Seth Kaplan
Time, Flies
Yesterday, the doors of our house were open and shut, shut and open. A plumber, furniture delivery men, teenage boys, and flies were in and out, out and in. At end of the day, the plumber was gone, but his footprints and invoice remained. The furniture delivery men finished delivering furniture, a trail of Styrofoam bits, cardboard remnants, and plastic scraps in their wake. The teenage boys I knew as toddlers scattered this way and that. They dirtied the yard, with not sippy cups and Cheerios, but pizza boxes and beer they unsuccessfully attempted to hide. The flies, however, remained.
By the end, there were, at my best estimation, nine to twelve flies buzzing around the house. All common houseflies (Musca domestica, of the suborder Cyclorrhapha) in various stages of their life cycles. Small: tinted green, flew mostly silent, zipping from perch to perch. Medium: all shades of black, deliberate, and agile, brilliantly stopping exclusively on items I cherish: a vintage crystal bud vase I bought for Elizabeth years ago, a youthful photo on the fireplace mantle of the family after hiking Mt. Hood, the hind quarters of one of our two dogs. Big: fat and dazed, very loud, and repeatedly flying, aggressively, into windows, ceilings, and walls. But still, they were tough kills too, and of the three types, they frustrated me the most because all signs pointed to a grown man with all his faculties being ableto terminate them with little effort. Despite that, yesterday I found myself missing, and missing, and missing, using dish towels, my baseball hat, or a rolled-up newspaper. They laughedat me. I almost lost my balance twice. I swore. I missed. I swore again. My son popped his head around the corner and asked, not “Dada, you okay in dere” but “You good, Bruh?”
I was not.
***
As evening turned to night, I miraculously managed to shoo one fly out the back door. I had killed another one that was likely concussed from its busy day; it sat, wobbly, on the dining room table and let me grab it with my forefingers and squeeze it to death. I threw it out into the garden, as I’m wont do, knowingit would decompose and help fertilize my garden.
I grow tomatoes in the backyard from May-October. I care for them daily. I get my hands dirty.
***
My wife and I have a saying: First World problems. We never said this when we were younger, before the kids were born, because we had no problems. And now that we have some, while the phrase is not original to us, terribly unique, or creative, it helps. When we find ourselves getting upset about things that wouldn’t upset a newly orphaned child, a body ravaged with cancer, or those poor people in the commercials for United Way who are so malnourished they can’t swat flies (there they are again) out of their own eyes; the flies literally crawl over their lips and eyeballs and they cannot do anything about it (fucking flies). Anyway, we say this to each other, and it makes us feel better about whatever is bothering us, but in the end, we are both still bothered. I don’t know how to go through life not being bothered by things, and life is flying by.
***
The day with the flies had me thinking: It’s a busy time in my life. My daughter is in college and my son is a junior in high school. We are transitioning out of daily parenting, but it’s not really getting easier.
Emma’s just home from her first year. She faced a tough academic load compared to post-Covid high school and mostly—but not entirely—survived, not to mention trying to fit in socially, as college first-years must do. There were some hiccups.
Jack desperately wants to play college soccer, and we travel around almost every weekend to visit schools and attend identification camps where he is forced to perform for the coaches, driving for perfection, looking for every bit of positive reinforcement he can get from these generally soulless human beings. His intellectual curiosity is late developing, so the idea of him in college at all makes me anxious.
We have college bills to pay and more on the way. My wife, Elizabeth, recently started her own business, and I, too,have my own. She designs interiors and I’m a lawyer. We work without supervision (we are the supervision), which sounds like a dream but requires daily execution and allows for no true days off. No paid vacations nor NYT word games for hours when the boss is out. We do not get paid every other Friday. Etc.
