earthmann

My Fly


The first time I saw him, he was sunning his underbelly on one the window panes that line the front of a particular downtown coffee shop. Behind him traffic bustled through green lights and the sidewalk teemed with people working their way down sidewalks, beneath the glare of the city’s scape.

I thought the whole image worth capturing, set my newspaper down, and quickly put a lens onto my camera. I moved in close enough to get a good frame, but just before I clicked the shutter, the little guy took off.

No big loss. I settled back into my comfy chair, took a sip of coffee, and straightened my paper, which was when I saw the fly resting on my shoulder. Without thought, I brushed him off. He flew a foot into the air, then returned to my shoulder. Once again, I swatted, but, once again, he returned.

This exchange went on with increasing vigor until I exhausted all the energy that first cup of coffee had given and came close to giving up on ridding myself of him.

Then the barista walked past. Remembering women had enough difficulties with me,I saw no need to add “he has flies” to that list.

Nonchalantly, I shooed. Predictably, the fly returned, and just stared at me. I stared right back at him. Of course flies don’t blink, but I stared anyways.

He looked like your common fly, except for the tiny iridescent streaks of red and blue and green where light separated as it passed through his translucent wings.

The thing that really caught my eye was this fly’s behavior. He wasn’t all fidgety like most. He sat still as a tie tack, almost serene.

I decided to reason with him.

I want to point out that I didn’t think reason would be effectual really, but swatting hadn’t been either, and I just figured that before resigning myself to the filthy advances of the coffee shop’s only fly, I should at least talk him.

I leaned in real close so as to not arouse the concern of any of the other patrons and whispered, “What’s you’re problem, man?”

Unfazed by my breath on his back, he didn’t move a muscle, except for those that caused his little fly belly to expand and contract rapidly as he took his little fly breaths, something I hadn’t noticed in keeping my usual distances.

“I can’t just have you hanging around here. It’s not cool.”

He just stared at me with his little fly eyes. I leaned in closer and squinted. I thought for a second he was batting lashes at me, but, naturally, he had none.

“You’ve got a whole city here.”

He kept looking at me. And his eyes weren’t little, really, at least not for a fly.

“Alright. Whatever. Hang out.”

I sipped my coffee, read for a while, then went outside for some fresh air and a cigarette. I came back in, sat in my comfy chair, straightened the paper, and noticed the fly still sat still, there on my shoulder.

“You are a cool little fly, aren’t ya?”

Then the barista looked up from a mop: “Are you talking to yourself, Johnny?”

“Not anymore.”