I know exactly where my tennis racket is. It's hanging in it's protective sleeve right outside my kitchen door in the garage. I have had the same tennis racket since high school. I consider it more of an omen than a piece of sporting equipment. It has served its purpose well.
In the last place I rented, a casual comment by a contractor set many things into motion like wildfire. I had asked him to come look at one thing; he started snapping that tape measure all crazy-ass in every direction and telling me that "for 2 grand, I can give you a whole new kitchen." I told him that the landlord would not be thinking in that direction. I tried to re-direct him to the task at hand (I now forget what it was).
He picked up a piece of broken tile from the kitchen floor. He held it up to the light and showed me how the fibers were sticking out horizontally between the two pieces. Then he said the A-word. "Asbestos." He advised me that I would have to move out of the house, it would have to be torn out and trucked to a special dumping grounds west of us about two hours. I felt sick to my stomach. I did not know how I would begin to move out, even temporarily, with a fairly big dog and about ten cockatiels at the time. So I made the call to the Landlord and broke the news.
Incredulous, he asked, "How do you know it's asbestos?" I replied: the contractor said so and showed me the fibers sticking out of the tiles ... the tiles I have been walking on BAREFOOT for a couple of years now. I think asbestos is mostly airborne when it's broken up and you don't get it through your FEET, but nonetheless I was a bit overwhelmed. Nothing happened That Day. But the next day when I came home from work ...
The door to the kitchen was wide open. My landlord's son and girlfriend were on their hands and knees slapping large adhesive tiles OVER the asbestos flooring smaller tiles. Apparently, Someone in the Zoning office suggested this as a quick-fix: just seal-over the smaller tiles and nothing asbestos will float into the air... well, until someone ELSE decides to tear that floor up and make it something else.
That night, with the tiles all in place, and me sleeping on my bed with my dog Timbyr at my feet, I breathed a sigh of relief. The drama was over. Or so I thought. As I drifted off to dreamland, I thought came to me, "why does it seem like a bird just flew from the kitchen through to my bedroom?" Ahhh, my birds in the other room safely in their cages ... then SNAP my eyes popped wide open: yes MY birds were in cages. Then this was a ... BAT! And it zoomed through my bedroom again. The dog went berserk. I picked up the phone and called the Landlord (because that's what they get the big bucks for!). He sent his teenage son over.
Let's be honest, the kid was more awake than adults can be at that time of the night, so he was clearly the best guy for the job. He said, "yeah, no big deal," and went into the kitchen and started waving his arms around which freaked the bat out way more. Remember, bats are kind of small, but they do carry rabies, so this was not the preferred method of removal. Somehow in all the who-hah, my trusty tennis racket and some kind of a garage rag were commandeered for the task, but when the Landlord walked in and left the door open, my big dog took advantage of the situation and bolted into the night. So there I was in my pajamas and bathrobe running down the side street trying to get the dog back.
When I returned, breathless, but with dog in tow, the kid handed me my blood-stained tennis racket and threw the rag with its contents into the trash barrel. We all said, "Thank God that's over," and they went home and Timbyr and I went back to bed.
The next day, when I told my lunchmates at the hospital about the activities, one of the physicians said pitifully, "Aw, that's too bad. Bats eat 800 mosquitoes a night. He wouldn't have hurt you." I was floored. Veterinarians everywhere warn of the transmission of rabies via bats, yet somehow this person thought that the bat "wouldn't hurt me." Then I just shifted my brain from annoyance to wondering what poor slob got the lab task of dissecting a bat to count dead mosquitoes ... 50, 80, 100, or was that 98... 542.
For now, I keep the deadly tennis racket readily available. With its history, I think it is better placed in the garage than on the tennis court.
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