My first thought was, “Oh, thank God! " Something interesting was finally happening. I sprang to my feet and listened hard, before turning to look where the sound was coming from--which was...behind...and...ABOVE me. Holy fuck did I whip around fast. I was closest to the house. Something might have been about to fall on me. I looked up and saw that nothing was falling, but on the other side of the upstairs windows, I could see people were running and screaming and...ducking? Yep. They were running frantically back and forth while screaming and ducking. Surprisingly, the "celebrities" shut up long enough to join the rest of us lawn partiers in looking up to see what the matter was. By then the first wave of upstairs patrons had begun pouring out the door and onto the lawn hollering and shouting.
“It’s a BAT!” they shrieked, “There’s a bat upstairs in the bar!”
A bat. My mind wandered briefly to Cujo, but then I realized that bats fly at night and get trapped in houses sometimes. It was not rabid. This was normal behavior. Then through the intermittent screams and squeals, some sharp, hostile yelling started. THAT brought my attention back to the windows. A handful of young dudes were yelling tactics at each other. Then, they crouched down and would kind of hop up every few seconds and flung an arm overhead before hunkering back down. They were throwing things. At the bat. For the second time that night, a sinking feeling set in. With this, however, came a dread certainty: if those assholes kept that up, they were gonna maim or kill something. I was in NO MOOD to watch stupid men manhandle nature and hurt others if I could do something about it.
My feet propelled me forward without conscious thought. I had an idea of how to catch the bat without harming it, but I had to get up there fast if I was going to be able to. I practically parkoured my way through the throng rushing past me as I skipped up the staircase to the bar. I knew I would figure out the details after I got a look upstairs.
At the top, I stopped for about three minutes to take a good look. Aesop's upstairs bar was a skinny long rectangle at least 75 to 100 feet long and 8-9 feet wide. Candle-lit tables ran along the left wall under the windows. To my right was an impressively long bar crowded with barstools that fronted a glorious displayed selection of wine, liqueurs, fine spirits, and Sam Addams. Some of the tables and chairs were in disarray. A few barstools had been knocked over. On either side, anxious people awaited the end of the ordeal.
The bat was flying agitatedly in a figure-8 pattern about a foot below the ceiling. It easily avoided whatever was being thrown at it because it stayed high up and steered away from sharp noises and fast movements. The whole effect was as if 8-year-old summer camp archery students were trying to shoot down a tiny Jeff Gordon who was crushing the 1998 Winston Cup series. They didn't stand a chance of hitting anything but each other and innocent bystanders. That worried me, but I knew that if I could get the path cleared out, I could catch that bat.
Now, I’ve never herded a cow before, much less a terrified bat. But my dad and all of his ancestors for the past four generations had done exactly that. Growing up, I listened to them tell their stories about life on the farm. They took us to the Pawnee County State Fair once to watch the cattle-herding trials and I listened as they argued about who was good and why. (I still sneak off to the Tulsa State Fair by myself one afternoon every year to watch the herding trials.) I remember being fascinated by how the really good cowboys used the whip's crack to steer the animals more often than they used the whip's lash. This is the technique that came to mind as I watched that bat. I knew this exact same thing would work to catch it. I figured that if I whip-cracked around the level of the bat’s head but nowhere too close, the noise and movement would cause it to change course. If I cracked intermittently on alternating sides, I could steer this bat right into the bathroom and out the window. Now, the bathroom was at the far end and around the back corner of Aesop's upstairs bar. The trick would be getting the bat around the corner AND keeping it flying low enough to go into the bathroom. I wanted it cornered there because the 6-foot ceiling gave me better odds at getting it OUT, or catching it if I could not free it. THAT is called thinking like a cowgirl. And why not? The drunken, half-assed "big game hunter" thing was absolutely not working.
At the long bar to my right crouched a handful of patrons who were looking for a chance to escape but were too petrified to move. The assholes I'd earlier seen throwing things–were throwing cutlery. CUTLERY?!? Stationed under tables along the window line, they were real drunk, had shitty aim, and wanted to party. One of them had a long-healed broken nose, so they were definitely scrappers. Boy, did that complicate things. CUTLERY? Farther back, way on the other side of the room was Curtis the barback. In his hands was an upside-down yellow utility broom held like a club, as if he would knock the poor bat from the sky. Or perhaps knock one of the assholes down for getting too wild with the cutlery. CUTLERY! Most of the patrons had edged their way towards the stairs and were trying to get down them, but a few hardcore thrillists were staying knotted safely at this side of the bar near the top of the stairs. They were oblivious to the fact that they might very realistically lose an eye when the 3 drunk bat assassins started getting sloppy throwing all that cutlery. CUTLERY, y'all.
"Sweet mercy of fuck!" I muttered to myself as I stormed over to the bar to find Betty The Bartender. She alone could help me do what needed doing.
