Flamingo Bat

A pink flamingo stood on the lawn.

My lawn. I groaned. This was my lawn, not theirs. "Who put that there?" I grabbed my baseball bat, and tossed open the door.

The door bounced against the wall and the bird flew away.

"A real flamingo?" I dropped the bat, glared at it.

The thing rolled off the porch.

"Stupid bat," I said, picking it up off the side of the porch. As if somehow, the bat had caused my aggressive mood. As if it was the bat that caused me to waste the joy of such a strange encounter. How often do you get to see a real flamingo on your own lawn?

I picked my beautiful Louisville Slugger and put it in its place by the door, where it would wait for my next violent act.

"I hope that one is at least appropriate." I mean, like, if I need to defend myself.

My neighbor rode his bike past me

He pedaled on as if I were harmless. As if I had not just planned to fly into a rage. As if I did not lovingly, almost lovingly, place a baseball bat beside my door in preparation for the people around me. I ran my fingers through my hair. "What am I doing? How did I get here?"

My cat Caleb rubbed against my calves.

I avoided looking in the mirror as I picked him up and stroked him, feeling very much like a balding, middle-aged cartoon.

His purr soothed me, and I find the courage to look in the mirror.

I am that cartoon; I recoil at what I see, but it's not visible. The eye can't see. I should say, I am the very subject of that cartoon, and it reveals more than any camera. But I am also flesh and bone in three dimensions. Three dimensions that I can see; there may be more.

"You don't mind that I'm an idiot and a clown, do you Caleb?"

Caleb purrs and rubs my face.

I close the door and turn my back on the baseball bat and the mirror I put there to remind me not to use it.