Dad, I’m just a 30 year old little boy myself with a drink in one hand and my dick in the other” sort of brain spun moments that preclude any ability to sleep.
Then there was the birth and the accompanying elation and fascination. Instead of sleeping, I am sitting up all night just watching my son breathe, examining all the tiny, tiny appendages and creases and folds, inhaling deep the newness of his smell, trying to place it all in my fold-out photo accordion of memory and enjoying the wonder of it all. Sleep came second to my joy. My joy was profound. This lasted nearly ten days before exhaustion started to overwhelm my ability to remain fascinated.
Now it is the crying that keeps me from sleep. And it’s that baby cry -- that sputtering go-cart engine -- a chainsaw that’s been tweaked to sound like it belongs to one of those singing Chipmunks. When the engine finally catches and all the pistons are firing, it really starts to cut deep. Out of such a tiny, tiny mouth, such an ice-pick to the brain. Red-eyed, I stumble to soothe; delirious, I pat and caress. Quiet moments like these here in the rocking chair are few and far between. It is these moments that are the true experience. It is these moments that justify everything.
There is a scream. My wife comes churning down the stairs.
“A bat! A motherfucking bat!”
I flash her a tired smile and raise my index finger to my lips. Her words have no meaning in my head, and for crying out loud, can’t she see that the baby is finally sleeping?
“In the bedroom!” Her arms pinwheel with excitement as her voice has reaches a heretofore unheard pique. “A motherfucking bat!” she screams again for obvious emphasis.
“A bat...” my lips move in a pale reflection of her panic.
“In the bedroom!”
“The bedroom. A bat.” I don’t know what any of this means and struggle to try to do the math. Something is amiss, I can tell from her demeanor. I know she is as tired as I am, but she is not one prone to excitable outbursts like this. From what I can gather, there is a bat in the bedroom.
A bat in the bedroom.
“There is a bat in the bedroom?”
“A bat in the bedroom! Flying around the bedroom!”
My lack of obvious comprehension is really starting to annoy her. She inhales quickly as her face turns purple.
“Do something!” she screams. She blows this statement out as if she is trying to inflate a very small balloon through an even smaller opening. The command drifts through the air and suddenly pops in front of my face.
Do something. Do something. Over the centuries, how many panicked women have turned to the burly men by their sides and uttered this phrase? Did Eve turn to Adam in some unscripted moment and implore him like this in the face of their expulsion from the garden? Did Noah’s wife shout these words when the first drop of rain stained her dress? And what of Joan of Arc? Sylvia Plath? Do something. Do something, indeed. The situation at hand is not at all what anyone wanted or expected and something must be done to rectify it before it gets even more unpleasant to the point where someone might actually get hurt. Do something! Someone we care about could get hurt in this situation unless something is done. Someone. Hurt. Someone. Something. The baby. The baby could be hurt. Unless something is done, the baby could be hurt. The baby could be hurt unless something is done BY ME! I must do something! Do something! A bat in the bedroom! Do something about the bat in the bedroom before it hurts the baby!
The mouse in a glue-trap “SCREECH” of rusted metal gears straining against their much preferred inertia. The “THUNG” of an aluminum bat against a fast pitch softball. These are the sounds of understanding. The brain makes these sounds. Something must be done about the bat in the bedroom by ME! What? What must I do about the bat in the bedroom? I must get the bat out of the bedroom. I must get the bat out of the house. I must protect the baby from the bat! How? How do I get the bat out of the house?
“Do something!” She has said it again. Much louder than before. This is too much for the baby. My delay in protecting him from the bat in the bedroom stirs him from his rest. The immediacy of the situation mandates instant action, and he launches into a shriek of biblical proportions. This wrenches me from my reverie. I am a man of action.
“Take the baby. I’ll get the bat.”

**********
There is a bat in the bedroom. It is flying around and around -- frantically flapping its wings. It swoops at my head over and over, and with each pass, comes seemingly nearer. I duck repeatedly with a “Whoop” each time. The bat is looking for a way out. Its obvious that the rabid little bastard doesn’t want to be flying around the bedroom any more than I want it flying around the bedroom. It is scared, confused, and anxious. I am scared, confused, and anxious. This is where any similarities between the bat and myself end, though. I am here to do something. I am a man of action. I am here to protect my son. I am here to get this motherfucking bat out of the bedroom.
I have no idea what I am doing.
“Whoop.”
“Whoop.”
“Whoop.