***
My friend Evan’s daughter Madison recently had an out-of-the-blue tonic-clonic seizure, formerly known as a grand mal. Evan and I were college baseball teammates. He’s in greater DC now and I’m in Chicagoland. And though we don’t see each other as much as we would like, we are close, and when we talk, we talk about the important things. It’s been thirty years since we met and twenty years since we both had our daughters. Since the seizure, Madison’s been in and out of doctors’ offices and clinics, succumbed to an alphabet soup of EEGs and EKGs and MRIs and god knows what else. Every time Evan calls or texts, I go cold and try to find some privacy just in case. No answers as of yet.
Elizabeth and I, we see things. It’s bad out there. In our social circle, kids have eating disorders, drug addictions, illnesses. Couples we know are getting divorced left and right, our education system continues to fail nationally and in our own backyard. The government – same story. Our friends’ parents, whom we’ve known since they were younger than we are now, are dying. Every single day a new personal, familial, local, national, or world crisis rears (or re-rears) its head. News of good fortune seems much less common. I’m worn down. Just plain exhausted. Bewildered. At times, dejected. The time when the kids were young and the world was our oyster has zipped by; the limitless possibilities are now limited.
Life, for me, is enjoyment and white-knuckle anxiety in shifting proportions with a healthy dose of I-never-seem-to-know-what’s-coming sprinkled in. To help with these issues I take drugs, mostly prescribed, and they seem to work, depending on the day, which makes me feel like they might not work at all.I’m a happy person generally, but I am fifty-one, and these are a small sampling of the things that worry me.
***
Upon everyone falling asleep in my house, I hunt. I start in the basement, turn on and off some lights, make some noise. I spy one, another fly, minding its own business on the edge of a track lighting channel and watch it coolly zip away and land on a tall basket filled with four neatly rolled yoga mats, rarely if ever used. Luckily, in case anyone in the family wants to start practicing yoga, they will have a lot of choices of mats, which is exciting! We also have yoga mat carriers. These, I am told, allow you to sling your yoga mat over your shoulder on your way to yoga class, which we do not attend.
We have dumbbells, a TRX, a Bosu Balance Ball, resistance bands of all shapes and sizes, and—wait for it—six jump ropes. Never has anyone in our family jumped or skipped rope. We are not for double Dutching. But just in case the urge occurs, we’re covered.
My friend the fly rests on a purple yoga mat. I edge closer. I have in my hand a rolled-up catalog that came in the mail, like the thousands of other catalogs that come to our house every year, that we do not (knowingly) ask for and that go directly into the recycling bin (from where I have retrieved the one in hand). How the senders pick our house, I do not know. Daily, they are shoved through the mail slot, a sloppy heap ofthin rectangular smooth and glassy fish just reeled in. I pick them up because no one else in my family picks the mail up off the floor. Ever. I squat, engage my core to protect my balky lower back, and spread my fingers wide. The glossy catalogs I’ve never heard of wiggle and squirm. Finger Hut, Chadwick’s of Boston, Monroe and Main, Rev Town, Hill City, and more. No two are the same size. Steady … I gather what I can and dump them in the recycle bin. On Tuesdays, the recycling gets picked up, the process begins again.
On this day, my weapon is a Stio catalog (Jackson Hole, Wyoming–based Stio was founded to deliver “beautiful, functional products infused with mountain soul”). I don’t know much, but I am certain that no one at this address is seeking “beautiful, functional mountain products infused with mountain soul,” because, who does? And, huh? Even if I believed that a product could be infused with the soul of an inanimate object, I’ll take something with the soul of Julia Child’s whisk or Rafael Nadal’s Babolat. Thanks.
Closer I stalk. I am a ninja. An assassin. My hand, gripping the rolled-up catalog, already in striking distance. I can see now that it’s a small green one, the quickest. But I am up for the challenge. I am within two feet, ready to swing. My enemy rubs his (her?) (their?) wings together. My weapon needs to travel two feet through the air before the beast moves and I will squash it.
I strike.
