OutLoud

by Sally Sheklow

STRANGER IN THE NIGHT

What’s that noise?

The worst thing about the times I’ve been single is not having a girlfriend around to confront intruders. Not that I’m a wuss. I brave spiders, bats, snakes, and door-to-door proselytizers. But there’s something about a strange noise in the night that makes you want to nudge your cuddle buddy and tell her it’s her turn to go see what it is.

One sweltering summer night, my independence was put to the test. My apartment was so stifling that I left the back door open, a habit I got into when my trusty guard dog was still alive. She would bark at the approach of so much as a pill bug, which in my small town was about all that came around after lights out. But now that I was really alone—unless you count my cat, who occasionally deigned to come in and sleep on the vacant pillow—I had no one to play Dagwood to my Blondie.

I lay down sans pajamas and sprawled across the mattress for maximum airage. Eventually, the night cooled. I pulled up the cotton sheet and fell into a deep sleep.

About three in the morning, I felt the cat’s weight on the foot of the bed. I instinctively reached over to her pillow and petted her. My hand nestled into pussy fur (the only kind available that summer), and I drifted back to sleep. Paw steps pressed up my legs. The pressure inched its way up my torso. I stroked the cat on the pillow next to me. Something wasn’t right, but my sleepy brain was Bullwinkle slow. Let’s see, if my cat’s on the pillow and something’s walking on me … that something must not be the cat. A moist snurfling sound approached my face. Warm, foul breath rocketed my synapses into action.

I jerked the sheet taut and snapped whatever it was off the bed. I heard a loud thud, then the scritch of claws scuttled across the wood floor. I jumped upright. The bedside lamp crashed down. The cat hissed and ran off, leaving me alone in the dark with whatever it was. I stood on the pillows stark naked in fierce Barbarella pose.

My heart raced. I couldn’t see a thing. The light switch was unreachable, unless I dared cross the floor, upon which waited god-knows-what. I held steady at the head of the bed, hoping whatever it was wouldn’t spring up and rip out my jugular.

I fumbled for the nightstand drawer, twisted my mini maglite on and scanned the room. What was that dark lump staggering between my dresser and the closet? Beady little pink-rimmed eyes glowed in the light, which cast an unmistakable shadow on the closet wall—a big, hairy possum. The creature twitched its long, scaly tail, let out a wet hiss, and flashed me a Jack Nicholson grin.

That hideous stare locked onto my flashlight beam, freeing me to back off the bed and into the kitchen. I grabbed the broom and a grocery bag. Armed for battle, I switched on the bedroom light.

Nobody there. Silence. Just the creepy feeling of not knowing. Where is Sigourney Weaver when you need her? Where was anybody? I couldn’t exactly call 911. What was I going to say? I’d like to report an uninvited possum? I wanted to cry, to call for Popeye or Tarzan or Carol Mosely Braun.

There was no one to rescue me, no one else to rely on. I had to deal. Look, this thing is smaller and slower than you are, I told myself. It also has claws and teeth, and you are stark raving naked, my self replied. Being an independent woman means being brave enough to … what? Wander around naked with a broom and a paper bag and a wild beast loose in my house? Yes, exactly that.

I needed a drink of water. I’d cool down and get ready for the alien to reappear. Back in the kitchen but still on code red alert, I reached for a clean glass. That’s when I noticed the possum on the counter, lurking behind the dish drainer. I’m pretty sure it said, “Hello, Clarice.” There it sat, with that horrible smiling face, ready to eviscerate me, or eat my eyeballs, or do whatever it is possums do to their prey.

I lost a few dinner plates in the scuffle, but I finally bagged the little bugger, taped the top of the paper bag shut and set it out on the front steps—all on my own. The next morning, I made sure it hadn’t escaped and called the animal rescue team. A nice, dykey-sounding woman said possums could be relocated outside of town, and they would come pick it up right away. I reminded myself to put some clothes on before they got here.

Sally Sheklow’s current girlfriend keeps the doors of their Eugene, Oregon, home closed at night. They both perform with WYMPROV! the award-winning all-lesbian improv comedy troupe.

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