Bat Catching - George Verongos (best ebook pdf reader android .txt) 📗

on me of internationally recognized rude gestures (USA-back of hand with protruding middle finger; UK-back of hand with protruding index and middle fingers like an inverse peace sign; Italy-a flick of the inside of the upper front teeth with the thumbnail) I noticed that my father and many of his immigrant cohorts favored their middle finger over their index finger. They would use their middle finger to point, pick, poke, scratch, and even thunk it on the table to accentuate a point.
This made Jeff and me giggle which made my dad shoot us a dirty look.
“They have radar like the army.” He continued, “So we fool them into thinking we arre food and… WHAMMO!” Nana let out a little noise that meant she was startled.
“For cryin’ out loud.” She said to no one in particular. This was one of her favorite sayings along with, ”What in the Sam hill,” “Gee zow,” “Gee willickers,” whose affinity she shared with my mother. If you told them a shocking juicy piece of gossip at the same time they would unleash a tsunami of For cryin’ out louds, What in the Sam hills, Gee zows, and Gee willickers with a couple Oh my goshes thrown in for good measure.
There is also some evidence here of American pop culture weaseling its way into my father’s vernacular with his use of the exclamation- Whammo!. This was clearly from the Whammo! toy company who saturated summer time TV with adverts for their very popular (and fun) Frisbees. Their catch phrase was simply: WHAMMO! And it dominated every commercial they produced.
The were two giant oak trees in the front yard that must have been at least fifty-years old and very close to them was the street light where it was easy to see the bats flying around. My father knew that for every bat we saw in the dim glow of the streetlight there were about 20 more in the trees. He hoists the “bat catcher” into the trees and starts waving it around. We are all staring up at the hanky tied to the top. The two teenage boys are kind of staring and wandering around underneath the hanky. It looked like my dad was trying to simulate the flapping of wings with the hanky but it seemed a little awkward trying to hold the “bat catcher” as high as he could and still control it. We were straining to focus into the darkness but we soon could make out several bats fluttering around the hanky. This immediately escalated the excitement factor and brought my sister and her friends to their feet and caused my mother and Nana to take shelter behind the front screen door.
“Wow, look at ‘em. There’s like ten bats right there. They’re so close.” Commented one of the teenage boys as he tripped over his own feet, dizzy from staring straight up and sneaking a beer earlier. My sister and her friends started making some quiet noises expressing their disgust at being so close to vermin. My dad was concentrating hard, he was squinting into the dark above him and his mouth was open slightly with his tongue thrust against the inside of his cheek. He then let out a little grunt and jerked the “bat catcher” and made contact, a hollow “plink” resonated through still warm air as time seemed to stop. It seemed that everyone’s vision suddenly had become crystal clear and we could all see the maimed bat flopping through the air in slow motion. Its descent was ungraceful as if it were falling through an invisible tree and hitting every branch on the way. Every one watched in slow-motion silence. Everyone but the neighbor girl from up the street, she was preoccupied with her looks and the boys so as we were witnessing my father’s crimes against nature she was looking down at her slutty way-to-short short shorts and trying to straighten them so as not to be too slutty. As we watched the bat flip and flitter about in the air we started to realize its trajectory and our facial expressions changed. The teenage boys’ expressions turned into goofy grins of satisfaction while my sister and her friend that was paying attention donned defining expressions of shock and horror, as Jeff and mine eyes grew even bigger while my mother and Nana exclaimed simultaneously in what seemed like a slowed down recording, “Gee willikers…” while my dad stood there stoic yet proud with “bat catcher” in hand as if he were part of the Iwo Jima memorial. And then, THWACK! The bat smacked the girl that wasn’t paying attention right in the chest. Now in addition to the slutty shorts the girl who wasn’t paying attention was also sporting a skimpy camisole-type top with a little lacey trim on the upper edge and that is what the bat wrapped one of those little claws at the end of its wing around and feebly hung on for dear life. Then time seemed to return to normal speed as the girl that wasn’t paying attention screamed, jumped up and down, and flailed her arms. My sister and the girl who was paying attention let out a chorus of sympathy screams and I’m-glad-its-not-me moans. The two teenage boys took a second to realize what happened and then started laughing, “Holy shit!” one exclaimed while pointing at the girl who wasn’t paying attention. Jeff and I were just stunned and our eyes got even wider while Mom and Nana gasped a lot and ran the gambit of non-offensive exclamatory sayings until my mom said the wisest thing, “Those bats might have rabies!” which sent the girl with the bat on her shirt into shock and all she could do was shake her arms as if she were trying to shake her very hands right off the ends and scream bloody murder so my Dad stepped towards her and slapped the bat to the ground. Apparently I was using a misnomer for my dad’s invention. It wasn’t a “bat catcher”, it was a “bat killer” and that’s just what my dad did with the butt end of it.
