While reading Mortimer Adler's memoirs a bat--my reaction says of the sanguinary variety--nose dived over the kitchen table that doubles for my attic desk. Heretofore, the creatures had merely left evidence of their visits. But an actual sighting, let alone a close encounter, has been quite rare. The man versus beast showdown prompted man to perform a 360 degree 48-inch vertical leap, let loose a 120-decibel feminized rebel yell, and squat-sprint 0-to-60 down the stairs.
A few years back, upon spotting the remnants of my uninvited guests' visits, I vowed to capture the mouse. Purchasing four glue traps that had caught two such creatures at my former obode, I was confused when the sticky death devices didn't execute my capital punishment order. Then I caught sight of the rodent while climbing the stairs to the attic. He was a most unusual mouse, pitch-black with wings. I thought better that night of migrating upward to the otherwise pleasant reading atmosphere.
But when the bats are away, in the attic I play. The overventilated room allows indoor cigar smoking. My attic is spacious: it matches the house underneath's floorplan without any walls getting in the way. A stereo, purchased at Building 19 for $30, blares attic-appropriate audio: early Kinks, early Velvet Underground, early Stones, and early Floyd. Two bulbs illuminate the bat cave. There's no television, no internet, and no people.
But there are books: Karl Popper's The Open Society and Its Enemies picked up at a shop on Charing Cross Road in London but not read thus far; John Humphrey Noyes's History of American Socialisms purchased at America's largest used bookstore, Powell's, in Portland, Oregon; Jefferson Davis's Rise and Fall of the Confederate Government, one volume of which once sparked uninvited negative comments from a fellow Burger King patron; and a multicolored set of Will & Ariel Durant's Story of Civilization nearly takes up an entire shelf. In the midst of reading the series in the mid-1990s, I discovered my father in the midst of reading it, too. Coincidence, or genetics?
A friend, who, like Jesus, is a carpenter, performed the miracle of transforming my rustic third floor into a gentleman of leisure's library. Whereas Jesus turned water into wine, his twenty-first century carpenter counterpart turned my $1,000 into four nailed-in bookcases boasting more than forty shelves. He wanted $800, but I talked him up to $1,000. The reverse bartering was a first for me, and probably for him too.
Attics are superior to damp basements and musty garages as far as books go. Moisture is the enemy. But dry attics, as I discovered in my library's first year, aren't ideal, either. The vents ensure that the temperature inside, at least in winter, differs little from the temperature outside. When the mercury drops below 20 degrees outside, it drops below 40 degrees inside, which can cause books to curl outward. The bats can also apparently attract bed-bugs and other tiny creatures that feed on the winged creepies and find shelter in books. The former problem can be largely alleviated by packing books tightly on shelves; the latter, by getting rid of the bats. And this is the challenge. I bought steel wool at Lowe's to plug up the small gaps between my chimney and roof, which I strongly suspect is the critter invasion point. But what if the bats are there when I attempt to caulk the cracks? And what if the bats are inside when I install my steel wool to keep them outside? All of this has led to procrastination (understandably, right?) on my part.
Though I put off my confrontation with the bats, I still visit my attic. Soviet propaganda posters advertise the library theme: silence. Every where one looks, Stalin's stern social realism tells you to be quiet--evil Uncle Sams, Nazi wolves in sheep's clothing, and White Russian spies may be listening. An oversized classroom-map of Europe, complete with captions detailing significant historical events, adorns one wall. Elsewhere, Patriot linebacker glossies, record-store poster refuse, and license plates past spruce up the Spartan surroundings.
The visuals distract me that my library is essentially a giant shed sitting atop my house. They can't take my mind off the reality that my third-floor retreat is a hot-spot for germy, revolting bats. The flying rodents are present even in their absence. Will I be able to read in peace after my animal encounter, or, will I always tense up in anticipation of the next attack? I live in fear of their bed-bug entourage, their copious waste, their annoying chirps, and, in the case of .5 percent of flying mammals, their rabies. Should my enemies charge me with being bat$#!+ crazy, I will gladly invite them to collect evidence from my attic floor.
It might be more pricey than steel wool, but surely there is an electronic device (of the sonic variety; audible to bats but not to book readers) that would irritate the bats into moving next door.
I punched a hole in the side of my apartment wall when what I thought was a mouse or other rodent was trapped and skittering within it. I heard what was actually fluttering for about 12 hours before I called animal care and control, but they said they couldn't help remove the animal unless it was plainly visible as they didn't want to be held liable for damages, so I punched a hole in the wall with a hammer, and the fat blackbird flew right at me and I let loose one of those feminized yells you referred to and ran around the apartment for a little bit, before opening a window to let it out. I'm not sure why I was so scared by a blackbird, but I'm guessing it was because of surprise more than fear.
Two words: tennis racket.
Such proved quite the lethal tool for me more than a few times growing up, whenever flying rodents invaded our dwelling. As radar-guided pests, they fly in predictable patterns. Just observe their path for a couple times around the attic, and then ... SWAT!!!
I'd just call Ace Ventura.
Quick story:
One hot night my wife and I opened a window to let the midnight breeze in. We were both in bed waiting for the sand man when above our heads we heard the soft fluttering of wings. WTF? I got up in all my nude glory and flicked on the light. Sure enough the bat out of hell was circling overhead with complete evil in it's eyes!(Well, it looked evil.) So my wife quickly backed me up by diving under the covers and started screaming.( I believe she was trying to confuse the bats sonic location system).
I bravely started to attempt the same procedure but alas , no go. So i grabbed a pillow and a small blanket and stood there like a knight with shield and sword. As the beastly dive bombed me I struck out with sword(Twisted blanket whip) and covered my neither regions with shield.(Pillow)
My spouse changed her tactics and started laughing hysterically while still strategically hidden under the blanket in hopes of confusing the bat by her piercing peals of awe inspiring singing, Brave,brave Sir Robin!
Undaunted, I continued my defensive strikes against the 'bat'!
And then some where between my shrieks,uh battle cries, and intense strikes, the varmint met it's doom! A thump, followed by silence, filled the room. My worthy opponent...was no more. He lay there,(He, she, who the hell can tell?) looking even more ickier if possible. I , with some remorse , retrieved some burial shrouds,(This being toilet paper) and picked up the mortal remains of a once feared foe. My lovely bride, with tears in her eyes,(Still laughing hysterically), told me to gently dispose of the mortal remains.(Something to the effect of ' get that f%&*ing thing away from me.) I bade him,her, whatever, farewell and sent him flying one last time.(Out the bathroom window towards my neighbors yard)
So sir, I share your pain.