**********

“Grrwuzzitfuffel...?”
He’s drunk. He always answers the phone like this when he’s drunk. Actually, for the past 6 months, it’s pretty much the only way he’s answered the phone.
“Thomas?”
“Grrwuzzitfuffel?”
“Thomas, it’s me...”
“What ho? Jack? Is that you, Jack?”
“Thomas, I need your help.” This wouldn’t be the first time I asked Thomas for help, but it would be the first time since he left Billfordstown. The first time since Sheila died. The first time since he began drinking again.
“What seems to be the problem my good friend?”
“A bat.”
“A bat?”
“A bat.”
“A bat with which to hit a ball, or a bat with which to lose the chunk of flesh between yer thumb and index finger, be rushed to the hospital, get sewn up, and then be subjected to an endless series of horrific and painful rabies shots to the abdomen?”
“The later,” I say, rolling my eyes, trying to figure out why the hell I called him in the first place. Thomas had been the only person I really formed a bond with since moving to Billfordstown. He had lived here all his life and I just assumed he had dealings with bats at some point in his career. Besides, who else could I call, really?
“Where is the bat?”
“The bedroom.”
“Aaaaaaah ... for a bedroom bat it is important that you get a glove.”
“A gl...”
“And not just any glove, mind you. You need mesh -- tight metal mesh. Not chain mail -- bat teeth’ll slip right through chain mail. What you need is like window screen tight mesh. And it needs to be bendable. You don’t want to be hindered, because God knows you need to strike fast. Those shots’ll hurt ya and hurt ya real bad, not to mention the humiliation you will obviously feel for being ripped up by such an obviously inferior, albeit devious as all hell, creature of the night who’s sole purpose of existence is to turn your entire hold on reality into a pale reflection of ... Wahoooooo!”
There is a lot of noise. And then there is silence.
“Tom? Tom? Hello?”
“Sorry, I do appear to have fallen.”
“Are you OK?”
“Not to worry, my dear friend. Nothing that can’t be attended to at a later date. Now then, where was I?”
“Listen Tom, this is serious. There is a bat in the bedroom. My wife is rightfully upset. The baby could get hurt. I need to do something.”
“Ah yes, the bedroom bat. Did I tell you to get a glove?”
“I don’t have a glove, Tom. There’s no way I’ll be able to get a glove. The glove is not an option! I have to do something, NOW! I don’t know what to do!” I am starting to get upset. I’m not even sure why. Maybe I am mad at myself for not being able to do something on my own. Maybe I am mad at Thomas for being drunk, again.
“Use a pillowcase,” he says in a hushed voice and hangs up the phone gently.
Great. Now I’ve pissed him off. This has been a pretty rough year for Thomas. My little bat bastard is, at best, a minor inconvenience in comparison. Losing his teaching position was one thing, but it was nothing compared to losing Sheila. From what he’s told me, they were finally talking about getting married after all those years. They always seemed so happy together, sort of played each other’s weird instruments. When his drinking started I tried as best I could to be there for him. But he didn’t want my help. When he left Billfordstown and moved to the city, it was I who struggled to maintain the friendship. Right after the baby was born Thomas sent us a crate of limes. No note. Just a crate of limes. When I called to thank him, he had no idea what I was talking about.

**********

My wife had quieted the baby. “What did he say?” she asked anxiously.
“I need a pillowcase,” I say, opening the linen closet. “It’s under control.”
Could I tell her I still had no clue about what I am doing? I’ve got an idea, but nothing specific. Can I fess up to my failings?
Not in front of the boy. I am a man of action. I am off to do something about the bat in the bedroom. I am off to get the bat out of the house. I am going to do something about the bat with this ratty old pillowcase that somehow survived my childhood and stayed with me all these years.
“Nice touch,” my wife says snootily, noticing the Batman logo on the pillowcase.
“Yes, well ... I thought the bat might be more apt to cooperate in the face of the familiar,” I say, looking at the pillowcase for the first time.

