My house was on the slopes of Bel Air—not the one in Los Angeles. The fruit bats always came to sup on the mangoes outside the bedroom window. It was like listening in on a large and boisterous cocktail party as they shrieked and chattered and scolded one another while fighting for access to the ripest fruit. They would stay for hours, shuffling along the branches, making their high-pitched squeals and cackling hysterically, or so it seemed to a human ear.
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