Nedra stands in a cloud of dumpster stench, the moon hanging orange and low. She wonders what impulse made Justin show up. For an hour, he’s been hunched in B2 with his back to the television. Why watch basketball or racing when you can watch your ex-girlfriend work? To boot, Gail’s been on a rampage. Don’t smoke if you’ve got tables. Stop leaving your butts on the ground. Don’t fix your ponytail in the dining room. Don’t yawn. Don’t breathe. Curl up and die. But punch out first.
When she took the job at Lead Belly’s two years ago, Nedra could hardly believe her luck. The pay was great. She started whittling down credit cards, offered help with utilities, which her mom accepted, and bought a candy-apple-red Grand Am with only twenty thousand miles. Each week, the money got designated for this and that. Now it’s gone before it comes.
She takes the last drag, flings her butt at the ground, and twists her ankle like a washing machine. Despite the funk, she breathes deep, heads in, and passes the cooks calling each other names. Gimp. Buttmunch. At the swinging doors, she looks through the bubble, and sure enough, Justin is still there like white pudding on green leather, taking a whole booth for nothing but a Beer of the Month. And looky here. Gail is sidling up. They’re having a nice chat. She’s tossing her hair even though she’s got nothing to toss. He’s giving his lippy smile and sleepy eyes—a ruse, something loser doofuses master so they can ensnare women into hollow and orgasmless relationships.
In the office, she hangs her jacket. A wilted spinach leaf hugs the desk leg like flood debris. It’s been there a while. Britney Spears pouts from the back wall. Someone recently gave her a yellow highlighter mustache, curlicues on both sides. None of it makes sense. Nothing in the world does—Britney next to the hand-washing guide, next to the Success photo with seven luxury cars, next to the coat rack, next to a giant crack in the paneling nobody will ever fix. How do people do it? Move from high school to something spectacular, something worthy of a poster or framed photo? Maybe you say yes to everything. Wear a girl’s school uniform, glare over your ballooning boobs, and take whatever comes. Nedra’s mother told her that—take whatever comes—right after her father packed up and zoomed to Florida.
Gail blasts through the swinging doors and says B2’s sitting empty. Nedra considers saying—woman to woman—B2 isn’t worth a full booth, won’t order anything of substance, and won’t tip for shit because that’s how B2 operates. In fact, B2 doinked her pointlessly for two solid months until she woke up and realized one sweaty afternoon with his underwear half down and hers roaming by her feet that he didn’t possess enough brainpower for kindness, romance, adventure, beauty, anything beyond a moany hump and follow-up sandwich. She doesn’t have time to say all that because Gail is aimed for the cooks, already in mid-scold.
Nedra salutes Britney and punches the door. Past the pool table, she realizes something’s off. The sound comes in waves, long collective vowels rising and trailing off. In the gap, someone cheers or screams. Nedra follows all eyes to a fluttering black thing, a maniac Kleenex flapping beneath the lights. People are putting placemats on their heads. A few bargoyles move to the floor and cover their beers with flattened hands. A few others swat with hats or menus. The cooks come out. Everyone’s gawking, like on a snow day, those glorious seconds after the radio announcement comes and you’re marveling because all bets are off, all wonder in full swing.
The jukebox volume goes down. Gail shows up by the server station, raises her arms, and pats the air. She tells everyone to sit tight. They’re going to take care of it. No problem. Have some fun. Then she corrals servers and cooks to the back. Nedra follows, listens while Gail makes two points: One, keep it out of the kitchen. Two, ignore it. Heather asks how they’re supposed to do both. Makayla says it’ll get in someone’s hair and then what? Phil says orders are probably up.
With a full tray, Nedra pauses to get her balance. The bat is now up beyond the lights on a tight clockwise orbit. She focuses, keeps her back straight and knees bent, tells herself bats aren’t interested in people’s hair—that it just wants out and far away. T2 hardly knows she’s there but she does her thing—announcing each plate in careful rhythm: one medium rare burger with steak fries, cheeseburger medium rare with Swiss and fries, medium cheeseburger with cheddar, one barbecue chicken with extra sauce. She asks if everything looks okay, gets a nod.
She avoids B2, stops by B3, who wants battered shrooms and a round of kamikazes in honor of the bat. The jukebox is cranked again, louder than before. AC/DC. The big-haired women in T3 hoist beers and sing, “All night long!” A weekend regular, Jimmy Something, in T1 stands and plays air guitar. And then, somehow, for whatever reason, the bat is gone. Just like that. Some heads are still angled and scanning, but it’s not in the rafters, by the skylight, or fluttering in a corner. It got tired or lucky, either settled somewhere or found a crack in the Lead Belly universe.
In the kitchen, she watches shrooms surface, twinkling and snapping. The new fry guy asks if they still have winged visitors. Nedra says maybe, maybe not. He hopes for more, a whole flock. Phil says it’s called a colony, not a fucking flock. On her way out, she gets past the pool table, veers toward the station, and sees a dot by the Coors Light mirror. She stops, looks hard. The dot twitches. Or maybe it doesn’t.
“Holy crap,” Makayla says. “Is that it?”