My armed hand, lightning fast (I was a D1 athlete), moves closer. There is no turning back now. I open my hips formaximum torque. My wrist is cocked, but loose. No tension. Zen. My eyes (contacts are in) are lasers. I see my enemy pivot on its four legs, see me. But I am gaining speed, and the angle of escape is narrowing. My wrist extends, the weapon inches from its target. The fly stares at me, side-eyedand mocking, and I know then that this will not end well. For me, that is.
My enemy darts away. It’s too late. I swat the purple mat, which overturns the basket, sending unused yoga paraphernaliaeverywhere and upending my Tito’s and soda with lemon that I had just prepared. The drink spills off the side table, the splash splatters the Peloton, and laps into Peloton bike shoes which had been sitting idle for months, covered in dust and dog hair. The fly has landed and now sits inches away, perched on the edge of an eight-pound dumbbell. I swear, it laughs.
I get a rag and clean up, ignoring the fly, who has clearly gotten the better of me. I clench my teeth.
I move upstairs, demoralized and embarrassed. Four or five of my insect friends buzz around. In the kitchen I spy a few and grab a kitchen towel, then an oven mitt, then a spatula and take some swings. Admittedly my heart isn’t in it. I guess I’ll just wait them out. Either they’ll die of whatever flies die of, or they’ll escape over the next few days. But no bother, I think, it’s not like they can hurt me. The house is quiet. I think about pouring myself a replacement drink but don’t have the energy. I sit down in the living room and hold my head in my hands.
I sigh audibly. I think about going out for a walk. I am told walks help clear the mind in times like this. But I’m not in the mood to follow advice, and it’s late, and I decide I’m going to bed.
***
I go upstairs to peek in on my sleeping family before calling it a night. I do like watching my kids and wife sleep. Maybe everyone does, but it’s not really something that you bring up with your friends or colleagues, so I’m not sure. The only other people I’ve ever talked to about it are my family, and they think it’s weird.
We, my wife and I, used to read a book to the kids when they were younger called Some Daddies. It was an illustrated book that was published about a month before my daughter was born, and in my memory, I received it from my wife for my first Father’s Day, but that’s probably not true. It was (and, I suppose, still is) a lovely book that shows how some daddies like to be a daddy. It was very progressive for the time. The daddies were in all shapes and sizes and races, and I think a few times there were two daddies (for one child). Some daddies like to make forts with you. Some daddies like to have tea with you. I remember the illustrations were fabulous. Despite the somewhat crude drawings, the daddy’s faces held expressions and emotions that mirrored my countenance in similar situations. I also remember that one of the pages said: “All daddies like to watch you sleep,” and there was an illustration of a daddy peeking in the door of a child’s bedroom and doing just that. I do the same to my son,Jack, who is seventeen years old and would be horrified if he knew I was looking in on him sleeping. All I want to do is kiss his forehead. And then pin him down and forcefully shave his upper lip.
Both he and my daughter think that this is creepy behavior, but to me, it’s pure. I’ve been doing it since they were born, and I don’t intend to stop anytime soon. I read that book to both my kids for years and years. As soon as they could start to understand the words, they would say “Ewww” or “Weird” after that page.
I wander to my daughter’s room and do the same. She’s a messy sleeper. Arms and legs all over the place. She’s 5′1″ and can fill a queen-sized bed. There is no space on the mattress that is not taken up by her. Astounding.
As a parent you live for your children. Or at least, we have and do. We don’t know any other way.
I’m trying to clear my mind. I close Emma’s door and go to our room. I watch my wife sleep too. I glance at her,distracted enough to crush my left pinky toe on the foot of a bench that runs along the foot of our bed. I don’t scream. But I could. I hold my breath and breathe the pain out. Repeat. Maybe I should start yoga? At the breathing part, it seems I’m pretty good! I push through the pain and make it to the bathroom.
***
In the bathroom, I brush; I floss; I wash my face. I breathe out the day. And then, I hear it. Bang. Bang. Bang. Bangbangbangbang.
