|
|
The
Great Bats
by F. Scott
Fitzgerald
Wayne told me that in his younger and more vulnerable days, before the
murder of his parents tempered him, his father gave him some advice. “Whenever
you feel like criticizing anyone just remember that all the people in
this world haven’t had the advantages that you’ve had.”
Because of this Wayne takes studious efforts to delay judgments. The abnormal
mind is quick to detect and attach and attach itself to this quality.
The result being Wayne, and later I too, was privy to the secret griefs
of wild, unknown men.
Like Wayne I lost my family while still young. The Graysons were something
of a prominent clan in the circus trade. They kept alive a tradition of
aerialist learned from their Eastern European grandfathers. I never saw
my great uncle but I am supposed to look like him – with special
reference to the rather hard-boiled show card paintings that announced
our act.
After my parent’s death I was alone in Gotham. The show had to move
on and I felt I could not continue with them. I met Barbara Gordon at
a shelter. Perhaps as the police commissioner’s daughter she felt
a soft spot for orphans and strays. She invited me out to East Egghead
Village to the home of her girlhood friend Selina Kyle.
By the time of our next meeting I had rented a small house, an overlooked
eye-sore, in the less fashionable West Egghead Village. And so I was able,
upon keeping my date with Barbara, to answer my hostess’ query “Where
do you live, Dick?”
“Across the water. West Egghead Village. Near the tip.”
Selina laughed. Perhaps “near the tip” made my residence sound
more ridiculous. She had an absurd charming little laugh and she purred
over slow syllables. Her voice was full of money.
“How p-perfect. You must know Wayne.”
I confessed I knew only the name but that Wayne Manor was my immediate
neighbor.
“He throws quite the party. You’ll have to go Dick.”
Added Barbara.
“Gordon here is quite the party girl. Out all night most nights.”
Selina smirked at her friend as if she knew more than she would tell about
her night times.
This began my curiosity with the man, Bruce Wayne, so much of Gotham buzzed
about. That night back at my meager house I looked out across the water
toward Selina’s dock. The silhouette of a moving cat wavered across
the moonlight and turning my head to watch it I found another figure doing
the same. He was darkly shadowed but his posture suggested this was Wayne
himself come out to determine what share of our local heavens was his.
Then I saw he gazed at a light glowing in the night above the dock. The
pale yellow spotlight had caught a bat in its ray and the shadow cut the
center of the circle neatly. When I looked down the silhouette of my neighbor
was gone and I heard the roar of a powerful car from the drive next door.
I was alone again in the unquiet darkness.
The next morning a butler from Wayne Manor, named Alfred, rang at my door.
Mr. Wayne would like me to attend his party that evening.
The world and its mistress were at the party. I knew no one and no one
seemed to know where our host could be found. I settled into the library,
as it was one of the cooler, quieter rooms. An owl-faced man was sitting
somewhat drunk at a table pouring over some of Wayne’s books. He
looked up through his eyebrows as I entered.
“They’re all real.” He said and threw a volume at me
to prove its existence. “Even cut the pages on most of them. Every
subject you can imagine. Lots of science, police forensics and law books.”
With that the owl stood and tottered to the door as if he’d prefer
to use his wings but had forgotten where he put them. “I’ll
need another drink. I’ve been drunk for days.”
Alone in the library I inspected its collection. I soon discovered my
inebriated guide had misascertained the authenticity of the gathered tomes.
I pulled at a volume on vigilante justice and found, while it had the
appearance of a book, it had the function of a doorknob. An entire section
of shelving gave way on a hinge and revealed a fireman’s pole descending
through a hole in the floor.
I slid down the length of it and arrived in a damp grey cave lit by the
diodes of dozens of computers. A ten-foot high penny echoed the light
with a dull copper glow. Near the closest computer I found a schedule:
6.00 AM - Rise from bed
6.15 - 8.15 – Dumbbell exercise and wall scaling
8.30 – 4.30 – Detective work
5.00 – 6.00 – Study needed inventions
My reading was interrupted by a voice behind me.
“I see you’ve discovered the secret laboratory, old chum.
Unusual isn’t it?”
I’m sure I jumped and intermittent beads of sweat raced cool down
my back. I was looking at an elegant young rough-neck.
“This is an unusual party for me. I live next door and this man
Wayne sent his butler to invite me, but I haven’t yet met the host.”
“I’m Wayne. I thought you knew old sport. I’m afraid
I’m not a very good host. You’re Grayson. Weren't you with
the Flying Graysons?”
I admitted I was.
“I do a bit of work on the rings and trapeze myself. There’s
a decent gym in the manor. You’ll have to come and give it a proper
work out. Any time suits you.”
The butler Alfred appeared and seemed slightly surprised to find Wayne
not alone. He informed Wayne that Coast City was calling him on the wire.
Wayne excused himself, adding, “You won’t mention this place
to anyone will you old chum?” And his smile confirmed my unspoken
answer. It was one of those rare smiles that concentrated an irresistible
prejudice on you.
A few days later Wayne appeared at my drive in his rumbling powerful car.
“It’s pretty isn’t it? Let’s go for a drive old
chum”
It was more than pretty. Its monstrous length was swollen here and there
with triumphant tool-boxes, and terraced with a labyrinth of windshields.
As we sped through the streets of Gotham he confided that his parents
were murdered by a street thug. “I came into a good deal of money.”
His voice was solemn as if the memory of that sudden extinction of a clan
still haunted him. He asked about a rumor that my own parents were killed.
I confirmed it was so. Something in his manner shifted. It seemed to convey
that a similar confluence of cowardice and greed had orphaned each of
us.
I heard the familiar “jug-jug-spat!” of a motor cycle. A stunning
purple bike shot past us and the lady pilot waved hello.
“There’s your friend Barbara Gordon.” said Wayne and
his automobile roared to life as he pursued her.
“She drives recklessly.” I ventured.
“She’s safe enough old sport. Unless she chances on another
driver as dangerous as herself.”
A police sedan was gaining on us. Its lights and sirens imploring us to
the curb. Bruce pulled the monstrous car to the side of the road. Before
the officer could begin to question us Wayne handed him a small white
card.
“Right you are. Know you next time Mr. Wayne. Excuse me.”
Wayne explained, “I was able to do Commissioner Gordon a few favors.”
After his car reclaimed its top speed he added, “Speaking of the
Gordons and favors, I understand Barbara is friends with Selina Kyle.
I’d like you to arrange a lunch for the four of us. There are things
between Selina and me that no one can ever know, things that neither of
us can ever forget.”
I was now his confidant. I had discovered he led some sort of life apart
from Wayne in another world. It was my induction into a golden age. An
age of thrilling nightlife and crime fighting. We discovered Selina was
incurably dishonest. Barbara was as athletic, heroic and clandestine as
Bruce. They were careless people, Bruce and Barbara and Selina –
they smashed up things and creatures and then retreated back to their
caves or mansions hiding from the world. A world Bruce saw as dark, dangerous
and full of death. But Bruce was at the wheel, so we drove on towards
death through the twilight.
|