“Eeewwwwwww.” We all said excluding my father who was wiping the remains of bat off the “bat killer” and onto the lawn and the girl formerly known as the girl who wasn’t paying attention but presently known as the girl that had a bat land on her shirt started sobbing and ran home. No one ran after her.
“You wanna try?” asked my dad as he held the “bat killer” out toward the two boys. It wasn’t a friendly invite like, “Oh this feather tickles my cheek, wanna try?” It was a challenge. He was really asking, “Are you man enough…to kill a bat?” One of the teenage boys stepped forward and took the “bat killer” from my dad. He looked it up and down, “Whoa.” And let out a typical teenage stoner laugh a lá Butthead. He then grasped the butt of the tool which had moments ago been used to pulverize an innocent bat into a mere grease stain in the grass. I don’t even think he realized he was touching bat shmootz. As the teenage boy turned hunter started waggling the “bat killer” in the air, which seemed more like a phallic symbol under his control because he was absent mindedly thrusting his pelvis at the same time, my dad along with everyone else just stared like they were watching a great artist at work. I thought he looked ridiculous running around the yard humping the air and jabbing the “killer” into the lower tree limbs. Then I realized something odd; my father had not said a word this whole time. He would normally be coaching and giving his opinion about technique or at least calling you a girl or stupid, but he just stood their enjoying his post-kill beer and watching the kid make a fool out of himself. What is that look on his face? Is he smiling? Oh shit, he either is really enjoying that beer or he is actually feeling some sense of pride from this. How could he be proud of this poor excuse for puberty running in auto-hump-pilot. He hasn’t even touched a bat. His style is too jerky and spazzy. He’s all over the place and keeps taking his hand off the butt of the “killer” to wipe the hair from his face not realizing he is smearing bat juice onto his face and hair as well. I could do that, I thought to myself, meaning more “what an idiot this kid is” and less “I want to be a killer.” But then I realized that is exactly what I had to do. I had to kill a bat for my father’s love. I know that sounds melodramatic and Goth but it was obvious to me now. He had been dangling the proverbial carrot in front of me all night. It was so simple. He presents a challenge, shows he’s manly enough, opens it up for competition, and then to turn the knife some more he chooses to throw his support behind this geeked teenage hormone sack for no reason at all…except of course to get to me…and it worked. I took a step forward toward the kid with the “bat killer” as he floundered around the yard still unable to attract even one bat. He looked like he had been to hell and back. His longish wiry hair was matted to his sweaty forehead and his one size too small white undershirt was streaked with dirt, sweat, and I would bet some bat juice from the butt of the “killer”. He was sporting the 1979 summer essential denim cut-offs and untied Chuck Taylor Hi-tops. He definitely was not going to be getting any action during Ghost in the Grave Yard tonight. “I wanna try.” I calmly stated as I stepped into the unmarked kill zone.
“George.” Said Jeff with an air of warranted disgust because he knew I wasn’t much of a hunter.
“George.” Said my mother shamefully.
“George.” Said Nana along with some teeth sucking noises to make sure I knew how shocked and disappointed she was.
“George!” Yelped the other teenage boy who was obviously relieved that he wasn’t next. And finally…
“George.” Said my sister’s friend in an awkwardly breathy sexy tone with a hint of excitement that got a raised eyebrow from everyone. This was normal behavior for her though because she frequently was inappropriate. In fact just last week I went over to the neighbor’s pool and Sophia and this friend of hers were there and this girl kept coming within a few feet of me and was smiling at me all weird. Her eyes would get real big and stay focused on me but she would roll her head around for a like a minute and she would suddenly stop smiling and point at me and say “George pissed in the pool!” Like she was making some miraculous decree and then swim away while everyone quickly left a large enough circumference around me and my supposed pee infested water. Then she would do it over and over again. She did it so much my sister even told her to stop. Of course I hadn’t pissed in the pool but she was so adamant I thought maybe I had and didn’t know it. As the