In the shower, which has a glass enclosure, there is a fly the size of a button mushroom. It is dazed and confused, just begging me to take it out of its misery. I look at myself in the mirror. I’m fifty-one years old. I look good! I’m tired a lot and I’ve got some bags under my eyes that bother me. But I still have all my hair, and very little gray. I’m self-assured and care about how I present myself, and simultaneously I’m not at allinfluenced by external judgments. It’s a combination that puzzles me. How can I care and at the same time not care about the same thing? I look deep into my own weary eyes. Maybe, I think, if I end this fly’s life, it will vindicate me, my pathetic failures in the basement, all day really, my head running around in circles, this way and that, never able to settle itself down. It will, perhaps, give me some peace in the form of a small victoryat day’s end.
I wet the tip of a small washcloth and head to the shower enclosure. I spy my prey through the glass. A piece of cake. He’s basically killing himself already. Just need to finish the job.
I open the door. It’s child’s play. One snap of the washclothrat-tail and bang, he drops to the shower floor. His legs are still moving, and I snap it one more time. The white stuff comes out. You know, the white stuff? I think it’s the guts or the blood or something. (Upon further (post-murder) research, I learn that it’s larvae, which means I killed a she/her fly, which I am okay with). I pick up the fly gently with my fingertips, it’s the least I could do, and toss it in the toilet, and flush it to its end.
***
There are lots of idioms and sayings about time, but time means nothing unless you have something meaningful to stick around for, something beautiful, something kind, something to love. Then, and only then, do you feel time’s passing. Only then do you feel it running out. Otherwise, it just passes. I have always despised wishing away time. The phrase TGIF has made me cringe since I was a boy. I used to have a colleague who would say “Happy Hump Day” on Wednesday mornings and “TGIF” on Fridays. Holy fuck did I hate that. Why are we wishing weeks away? What is good about another week passing? If you have nothing in your life with meaning, maybe you just die for the weekend, but not me. I die for each moment. Each moment has always meant a lot to me.
I go back to the mirror, remove my contacts, and I’m ready for my pre-bed pee. I read once that as you get older, if you sit to pee before bed, you can get more pee out and thus be less likely to wake up in the middle of the night. I drink a lot of water, andI’m typically exhausted before bed, so a sitting pee is a welcome ritual. It closes the day. I can breathe deeply and know that on that day, I did the best I could with what I had, and I can think of improvements that I would like to make the next day. I do not think of hump day or TGIF. I’m not good at meditating, but this late-night seated urination is as close as I get.
I’m supposed to move my torso front and back, and side to side, to release everything I can from your bladder. I am doing so, and I think I hear a small buzz. I have already taken my trazadone and it can make me a little, well, buzzed. I ignore it, but then, I feel a small tingle on my butt check. It stops. Starts.Stops. Then another buzz and it hits against my butt, and again and again and I stand up and there she is, the big fat fly whose larvae I crushed out of her exoskeleton. She escapes the water and flies out of the bowl and proceeds to fly directly into the mirror, then the glass shower door, thwap, and collapses to the ground.
I stand, hike up my pajamas, bend, and daintily lift her off the tile. I walk her downstairs and outside and with my finger, twist a tiny hole in the tomato bed, drop her in, cover her up. I take a very deep breath, then an audible exhale. As I walk back inside and upstairs, I find myself hoping that when my time comes I have as much tenacity as that momma fly, who found a way, beaten to a literal pulp and left for dead in a pool of water, to regather her insides and suck them back into her body in one last attempt to survive by flying through my butt.
And she probably liked to watch her kids sleep, just like me.
***
|
Seth Kaplan has published essays, stories and poems in a variety of publications. He writes and practices law in Evanston, Illinois, while learning to “open nest” with his wife Elizabeth, now that the kids are in college. When not lawyering and writing, Seth coaches baseball, practices yoga, and raises tomatoes.
|
