Living on a street where thick stands of oak trees stretched upward to the point where the tops seemed to touch the sky, bats came out in droves in the humid summer nights and continued their feasting well into late autumn. The night that gave birth to the legend was a particularly warm Halloween.                                                         

Some men aspire to greatness, while others have it thrust upon them.  The legend was born on Halloween night several years ago. My best friend and neighbor Howard, (known for reasons long since lost in neighborhood lore simply as the “H-man”), achieved his status at the hands of His Wife.                                                       His Wife feared no human, in fact, many feared her. She was the dean of girls at the high school, which is very similar to being a bouncer.  She was known for her compassionate solution to any of life’s problems, which was, “Suck it up and get with the program, girl.” But when she came into contact with creepy things that crawled or flew, her adrenalin overflowed, her eyes glazed over, her involuntary nervous system went into overdrive, and she sought the nearest protective shelter refusing to come out until the pestilence had been destroyed.

His Wife, fearing no ghost or goblin (at one time they had been human, and hence if confronted with these apparitions, she would have told them to, “Just suck it up.”) went for a walk.   As she returned and entered the house, a bat accompanied her.  Upon discovering it, she reacted as described above, with the evening walk now having turned into a sprint up the stairs to the second floor, where she ran into the bedroom and slammed closed the door, rattling every window pane in the house. 

The bat, not used to experiencing such break away speed this side of the NFL, missed the turn into the bedroom and flew up the next flight of stairs into the attic.  The H-man, having witnessed the drama unfold from the view of his recliner, dashed upstairs to see if His Wife had hyperventilated.  Upon entering the bedroom, he discovered His Wife, semi-catatonic, pointing to the attic door, muttering but one word, “b-b-b-bat”, over and over.  The H-man knew what he had to do. 

He grabbed his flashlight from the night stand, turned it on, and slowly made his way up the attic stairs.    He had just reached the top of the stairs when he heard the attic door below him crash shut.  Next was the unmistakable sound of brass scraping over brass as the bolt was slid over and securely shoved downward against the plate.  As he quickly turned, he saw the light from the hallway coming under the attic door extinguished by an aqua striped Cannon bath towel.        

  His Wife had just experienced her second rush of adrenalin.

  It was at this moment the H-man had an epiphany:  it was just he and the bat – and only one of them would be coming out alive.  With his flashlight he was able to find the stored sporting goods equipment, which is to say he tripped over a tennis racquet.  Whether it was a Spaulding or Wilson is in dispute to this day. The H-man, now armed, brought it on.       

The H-man had a lot to live up to.  His Uncle John was able to eradicate flying varmints with the wrist flicking action of his fly rod.  What made the fete even more impressive was that his Uncle John was always inebriated. The eeriest wails and moans of hobgoblins, ghouls and tortured spirits from Halloweens past did not hold a candle to the commotion emanating from that attic.  Even today, His Wife still visibly pales whenever she describes the horror of bat squeals, the whooshing sounds of near misses punctuated by words she had not heard since her father had come home from the Navy at the end of World War II. 

In the end, cunning, brute force and no small degree of luck won out over speed and radar. Just after the H-man shouted, “Mission accomplished,” he saw light from beneath the attic door and heard the sound of the door being unbolted.  He proceeded down the attic steps with a flattened fury beast prostrate on a tennis racket, much the same as an ancient warrior being carried off the battle field on his shield.  The legend was born.  The H-man had now achieved cult status in the neighborhood when it came to showdowns with these winged terrorists. 

 It became common place for the H-man to receive a call on what, of course, became known as “The Bat-phone” from elderly neighborhood widows, seeking assistance in ridding their home of the dreaded winged pestilence.  He would leave, be gone a short while, and then be seen leaving said residences with a bat impaled on the end of an umbrella or sandwiched between two tennis racquets (a game of “Squashed” he would say).

 There was a particularly challenging showdown with another furry creature – a chipmunk – which nearly cast a shadow on the legend.  True, chipmunks are not known to suck one’s blood nor buzz a person, but they can be pesky and apparently very determined.  From his recliner the H-man was conversing with The Wife when he noticed a chipmunk scurry down the hall and up the steps toward their bedroom.  The H-man, hoping to avert a critter crisis, excused himself and went to the closest to get a shoebox. 

His hopes were dashed seconds later when he turned and saw The Wife, suitcases in hand and kids in tow coming down the stairs.  As she flew out the door she told the H-man, “We’ll be Mother’s, call me when it’s gone.”

 The H-man was able to locate the chipmunk on a shelf in the bedroom closet.  Rather than dispatching it to chipmunk judgment day, he scooped it into the shoebox, took it outside and released it.  Proving the adage that no good deed ever goes unpunished, the H-man watched in amazement as the chipmunk darted across the lawn and shot into the open fan vent leading to the basement.  The H-man ran into the house just in time to see the chipmunk shoot up from the basement and scamper up the stairs again to the bedroom.

Like all great generals, upon finding that he had underestimated the enemy, the H-man made a battle field adjustment.  He then recaptured the chipmunk and again took it outside and released it.  The chipmunk, who questioned how humans could be this stupid and still survive as a species, once more ran for the open vent.  Its question was soon answered when it suddenly stopped in front of the vent and discovered that the fan was now in full operation, preventing the fury fiend’s re-entry.  The shadow over his reputation was now lifted.  Lighting a victory cigar, the H-man dialed His Wife to inform her the coast was clear.

So, this Halloween, if confronted with headless horsemen, ghosts, witches or politicians, telephone His Wife.  But if you have bats in your belfry, take a Xanax, find a tennis racquet and call the H-man.

  “Batter” you than me.