**********

I open the door to the bedroom carefully. I step in and shut it quickly behind me. It is quiet. Nothing is coming at my head. The bat is gone. Out of the house. I got the bat out of the house! What did I do? I must have done something. Where is the bat? If not here, then it must be elsewhere. There must be a hole somewhere. The bat must have found a hole and left the bedroom. Where is the hole?
I start scanning the walls for any sign of an exit route. Nothing. Maybe the bat is hiding. Maybe the bat is still in the bedroom. Just because it is not coming at my head doesn’t necessarily mean that it has left the room. Let’s not jump so quickly to conclusions. The bat is still in the room. Great. Fucking great. Now what? I’m standing here with my Batman pillowcase, my body tensed for action, my eyes dash as blood races through my brain. Where would a bat hide? I look at the bed. Crap. Of course. It’s under the bed. Of course it’s under the bed. It’s a bat. It’s a scary monster bat. Scary monster. Scary monsters always hang out under the bed. It’s the rule. Under the bed. Shit.
I open the pillowcase and hold it close to my face. The fucker’s gunna fly right into my face the moment I look under the bed and then it is gunna claw out my eyes. I know it. I’ve seen enough movies to know how this game plays out. Fucking bat. What the hell am I doing?

**********

The bat was not under the bed. It was behind the bookcase. When it flew out from behind it I nearly shit myself. The circling has begun again. Now every time it comes at my head, I not only say “Whoop,” but I swing the pillowcase at it as well. Somehow, I keep telling myself, I can catch this bastard in the pillowcase. Just like those old pictures you see of those butterfly hunters and their enormous nets. I can do this.
“Whoop.” Swish.
“Whoop.” Swish.
“Whoop.” Swish.
I am a man of action. I am doing something. I am doing something about the bat in the bedroom. I am doing something that makes me look like an asshole.

**********

I threw a sheet over it as it flew by. A nice sheet with daisies on it. Don’t know why I didn’t think of it before. I actually snared it. It fell to the ground with a sound reminiscent of dropping a hakey sack on a wood floor. Then it began to scream. Right into my brain. Worse than the baby. An un-oiled dentist drill used to remove 30 year old grout from a men’s room in Fenway Park. I quickly gather up the ends of the sheet and shove the whole thing in the Batman pillowcase as the screaming intensifies. Thomas had only given me part of the story. He was right about the pillowcase. He just neglected to inform me about its proper use in bat catching. I did the rest myself.
I take the pillowcase out back. I hold on to the end and give it a forceful shake. The sheet, and, I assume, the bat, fall to the ground. I slam the door. It’s dark out, so I can’t see anything. I figure if that fucking bat found its way into my bedroom, it can find its way out of a damn daisy sheet. I hope I didn’t break it’s wings or anything. I didn’t really want to hurt it. I just wanted it out of the house. I had to do something, after all, so this is what I did. I have a family to protect, I am a man of action. I got the bat out of the bedroom, the house, by the most efficient means. Tomorrow I’ll sift through the wreckage. In the daylight. Tonight I will sleep. I am triumphant. The conquering hero. I deserve my rest.

**********

WAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHH...................

**********

It’s been a couple of weeks since the bat was in the bedroom. Things have dramatically improved since. I actually got four hours of sleep last night. A few days after the bat experience, I called Thomas to apologize for being so testy with him. He didn’t remember any of it and swore his loyalty to the cause. I never actually got him to tell me which cause, but it was nice to hear him passionate about something again.

**********

The phone rings. My grandfather is dead. He has been really sick for a long time, so it is not unexpected. Alzhiemers. Pretty much a grueling ordeal. Death is, in some ways, a relief. The funeral is on Friday. I have to catch a plane to Florida.

**********

What underwear should I wear to a funeral? Plain? Checkered? How many pairs of socks do I need? It’s only three days. Well, three days and two nights. It’s Florida, it will be warm. I am packing in the bedroom. I notice the cat sniffing at the door to the attic. Ever since the cat got hit by a car, it has become really stupid. It drools now. It stares into space and drools. We took her to the vet after the accident, cost us $150. She’s not the same cat anymore. There’s only so much you can do.
The cat is making odd noises. Stupid cat. It’s hissing? What is it hissing at? The cat is suddenly starting to really freak out. All of her hair is standing straight up. She is hissing at the door. What? What? Something behind the door? Something in the attic? In the attic? It’s got to be a bat. It must be. Could even be the same bat. Fuck. What to do? Keep it out of the house. I have to do something. Is it a bat? What is it? It’s a bat. Again. Do something! Don’t let it get through the door!
I throw all of my weight against the door. I feel something crunch as the door compresses against the jam. The bat starts screaming. It is horrible. Drowning monkeys and puppies on fire kind of horrible. Shit. Now I’ve hurt it. Now it’s really pissed off. Now it’ll hurt us all for sure. I have to keep it from getting through the door.
I throw my weight against the door again. It screams even louder now. I want to rip my ears off my head. Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! The floodgates open. I am starting to panic. I know I am starting to panic.
I keep throwing my weight against the door. I start pounding on the door with my fists. Hitting the door repeatedly, as if I were smashing the actual bat instead of the wood. The bat is screaming. I am screaming. Why am I screaming? What am I screaming? Nothing. I’m just screaming.
I have stepped outside of myself and I am watching myself collapse. So sudden. Who is this asshole punching a door and screaming so loud, so very, very loud? He’s no man I know. He’s no family protector. He’s not doing anything to help the situation. He is making it all worse.
My wife is standing by my side. She has our son in her arms. He is looking at me as if he’s trying to put a name to the face. I have stopped screaming now. I am leaning with my back against the door, pushing against it as if holding back a flood. My wife has her eyebrows raised.
“The bat is back, or it’s another bat. There’s another bat, “ I stammer, my eyes towards the floor, “It’s trying to get through the door.” I push against the door again. The bat screams again. My wife’s eyes widen.
“I know what I am doing,” I say, preempting her command. “Take the baby downstairs.”

