Screaming Monkey Drive In

 "Batman’s First Concussion"

To the best of my recollection, this took place back in 1967, but I could be off by a year in either direction. After all, it was 59 or so years ago!

It began with me being completely infatuated with the Batman series that was on TV at that time. I was so infatuated, in fact, that I had talked my mom into creating a Batman cowl and matching cape for me one summer afternoon. It was by no means network television-worthy, but it was highly effective at transporting my 7-year-old imagination directly into life in Gotham City.

The only thing lacking was an arch-nemesis.

With this in mind, I headed off in the direction of a neighborhood friend of mine whose father was also the neighborhood Cub Scout den leader, but that fact isn’t really pertinent to this story.

I made the half-mile or so walk to my friend’s house, which, I might add, was quite a trek for a lone 7-year-old back in the mid-1960s and would most certainly be grounds for a call to Child Protective Services in today’s social climate.

Once there, I explained my predicament to my buddy, and he agreed wholeheartedly to accept the role of villain.

At some point during our rambunctious fete, my friend ran between two parked cars in his driveway, with me, Batman, hot on his heels.

One thing that is pertinent to this story is that my cowl reduced my peripheral vision to near zero. Coincidentally, my ability to judge the distance from my forehead to one of the cars’ shiny chrome bumpers was also near zero...

I awoke some minutes later with my buddy, his sister, his mother, and his father, who had apparently gotten home from work while I was unconscious, standing over me on the concrete driveway.

Something was probably said like, “Thank God you’re okay,” after I awoke and shortly before I was yanked to my feet by my buddy’s mom and guided, rather wobbly, to the sidewalk in front of their house.

Squaring my 7-year-old shoulders in the general direction of my house, she patted me on the butt and said, “Go home and tell your mom what happened, Batman.”

I distinctly remember her calling me Batman! That was pretty cool.

No ride home, no ice for my head, or any other assistance was offered, which I don’t think was all that unusual back in the wonder years before today’s overly protective parenting.

After all, my mother once told a neighborhood kid, “Go home and tell your mom you were shot in the testicles with a .22-caliber round at the Hopkins house...”

(See “Box of Bullets.”)

So, off I set for home, with my Batman cowl still affixed to my head and my cape still tied around my tiny Midwestern suburban neck.

I don’t remember anything else about that day. I don’t remember the walk home, telling my mom about my brief encounter with unconsciousness, or even arriving home at all.

I do, however, on occasion, have this dream where a 7-year-old kid dressed like Batman is going from house to house in a mid-’60s neighborhood, asking residents if this is where he lives.

Still not sure what that means...

S. Monkey