We called her Betty but added “The Bartender” silently afterward because we all recognized her to be the epitome of a great bartender. If memory serves, Betty was one of several folks in Wellfleet who had rhizomed over from Worcester during the last generation. She was an unbelievably gorgeous late-30s blonde who was quick-witted and very kind. But Betty had a soul that was tougher than rawhide leather, and at times her tongue was sharp enough to cut glass--she was a complete badass. That’s the Betty who was tending bar that night: Badass Betty (The Bartender). She stood there, crouched down behind the bar but peeking over it, quite vexed. She intermittently looked at the bat to note its position. Her eye was on the assholes. Betty knew who the really dangerous animals in the bar were at the moment, and the bat wasn’t among them. She wanted the bat gone, but couldn’t get these fool men to listen to her and just clear out till it could be caught. I could tell on my way over to her that Betty was pissssssssssssssed.
Soon as I reached the bar, I looked her right in the eye and grinned as I said, “Hey Betty, can I get a free T-shirt if I clear this bat out of here?“
She coughed out a laugh and looked at me like I was crazy, but then glanced back at the domestic terrorists behind me. A randomly aimed clam knife landed on the bartop and skittered to rest between us. The assholes had a variety of sharp and dangerous cutlery at their disposal. Betty looked at it a second, then she looked up at me and grinned a bit madly at me. "Sure," she said. I told her I needed a tablecloth and help in getting those idiots disarmed and to the safer side of the bar. I needed a clear straight shot in order to work. I didn't want to make this run more than once.
What happened next is a bit of a blur. I’m pretty sure I used vulgar and unkind terms to order people over to the stairs. I’m pretty sure she threatened to ban stragglers from Aesops’ upstairs bar if they didn’t get out of my way. The bat continued to fly in an anxious infinity loop as we worked. All I know for sure is that our combined force forged a fearsome Boudicca rage that got the assholes and everyone else to the stairs or crowded at the safer end of the bar. Betty and I had gotten the path completely cleared.
I stood in front of the crowd by the stairs and counted the timing of the bat's flight. With no crowd and no rain of cutlery, the bat was flying lower and slower. Its altitude was about 10 feet. As I watched, I hitched part of my maxi peasant skirt into a loop and shoved it into the waistband. My skirt was now short enough to run in. The bat began to glide into its turn at the far end of the room. I looked at the gauntlet bar before me and mentally marked the obstacles and clear spaces. The bat cleared the turn and was on its way back. I kicked off my platform peep-toe clogs because I didn’t want to break an ankle and got into position. As the bat hit the halfway point between the far wall and the stairs, I counted down from 5…4...3...the little fucker surprised me! It banked into its turn ten feet short of where it had been. It knew I was after it. So I cracked that tablecloth in the air above my head and I jumped into action!
I usually have the grace of an arthritic penguin. That night, I leapt like a bobcat and hit the floor running, all while thundering the air with my tablecloth-whip. Somehow I had jumped far enough to close the distance between the bat and me. Dancing past and leaping over the barstools and chairs strewn across the floor, I whipped the tablecloth around the bat. The air cracked and hissed as I snapped just close enough to get the bat to react but far enough away to avoid actual contact. By halfway down the bar, I had the bat at eye level. It had broken into a dead heat and was flying like a tiny guided missile. Things were going according to plan. The bat then gained some air on the turn towards the bathroom, so I cracked high to the right and steered the bat down and away from the bar. Exactly as I'd planned, it flew into the bathroom. A rush of pure joy coursed through me as I darted in after it, immediately closing and locking the door behind me. I felt incredibly accomplished and impressed with myself.
I looked around and confirmed that there was indeed no working window in the bathroom. The room was also at least 10 feet by 10 feet with the toilet and basin shoved against the opposite corners of the far wall. Relieved that there were no real obstacles to deal with, I stood still and silent against the door, watching the bat fly. My peasant skirt had unfurled to its full length once more but I didn't see the need to fool with it. The bat flew a few circuits clockwise around the tiny room. If I wanted to steer it down low enough to catch it in the tablecloth, I needed to stand at the center of the room and start cracking the tablecloth when it cleared the turn at my right front. This would soon drive the bat to chest height, where I could easily scoop it out of the air and into the tablecloth. I sauntered to the center of the bathroom. Setting my feet wide apart and bending my knees for spring-like action, I started whipping the air and driving the bat down to a height where it could be captured. Plans were working out well until the bat surprised me: it flew far lower than I expected. I had a much tougher time steering the bat when it was darting about at hip-level. That was when the unthinkable happened.
The bat was looking for a place to shelter from my incessant aerial harassment. At one point, I was hunkered down at least one foot, and that's when the bat found its chance. Specifically, the bat saw the cave-like hollow of my skirt dangling between my crooked knees. The last time I saw the bat it was at hip height coming from my right, and the next thing I knew I felt a hard, small, heavy ball hurtle between my knees and hit my skirt--hard. Almost instinctively, I snapped my knees shut and froze in an agonized crouch. Thank goodness the bat did not actually fly UP my skirt because that would have been agonizing and unsanitary. But then again, I had accomplished my goal: I caught the bat.