**********

I’m duct-taping the door shut. The cat is upset. The bat is upset. The wife is upset. The baby is surprisingly calm. So am I. I am now working on the seventh layer of tape around the entire outline of the door. Sealing it up. A couple more layers and I will be done. Let’s see that fucker get through this! HA! I am a man of action. I have done something here. The bat will not get in the house. My family is safe. I can board a plane. I can go to Florida. I can bury the dead with confidence now. I will wear checkered underwear. I will pack extra socks.

**********

The plane is packed. I am sitting between a thick man who seems to enjoy both sweating and reading Fortune magazine, and a woman with a baby in her arms. The baby can’t be much older than my boy. I feel somehow obligated to talk to her. A sort of tacit code between parents, you show me yours and I’ll show you mine. But I can’t do it. I can’t talk. My mind is stuck between life and death. I am in no shape to tell poop tales and spit-up stories. I am going to put my grandfather in the ground. I left a bat dying in the attic. My wife is alone in the house with the baby and the bat. My assurances as to the strength of duct tape did little to soothe. I, too, am worried about leaving them alone. My son may need me. What if my son needs me? No. I have to do this. I have to see my grandfather one last time. It is the thing to do. Fucking bat.

**********

My brother is there to pick me up at the airport. He is a fat man who always wears button down long sleeve shirts painfully tucked into ill-fitting slacks, even while lying on the couch watching football. We never had much of a relationship, unless you consider his sitting on my chest, slamming my head on the linoleum, and turning beet red as he hurled various spit-enhanced epithets in my face some sort of fraternal bonding. I don’t. Can’t. As we have grown older I have, again and again, extended the olive branch. I thought it important to have my older brother be a significant part of my life. My overtures, unfortunately, have fallen on deaf ears. We are birds of different feathers, my brother and I; opposites, in this case, do not attract. I must have done something to piss him off a long time ago and it must have been something pretty substantial for him to continue to be such a dick all these years. I’ve talked with my wife about this, often. She’s convinced that what I did to piss him off so was to have had the audacity to be born in the first place and then further rub salt in the wound by being so damn likable. I don’t know. She’s biased. She hates my brother. With good reason, too, I guess. He’s been a dick to her from the moment they met. Probably because she was with me.
When my son was born I called my brother and left the good news on his answering machine. I was a bit bleary, having been in the hospital for a good 36 hours at that point and being through one of the most intense experiences of my life, but I am sure I called the right number and left a message on the right machine. Three weeks went by before we heard anything from him. A Hallmark congratulations signed just with his name. The limes were a more thoughtful gift. I haven’t talked to my brother since then. I haven’t seen the need.
“Hey,” he says. It seems to pain him to even extend this pleasantry, but perhaps I am reading too much into it.
“Hey,” I answer, averting my eyes. I feel an overwhelming urge to tweak the situation, become overly effusive, force a showdown, but I check myself. A funeral. We are here to put my grandfather into the ground. The occasion is solemn, focused. Tweaking is not called for; tweaking should be avoided. The situation is messed up enough, adding to the emotional intensity is not something to do. Ride it out. Let the ceremony take care of itself. Shed a tear. Bow a head. Comfort. Support. There is nothing to do. I am here to bury my grandfather.
We walk out to the car silently. As I settle into the seat of his rented green Taurus, it dawns on me that things must be kinda messy if my brother is the one that is picking me up. Is this harder on everyone than I had initially imagined? My father sounded relieved that the ordeal and the pain and the disintegration were finally over. Were they all back at my grandmother’s weeping? Was my brother the only dry eye and so it fell to him to pick me up at the airport? Shit. This is not what I expected at all. Not what I was prepared for.
“How is everyone holding up?” I ask. We merge into traffic as if we are shaving with a very dull blade. It has always been my contention that my brother’s driving is a window to his soul. It is through driving that he expressed himself. Ride with my brother and learn what kind of man he is. Tailgating, honking, vicious lane changes, shooting the finger, screams, lurches: this is the palette from which he paints. My brother expresses himself by his driving and my brother drives like an asshole.
“Everyone’s fine,” he says, the veins on the sides of his neck bulging and pulsating. He hates being in the car with me. It is obvious. At least I think it is obvious.
“Hmmm....” I’m wrong. My thesis is wrong. It’s not bad at my grandmother’s at all. It is what I expected. My brother has picked me up at the airport because that is what my brother does. It is who he is. This is my brother. This is how he responds to situations. He is a man of action. It falls to him.

