From Mensagenda - September 2004

Partly Cloudy
by Karen Cyson

It had been a very busy weekend.

Saturday was spent absorbing about as much visually artistic stimulation as is humanly possible by attending three art fairs (Loring, Uptown, Powderhorn).

Sunday, after a brief foray to the Minneapolis Institute of Arts to surreptitiously photograph (sans flash) the "real" helmet like the one worn by Brad Pitt in Troy, the pace slowed (I got to sit) but the entertainment onslaught continued while viewing two Fringe Festival productions at the Theater Garage.

First was Doña Quixote, Cervantes’s classic tale with a twist — literally. All the characters, including the horses and the windmill, were portrayed by Spanish flamenco dancers.

Following this was The Lives of the Most Notorious Highwaymen, a sprint though the crimes and trials of British land pirates during the reign of George (theirs, not ours). This spectacular production (shameless plug) was produced and written by, and starred, John Heimbuch, talented son of our delightful expatriate poetess member Susanne.

All in all it was an arts overload, and I was ready for a good, long sleep to prepare for the coming week.

At 3:00 a.m., however, things began to go bump in the night. Specifically, I was awakened by the thud of something coming in contact with the projection outside my bedroom where the hallway narrows to accommodate the furnace chimney.

Who was out there and what was I going to do about it? I surveyed the nightstand for potential weapons. The possibilities included three tiaras and the current issues of Martha Stewart Living, Threads, and Yoga Journal.

OK. Bludgeoning was out.

Next step was to quietly slip on my robe. Whoever was out there may kill me, but I was not about to be seen nude. There are limits to what I’ll put up with.

As quietly as possible I crept on the carpet up to the door and threw it open, the best defense being a stupid offense.

Nothing. There was nothing out there. I looked up and down the hall. Not a thing. Great.

Well, by then I was vertical, wide awake, and had enough adrenaline coursing through my veins to enable me to lift a car off of an accident victim. Next stop? Bathroom.

Then, back to bed. I stepped from the bathroom into the hallway. And was immediately strafed by a bat.

Regular readers of my column will remember that I can put up with a lot, but I have a very low tolerance for mice. And now I had a flying one loose in the house. The only thing that could have made the situation more perfect was if it were wearing a clown mask, thereby covering all of my irrational fears.

I did what any sane, mouse-fearing person would do under these circumstances. I ran to my room, slammed the door, and went to bed.

My only previous experience with a bat invasion was years ago at our family cabin in Wisconsin. While my dad and boyfriend chased the bat with canoe paddles and a fish-landing net, I did what any sensible teenage girl would do — stood there in my white bikini and went "Euwwwww!" The bat was summarily dispatched, while airborne, by my father wielding a broom. Later that day he shot a red squirrel off the roof using his rifle, just to send out a general message to the local fauna that we were not a family to be trifled with.

Obviously, the message hadn’t reached Minnesota and today’s generation of desmodus rufus.

By 4:00 a.m. it was obvious that I wasn’t going to get back to sleep, so I decided to survey the area and see if it had all been a dream.

There was no sign of the bat anywhere in the hall or in the other bedrooms.

In the bathroom there were what looked to be mouse droppings in the bathtub and on the countertop. This meant either (1) the bat was for real or (2) I had an acrobatic circus (and no doubt clown-mask-wearing) mouse on the premises.

I chose option 1 (option 2 being too bizarre even for me) and surmised that my little nocturnal visitor entered through the ceiling vent in the bathroom. I assumed it left the same way.

Just to be sure, I left every light on in the house the next night, except in my room, to which the door was tightly shut.

Production recently began on the next Batman movie, starring Christian Bale. When it’s released, I think I’ll pass.