Generally speaking, I’ve never seen the appeal of Batman--and I don’t see how anybody could.
During my comic-book-reading years, costumed superheroes were pretty straightforward characters whose particular crime-fighting powers were clearly advertised by their names. There was Lightning Lad, who could fire bolts of electricity from his fingertips; Triplicate Girl, who could transform herself into three identical people at will; Bouncing Boy, who could turn into a ball and, well, bounce over his adversaries. If the teenage superheroes had matured, no doubt their powers would have matured with them, treating comic-book readers to such less-than-thrilling characters as Credit Kid, who enjoyed generous charge privileges on almost any planet in the galaxy; Adjustable-Rate Mortgage Boy, who could secure favorable loan terms in even the tightest housing market; and Elasticized Trousers Lad, who boasted an impressive collection of colorful Sans-a-Belt slacks. As long as the superheroes stayed young, however, they would continue to be made of pretty stern stuff.
The same could not be said for Batman. Applying a similar truth- in-advertising standard to a crime fighter named after a small, winged mammal would not exactly reveal what even the most inept criminal might have to fear from him. (It’s Batman! Quick, let’s get out of town before he hangs by his feet, eats a handful of moths, and leaves a giant pile of guano in his sleep chamber!) For this reason, most of the comic-book enthusiasts I grew up with generally gave the Bat-cat a pass, opting for the flashier heroes with the snappier powers.
But were we selling Batman short? Could a person with the powers of a bat do more impressive things than all that? The answer, of course, depends on just how remarkable the talents of a genuine bat actually are. To find out, I decided to consult the experts and take a trip to the headquarters of the American Bat Conservation Society in Rockville, Maryland.
The headquarters for what might be the nation’s most vocal group of human bat advocates operates out of neither a lab nor a Capitol Hill lobbying office but a backyard-bird-feeding supply store on Randolph Road in suburban Rockville. The business is jointly owned--and the bat group is jointly led--by Heidi Hughes, a naturalist by training, and her husband, Tom Valega, who was schooled as an organic chemist and at one time worked as a researcher for the U.S. Department of Agriculture. When I arrived at the store, there was little to distinguish it from any other birding supply shop I had ever seen: there were weeders and seeds, bird feeders and hedge clippers. There was also a congenial-looking woman standing behind the cash register wearing a floppy sweatshirt with a large, incongruous brooch pinned to the front. Or at least it appeared to be a brooch--provided that the brooches you’re used to wearing have fur, wings, tiny talons, and the ability to locomote across your clothing.