**********

We are driving too fast. There is too much traffic to be driving this fast. I am starting to get scared. He is screaming. He is punching the horn as if it was my face. I see my face on the steering wheel. Too fast. Asshole.

**********

He looks like a rock. I have never seen a dead man before. A dead man looks like a rock. They can paint him up real nice. They can put a black suit on him. A red tie. Cuff links. Rock. My grandfather looks like a rock. My grandfather is a dead man.
My grandfather is not a fat man. Sorry. My grandfather was not a fat man. Dead, he looks like he weighs a ton. He seems like he weighs a ton. He looks like a rock.
I look around. Everyone is standing. I am standing too. My grandfather is not standing. The weight. A rock.
I don’t see my brother anywhere in the room.

***********

The ceremony is almost over. It has been a blur. I almost expected dancing girls at one point, but no -- that would be inappropriate, wouldn’t it? The Rabbi who is performing the ceremony certainly seems like a nice man, his intentions are nothing if not pure, I’m sure. But there is something unsettling about the whole thing. Maybe it is the way he keeps referencing those white 3x5 cards before each personal anecdote. I wonder if my grandmother typed those up last night for the Rabbi’s convenience? That’s the kind of woman my grandmother is. Never a hair out of place. Throughout the ceremony she has held her head up straight and stared into the eyes of whoever was speaking. I am keeping a close eye on her. I want to be able to help when she breaks. It’s the least I can do.
My father is speaking now. He looks like shit. No ... wait ... shit is not the right word. He looks tired. Actually, the more I look at him, the better he looks. Calm. His face is more relaxed then I am used to seeing it. His jaw isn’t clenched quite as tight as usual. He seems to have more fluidity to his movements. He must be tired. He is tired. Perhaps in some way he is also relieved.
Interesting.

***********

Apparently, my grandfather is not going into the ground. Instead, they are putting him in a purple granite wall. It appears that in Florida, even the cemeteries are going condo. At least he’s going on the top floor. Penthouse suite. Poor sap underneath him will be complaining to the Super any day now, “Oy, the music and the dancing! I thought this vas supposed to be an eternal rest!”
Hmmmph. Think I’ll wait a couple of weeks before I share that joke with anyone in the family. This is probably not an appropriate venue for shtick. Probably wouldn’t be appreciated. Timing is everything.
The Rabbi has finished. We are singing the Kaddish. My grandfather always liked the Kaddish. When he sang it, he would wrap his resonating baritone around each word. It was always an event. I remember.
The casket is on some sort of hydraulic device. It looks like on of those Acme products the Coyote would use to try to kill that fucking Road Runner. It should have a big red boxing glove on the end of it, not a casket. Certainly not a casket with my grandfather in it.
About 30 or so yards away, I see my brother. He has his head down and his hands in his pockets. He is kicking at the dirt with his right foot. He looks like an impatient limo driver. All this standing around doing nothing must be driving him crazy. Action, he is a man of action. This sort of stuff ain’t his sack of donuts.
He looks up toward us. The sun is on his face. His face is covered with tears. My brother is crying. My brother is really crying.
I have no idea whatsoever who my brother really is.

