like any action hero

Friday evening I got home from work and began preparations for supper. I was putting some ground beef in a pot to brown it when I heard some scratching and scurrying somewhere in the kitchen. I hate mice, but I decided to be relaxed about it. The sound seemed to be coming from the cupboard above the stove. All that's up there is a flyswatter and dust, so I threw open the doors, grabbed the swatter and made some bold fencing-like stabs behind the exhaust fan pipe that's housed in that cabinet. Nothing emerged.
So I turned on the light over the stovetop and started browning the meat. Before long there were more sounds of scratching, scurrying, and struggle. The thought crossed my mind that it might be a bird stuck in the pipe, and the very thought of trying to extract a bird from inside my exhaust fan vent would have pretty much floored me if I hadn't immediately put it out of my mind and focused on the task at hand. Cooking is like an action movie for me, and this meal had recently taken a suspenseful twist. As I was browning meat for Hamburger Helper, it suddenly occured to me that I should probably check if I had any. After spinning the lazy susan a couple times I realized I didn't. So, like any action superstar, I shifted into creative mode and tried to think up a plan b. So I cooked some corn, cut up some limp green onions, and threw them into the pot with the beef, some salsa, and curry powder. I put it all on corn chips with some grated cheese. "Taco salad." I would compare the resulting meal to most of the action movies I've seen lately: half-baked and unimpressive.
So after a helping of "taco salad," I decided to tackle the scurrying problem in my exhaust vent. I closed the doors to my bedroom and bathroom, propped open the front door, covered all the food, and approached the problem like any action hero; unprepared, yet grim, focused, and surprisingly handsome.
I took the greasy screen off the fan and was only slightly surprised to pull 6 inch pieces of straw from between the exposed fan blades. My flashlight beam didn't show me much, so once I had pulled out the straw, I gave the fan a little spin with my hands. As the fan slowed to a stop, a tiny sparrow head was followed quickly by two wings and a tail, and suddenly there was a sparrow swooping across the room. He landed briefly on a flimsy IKEA lamp I have standing on a low bookshelf in my living room area, but quickly tired of that perch and crossed the room to rest on the light fixture over my kitchen sink. This routine continued, with some variation, for 15, maybe 20 minutes; back and forth, RIGHT PAST THE OPEN FRONT DOOR! The bird could not find the door. I waved my jacket at him. I coaxed lovingly. I chastised him. I prayed. I grunted. I stopped to watch. I watched him try to hide in each corner of the room. Behind the stereo. Behind my fishing rod. Behind the couch. Once, while he was perched on a cord plugged into the wall, I managed to get a mixing bowl over him. My plan was to move it along the wall until I got him to the door and freedom, but after about 3 seconds I was worried about hurting him, so I scoop-flicked him towards the door, only to have him swerve mid-air and head for the sink light. And suddenly I caught on. Like any action hero, in the moment where I felt out-matched and out-witted by my opponent, I found his fatal flaw. The bird was attracted to light. Immediately I turned off all the lights in the house so that the only light place was the open front door, lit by the porchlight. I found the bird somewhere in the house with my flashlight, and coaxed him towards the light of freedom. And the stupid thing chose to go behind the door, and stick a limb or two into the crack between the door and frame. Closing the door would probably snap the little sucker in two, and I wasn't going to have all this work end badly. Somehow I got him out from there, and in an instant, with no glory, no flourish, no chirp of thanks, he booted it into the twi-lit sky.
My heart was beating so fast I could hardly see straight. I had to woop a little, gasp a few times, and make some manly sounds, before I could even think of eating another helping of "taco salad" and getting back to my show.
As I stare out the window of my office at a balmy autumn afternoon, and let my eyes glaze over - even more than usual - I hope, in my heart, that he's okay; chirping, soaring, swooping, and bashing into picture windows like any good sparrow.