I was not dead yet, but I'd definitely heard the buzzing. That stupid fly had invaded my house just prior the the Polish pottery sale I had on Saturday, and bedeviled my Sunday afternoon nap on the couch, whizzing past my face and disappearing into thin air when I tried to swat it.
There was only one thing to do: go hunting.
Sweaty from my first trip to the gym since mangling my ankle, I stalked the perimeter of my living room, swinging my yellow and black Bug-a-salt shotgun in one hand, muttering, "If I were a fly where would I be? Think like a fly, Think like a fly...".
Then the obvious dawned: Let the fly come to me. I peanut buttered two bananas and settled with them and a glass of milk on the kitchen floor, my salt gun primed, the safety off, next my hand. After a few minutes, having been lured by the aroma of my supper, the fly settled on my left sock, below my ankle brace. I carefully reached over and grasped my weapon. The first volley failed to incapacitate my prey, so I quickly racked another load of NaCl into the chamber, thumbed off the safety and fired. The six legged beast was brought down. I scooped the little body up in a paper towel and tossed it. Twenty four hours of insect irritation was at an end.
Monday morning, my Atlanta brother nearly electrocuted himself, after waking up from a dream that he had done exactly that. For some reason, I became fixated on the image that, had he succeeded, his brain would have curdled like a boiled egg inside inside the shell of his skull. Not that it's not half-baked in most of us already! In response to his social media announcement of his near-death experience, I wrote something brief about his hair already having body enough, needing no more. Nate's current hairstyle reminds me of a windswept monolith in Monument Valley, set high over a set of piercing blue eyes that crinkle around the corners like hard candy in twists of cellophane.
For some reason--perhaps the approaching holidays--I've been thinking a lot about my father and grandfather lately, and missing them. Another factor in my sentimental reflection may be that my brother Bob had left a pile of discarded dress shirts and trousers in the corner of my guest bedroom. I had asked him what he wanted me to do with them, and he said I could consign them or donate them, depending on my preference. I don't know that any were ever owned by my father – I a imagine not – but I recalled the cleanout we did after his funeral, when I took salable shirts and such up to DC. My brothers look a lot like my father in his prime – both are good looking Greek-Irish men with beautiful bone structure and enviable musculature. My girlfriends are always bowled over when they meet them in person, exclaiming in whispers how gorgeous they are, as if I hadn't forewarned them. They should trust my assessments of male pulchritude, even that found in my immediate family.
Sleep is dragging me inexorably into my pillows!