***********

I got a window seat for the flight back. There is a priest sitting to my right. One of us smells like formaldehyde. The flight has been delayed for 3 hours already. We have been sitting in the plane, on the runway, for the last hour and a half. They won’t serve us any drinks.
The priest wants to start a conversation. He has an open bible on his lap, but I assume since he know how it ends, it doesn’t hold his attention the way it used to. He wants to form some sort of comradeship in the face of our misfortune. I just want to be left alone. My one word answers to his questions and my nose buried in a Time magazine don’t seem to be doing the trick. He is undaunted. He is a man of God. God is, if nothing else, a persistent cuss; his men learn well at his feet. But I want none of it right now. I just want to go home. I want to see my son. I want to kiss my son. I want to lay in the arms of my wife and tell her how much I love her. I want my life. I want my family. I want my house. I want my comfort. I want off this plane.
“Ladies and Gentlemen, the captain has informed me that due to mechanical problems, we are going to have to cancel this flight and return to the gate. Representatives from the airline will be there to meet you and help you make alternative travel arrangements. We apologize for any inconvenience this may cause you, but we are concerned with the saftey of our passengers above all other considerations. Once again, we apologize for any inconvenience this may cause you.”
I grit my teeth, breath in deep through my nose, and squeeze the arm rest until my knuckles turn white.
“Seems the good lord has other plans for us today,” the priest says through his very white smile.

**********

Make that three days and three nights. The extra socks really paid off.

**********

I am back in Billfordstown. My son needs his diaper changed, desperately. Out of such a tiny, tiny body such an enormous stench. He has taken up projectile defecation as a hobby. It gets everywhere. These fetid waters run wild.
I took the duct tape off the attic door two days after I got back from Florida. I needed about that long to decompress. Didn’t want my brain to get the bends, as it were. I wasn’t entirely sure what I would find behind the door either. I pushed on the door a couple of times before I opened it to see what would happen. Nothing. Nothing happened. I opened the door slowly, fully confident that something was waiting behind it, ready to pounce on my face and rip out my eyes, something was ready to make me pay for my sins.
It was a bat alright. A dead bat. Shriveled. It looked like a dust bunny you would find under your bed, or a dried hairball stuck to the floor near the cat box. I almost stepped on it before I realized what it was. I poked at it with a broom about five times or so before I was sure it wasn’t playing possum. Finally, I kneeled down and it gave it a good once over. It was a little, shriveled, dead, prune-faced, nasty-ass bat. Dead, it looked like it would blow away in the wind.
I swept the bat into a dust pan, put it in a black plastic bag and tossed it into the garbage. There was a brief moment of hesitation, a twinge of guilt. Maybe I should give it more respect. Maybe I should say something, for I had killed this bat, in truth, it had died due to my actions. But it was all I could think to do.
My wife called an exterminator that afternoon. A pallid unshaven man in a blue jumpsuit shows up at the door two days later. He carried with him tanks of fouls smelling unguents and various instruments with which to spread his poisons. He poked around in the attic for about fifteen minutes, charged us $87, and assured us our bat problem was no problem anymore. He made a point of reminding us three times not to let the cat up there for at least 48 hours. Then he gave me a special yellow bag in which to collet any carcasses I might find. Great, I thought. There was this big cloud of poison floating above our heads. We were all sleeping downstairs for the next couple of nights, that’s for sure. Nothing is better for a 3 month old’s constitution than a little bat poison.

**********

I’ve got the baby’s diaper off. It stinks like a combination of burnt hair, boiling asparagus, and shit. Unpleasant. I have to use about 6 wipes to clean all the crevasses. I put another diaper on his ass as quickly as possible before the fecal fountain springs to life anew. This is no time to dwaddle. The shit shower, the defecation deluge, the poop parade: call it what you will, it is seemingly endless.
As I am putting his legs back through the holes in his little outfit, he suddenly looks right at me, right into my eyes, and says, clear as a bell, “Dada.”
My eyes widen. His eyes widen. We stare at each other. My son and I. My son. My son has called me “Dada.” Boom. I am overwhelmed. I am stupefied.
My son suddenly turns his head and looks out the window. My son points to the oak tree in the backyard. My son points to the oak tree in the backyard and says, “Dada.” My son grabs his feet and says, “Dada.” The heater fan comes on. “Dada.”
My wife comes into the room. “How’s it going?” she asks. My son looks at her. “Dada.” He giggles.
A bird smashes into the window with a sharp crack. I jump and watch it spiral to the ground, bent, lifeless. The cat is sitting not far away from where it settles. The cat’s interest is aroused.