I am the
epitome of cool. They all want to be
me. Their faces follow me like
sunflowers on a clear day. I am the
sun.
They are
5 years old and I am the teacher's
husband.
Kindergarten adoration is hard to get, but easy to keep.
It all started last fall. My darling wife had landed her first teaching job at a small
suburban public school, and senior kindergarten was her class. The
nondescript lowest bidder brick construction of the school was fresh out of the late
seventies, the
orange tile and
brown curtains eschewing the
fashion sense of countless young minds. My wife soon had her little soldiers
regimented and learning, the
kinks worked out of the
pecking order nicely, placing her firmly on
top. She sat at the kitchen table and marked
crayon creations and dished out stickers with a contented
smile. I
envied her
job satisfaction. My blue collar toiling was not nearly as satisfying. Then came the
bat.
Myotis septentrionalis, the common
Northern bat, seeks dry cool dark places to rest during the day. In late summer or early autumn the bats gather and move to the places where they will
hibernate. Where better than the high
steel rafters of a children's classroom?
Mr. Squeekers thought they worked out nicely.
Cut to nap time, Monday morning after the weekend Mr. Squeekers moved in. One blond haired
mischief-maker tosses a glossy green block of big children’s
Lego at the dark spot on the
roof.
Pandemonium ensues. One angry bat
plus 30 children
plus one teacher with a morbid fear of flying rats
equals one adlibbed
fire drill. Seeing the teacher scream in
terror boosts the evil little sprits of the
bad eggs. My wife returned home that night in
tears, the
shine taken off her dream job by a tiny
lost animal. Action needed to be taken and I happened to have the
day off.
The quizzical looks from the
janitor soon turned to animated
chitchat when he discovered my reason for invading his
supply closet. He tried to catch "that damned bat" last night but met limited success. A pool
leaf net and a borrowed
broom handle became my tools of battle as the morning class met in the hall,
abuzz with rumors of the "
flying monster". Talk in the hall had the
death toll at 3, largely from
razor teeth and
laser vision from the eyes. After introducing me to the massed little
faces, I vowed to catch the monster all by my self. Hushed
awe followed me through the brightly decorated door labeled with my wife's name. 60 little eyes
strained to see. I closed the door and the
bubbling excitement flowed in the crowd.
The process of catching the poor
dehydrated trapped bat was fairly
anti-climatic. Slipping in the room, I quickly trapped the
sleeping animal against the
roof and tapped him gently into the
net. After a few angry flaps, I had him securely in hand and ready to release
outside. The winged terror was barely the length of my
hand. Back to the door to face the
crowd.
Complete
rapture. I think they expected
bloody wounds and giant
carcass. The big man with a tiny furry animal in his lightly closed hand was beyond
comprehension. They crowded around and the questions
started. My wife took control and recommended that a quick
return to the class and the formation of a
semicircle would lead to their best
show and tell presentation ever: Mine. A quick
wink and I was
pressed into service.
Mr. Squeekers was quickly named, his official
moniker just narrowly beating out
Stinkyhead and
Vampire in the voting. I gingerly showed the kids the
wings, explained that he ate
bugs and not
people, and drew a picture of the natural
radar bats use to find
food (a little over their heads, as I later heard it repeated as the bat shooting
bugs down by
screaming at them). They soaked it all up. A quick
single file march to the playground followed, and
Squeekers was on his way. The cheer that went up when he flapped out of my
palm was pure childhood
joy.
Having completed my task, I gave my wife a
peck on the cheek, a move that
disgusted the boys and
scandalized the girls. Pleas to stay followed me across the playground to my beat up old
motorbike. From the reaction of the kids, I was riding a
metal dragon. The
holed muffler roared to life and I drove out to the
road, chased by the whole class running along the inside of the playground
fence. A little
tire squeal while turning out of the
lot for the crowd dropped some
jaws.
They asked about me all week.