“I think so.”
“It’s tiny.
“Get me one of those plastic containers, the ones for green onions.”
“What are you thinking?”
“I don’t know.”
While Makayla goes, Nedra puts down the shroom basket and stares, trying to find a head, eyes, or tail. She moves in and squints. How does it work? Does the body have suckers?
Makayla’s back. Nedra stays fixed on the dot, takes the container in both hands. She gets close, within inches, wonders if it’s studying her approach, buckling its knees for a rocket-like fling. Before someone or something throws a wrench in the moment, she shoves. The plastic smacks the wall. Attention turns toward her. Voices feel close. She’s got it, that waitress by the wall. The chick with the long ponytail. She pushes harder because maybe bats have crazy strength, can bash themselves free of anything. “I need the lid,” she says.
“I didn’t bring a lid.”
“Get me a lid.”
She keeps pressing and thinks of that old Beatles song her mom always sings. Nobody told me there’d be days like these. No shit, Ringo.
She hears Phil’s voice. “Is that it? Do you have it?”
“I think so.”
“That little brown spot?”
“Yes.”
And then Gail’s voice. “Is that it?”
“Yes,” she says. “That is it.”
“Here’s the lid,” Makayla says.
“How are you going to do it?”
“Those things carry rabies.”
“Shut up, Makayla.”
“Hey, it’s a fact.”
“Who’s watching the grill?”
“Don’t let it out.”
“It’ll be irritated now.”
“Oh, man.”
“Everyone shut up. Let her concentrate.”
“This is cool.”
“Let her concentrate.”
She does what they’re saying. She gets a grip on herself, concentrates. She scrapes the lid against the wall, sees her own ear and cheek in the Coors Light mirror, Gail’s frizz behind her, Phil’s mopey face, then a soup of bodies and colored light. This job wasn’t supposed to be forever. It was a transition, a way to refresh before trying college again. Earn some money. Get your self-esteem back, her mom said. But self-esteem doesn’t grow on trees, and it doesn’t show up out of nowhere—Surprise! Here’s your wherewithal!—especially when you live at home, sleep in your childhood bedroom, greet your mom’s new boyfriend every morning in the kitchen, divert your eyes from his hairy gut, act nice but decline his eggs.
When the lid makes contact, she feels punky resistance, like Jell-O. She waits for a flutter or screech. There’s neither. She scoops harder, imagines calling for a spatula. Shushes come from all directions, and then for no good reason the bat comes unstuck and plunks down like a turd. She presses the lid tight and brings it to eye level—a test for certainty. It weighs as much as a butterfly or cotton ball. The wings pry apart from its torso, and it rocks like it’s crawling wounded and woozy from a rollover accident. Then the eyes open. Black beads. Some teacher or professor once said bats can see fine, no worse than a finch or sparrow, and if so, this little guy is witness to heavy stuff—rows of huge meaty faces blurred by plastic, a hundred eyeballs freakish and wide. He’ll have nightmares or whatever bats have when they remember the worst. It blinks at her. Hello, Mr. Bat. Hello, Nedra. And if it weren’t for the Rolling Stones song now pumping through the room, they’d whisper. She’d say everything will be okay. He’d say thank you. She’d apologize for everyone screaming like ninnies, swatting as if he were nothing but a bug. He’d ask, what is this place? She’d laugh and say, that’s one hell of a good question. He’d laugh back because he’d understand. They’d commune, nod, agree on a million things. Then he’d ask, after taking a good look around, what’s a nice girl like you doing in a rotten place like this? Well, Mr. Bat, it’s a long and stupid story that starts with my dad hightailing a few years ago, leaving us with nothing but debt and sorrow, then my own failed attempt at college because I didn’t understand rebellion and how it’s a short-term deal with no reward. Mr. Bat would say something true and consoling, something about learning from your mistakes or rising up from the ashes, and if it weren’t for the plastic between them and everyone watching, she’d offer him a kiss—not a romantic movie kiss but a tender human-meets-Muppet moment that makes kids and parents and bar managers with half a soul think, well, at least there’s that. Her lips would meet his tiny puppy face and pug nose. His beady eyes would close and things would indeed be okay.
When applause comes, the bat flutters. She runs for the kitchen. Gail is yelling stuff, but Nedra keeps running. She shoulders the doors and curves around the prep table in one liquid motion. She gets past the dumpster and wades into the weedy field. Others are behind. Someone says to leave it—just leave it on the ground. She kneels, parts a swath of hard stems, and rests the container as flat as possible. She pops the lid on one side. The bat doesn’t move. She can barely see, but he’s still there, a silent glob. She pulls the lid toward her, then backs away. She waits, can hear shuffling, feel eyeballs on her back. Someone says to watch out. It’ll fly into your hair. But it won’t. He definitely won’t. The two of them have an understanding. Anyway, you don’t escape from something like that only to flap around in someone’s hair. You take the opportunity. You launch yourself into open sky while the orange moon lights your way. You look down on the building, its flat tarry roof, the raucous cave beneath filled with strange creatures who’ll sit and watch you suffer, who’ll scream and holler and drink their drinks while your heart nearly explodes.