Big Mike: The Hero Has Second Thoughts

October 18th, 2009

I was washing dishes Friday night after dinner. The Loved One was just settling in on the sofa and clicking the remote to see what was on TCM. A black and white cop drama, “The Narrow Margin,” was due to start in moments. The little info crawl described it with adjectives like tough, tense and taut. Perfect. “Hurry,” she said.

I rinsed the knives and forks, turned the water off and looked around for a clean towel to wipe my hands on. Couldn’t find one. Naturally, I dried my hands on my pants. Home Economics 101. “It’s starting,” The Loved One called.

Just then we heard something that sounded like a body hitting the floor of the back porch. We turned and looked at each other wide-eyed.

She: “What was that?”

Me: “Um, uh….”

Then we heard it again.

She: “Someone’s trying to break in!”

Me: “Aw, uh….”

Now we heard scratching and pounding.

She: “Go out there and see what it is!”

Me: “Well, uh….”

Try as I might, I couldn’t come up with an excuse fast enough. “Okay,” I said, at last. Only as I walked gingerly toward the back porch did it hit me that I was wearing flip flops. I could have said, Honey, I’ll be happy to go out there and engage in hand to hand combat with a home invader but, gosh, I don’t have my good head-stomping shoes on! I realized, though, she might ask me if I was a coward and I hate to lie to her.

I slid the glass door open and cautiously poked my head out in the pitch black. The scratching and pounding became louder. I took a deep breath and ventured out. I got three steps past the door when I saw a flash of black and white in the dark. Oh good god, I thought, a skunk. Worse even then a home invader carrying rope, a .45 and a switchblade.

At that moment, The Loved One flipped the porch light on. There I stood staring eye to eye at the most enormous raccoon I’d ever seen. Not that I’ve ever seen all that many raccoons. Maybe three in all my life. We didn’t have many of them on the Northwest Side of Chicago. Plenty of cops, firemen, drunks, juvenile delinquents and mafiosi but no raccoons.

Prior to this, my image of a raccoon was that of a cute, cuddly little guy with a striped tail and a black mask. Harmless. This one, though, looked like he wanted to press my nose clear through to the other side of my head. He glared at me for a few seconds, then he bared his teeth. Had I hair on the top of my head, it would have stood up.

The only thing I could think of to do was yell at the guy. (Well, I thought of two things, but turning and running was out.) So I yelled, “Hey!”

The raccoon turned tail and ran. Suddenly, I felt an inch or two taller. I puffed out my chest and walked farther out in the porch, looking out in the direction in which he fled as if to say, C’mon back here and fight like a man!

Having established hegemony over the porch, I strode back into the house like a returning Roman general. I’m surprised I didn’t say, Veni, vidi, vici. The Loved One already was back on the sofa, wrapped up in her comforter and lost in the movie.

Me: “It was nothing.”

She: “Yeah, I know.”

Me: “A big critter.”

She: “Mm-hm”

Me: “A really big guy.”

She: “Hmm.”

Me: “A coon. He bared his teeth at me.”

She: Nothing.

So much for my conquering hero fantasy. The movie was good. A hard-nosed cop guards a gangster’s ex-moll on a train ride across country so she can testify against him. The cop battles thugs and crooked cops. I can’t tell you how it turned out because we both fell asleep before it was over. Ah, we’ll catch the ending again another day.

The next morning, I wheeled out onto Route 446 on my way to the Kroger. I shoved my new Django Reinhardt disc in. Then I saw it. A big old raccoon, fresh killed, lying on the side of the road. I felt a wave of nausea.

Was it my raccoon? Had I caused his untimely demise? If I hadn’t yelled “Hey!” at him, he might be with us today.

Me [to myself]: “Well, it ain’t my fault. He was the one with the guilty conscience — he didn’t have to run.”

But still….