I waited in ambivalence for a few still seconds. The impact of its landing had clearly stunned the little creature. I didn't want to move until I had signs of life. I had caught the bat, as planned. But now I had to get said bat outside into the night air in order to free it. If it was still alive. This would necessitate taking off my skirt WITH THE BAT STILL TRAPPED INSIDE IT. I would also have to walk through Aesop's Tables and down part of Main Street on a busy Saturday night IN MY UNDERWEAR. Suddenly, I had this strange notion to take a closer look at that tablecloth. It was a vapid Laura Ashely knockoff print in shades of dusty rose and sage. Hideous. But it would probably work as a half-sarong. Thus inspired, I carefully slinked out of my skirt and held it closed tight with one hand while I wrangled that tablecloth around my hips. It covered what it needed to cover, but the sooner I had my clothes back on, the better. During the process, the bat woke up and flapped frantically amidst its fabric prison. Dressed from the rescue, I emerged victorious from the bathroom.
I held up that skirt like it was a trophy as I rounded the corner and hollered, "I caught the bat!" Cheers erupted. Applause resounded. People laughed. The bat struggled half-heartedly in the recesses of my peasant skirt. Betty immediately started setting up a shot for me.
Then I cleared the bar and they could all see that I was wearing the tablecloth. Pretty quickly, everyone put two and two together and absolutely cracked up. I kept assuring them that the bat flew INTO my skirt and not UP it, but the townies preferred their agonizing and unsanitary version of the story to mine. I told Betty to hold my shot and asked her to get my T-shirt.
Brian, Phil's asshole friend who owned Aseop's and had been sitting downstairs at the cast party table, materialized abruptly. Apparently, he'd followed me up as soon as people had told him what I was up to. I guess Sebastian Junger had finally shut up about his movie deal. "What T-shirt?" he asked.
"The one Betty agreed to give me for getting this bat" I said, holding the wriggling skirt up to Brian's face, "out of your bar."
"No, no." Brian responded. "Betty doesn't have the authority to give you a T-shirt. You can drink free for the rest of the night, but no T-shirt." Standing well behind Brian and out of sight, Betty flipped him the bird with her right hand and held up the blue T-shirt she'd chosen for me with her left.
"Well, I'll definitely have to come back and drink after I free this bat," I said, winking at Betty. She rolled her eyes at the asshole and I headed for the stairs.
All was once more as it should be. The crowd parted with congratulations and guffaws as I walked past. They then flowed back into the bar, reclaiming the seats they had vacated only a few minutes earlier. Curtis righted chairs and barstools. Betty poured the drinks. Getting down the stairs without dropping part of the tablecloth was tough, but I managed to do it. At the bottom of the stairs, I heard gasps as the dining patrons caught sight of me: a glamazon wrapped in a tablecloth and carrying a multi-colored rucksack that clearly had a live thing trapped inside it. Some of them had no idea what had been happening upstairs.
When I emerged onto the lawn, however, I was surprised by scattered applause and congratulations. The quickest route to the street was past the table where I'd been sitting. As I drew near, I could see that the Big Names were lost once more in deep, narcissistic conversation. They completely ignored me. The girls, however, were totally focused on me at that moment. That's all I really cared about. They were completely thrilled and started talking all at once.
"Oh my God!" exclaimed Julie.
"Is that the bat?" asked Lorelai.
"Did it really fly up your skirt?" asked Elizabeth.
I answered each of their questions in turn: "Right? Yes it is. NO, that is not what happened." Then, I looked at them quite seriously and said, "Girls, remember: THIS is what actually interesting people do at parties," and held aloft the bat-skirt. They all cracked up at that, because I guess the conversation at the table had begun to wear on them by then. I said that I'd give them the highlights later on back at the house and then made my way out to the street.
There was less aerial obstruction for the bat to deal with down on the street level, as well as fewer people. I figured the bat might be a bit dazed from its ordeal and might need the open space to get its bearings when it was first released. Standing in the middle of Main Street, right in front of Aesop's Tables, I lifted that skirt high in the air and unfurled it with a shake. The bat fell out, caught itself, dipped once, and then gained air before flying off as if it was escaping hell.
I noticed that Betty's brother Charlie had parked his massive plumbing truck nearby. I ducked behind it to change. It took a few minutes to get my clothes back on because I had to wrestle my skirt back on with one hand while keeping the tablecloth on with the other. Eventually, I succeeded. Throwing the tablecloth over around my shoulders like a mink stole, I slowly walked back up to Aesop's. Looking at the people, the trees, the house, and the moonlight, I knew for sure--this place not only looked like magic; it was magic. Deciding to people-watch instead, I steered away from the cast party table and crossed up through the center of the lawn, weaving between the tables till I got to the door. It was time to drink. And it was getting a bit chilly. Wellfleet summer nights can get chilly sometimes. It occurred to me that maybe a cargo vest wasn't a bad idea after all.
