This is the time of year when flies land on me.
Well, not just me. Not to be insulting, but I’m sure they land on you too. That’s how it is with flies as the days grow shorter: they land on people. Also on the rims of coffee cups, and sandwiches, and plates on which sandwiches reside, and glasses of milk, and computer keyboards, and so on, edibles and nonedibles. Mostly, though, they land on you and me.
Native Americans had a name for this season: Quish-qua-go-yomama, “Time of Landing Flies.”* As the maples don their scarlet robes, and asters glaze the meadows, and the angling sun gilds storybook landscapes, flies lose their minds. It’s the one thing that can disrupt the poetry of autumn, not to mention my focus. I’ll be sitting with my laptop, writing some profound piece of lyricism that requires all the candlepower I can muster….
Me: [Typing] O moon-kiss’d maid with…
Fly: [Lands on my wrist] Bzzzt! (Translation: “Hi!”)
Me: [Absentmindedly flick my wrist and return to typing]…a booger in thy nose / Wherefore art thou Romeo’s? / Would that I might…
Fly: [Buzzes around a bit, then returns to my wrist. Flies are nothing if not persistent.] Bzzzt! (“I like you!”)
Me: [Flick my wrist again] Dammit.
Fly: [Lands on the frame of my computer screen] Bzzzt! (“Will you be my friend? I think we could be great chums, you and I.”)
Me: [Swatting at fly] Get a-WAY! Go! Shoo!
Fly: [Returns to the frame] Bzzzt! (“I offer you friendship. You respond with hostility. Will you not reconsider? I have powerful connections.”)
Me: [Positioning my hands to clap them together against the fly] You shall die.
Fly: Uh-oh. [Takes off before I can nail it, then circles back and lands momentarily on my knee, out of reach] Bzzzt! (“Pthhhhtttt!”)
I once was having a tabletop conversation with a friend when a fly zipped down out of nowhere like a tiny black meteor, straight at my shirt front. I glanced down at my chest but saw nothing, so I continued talking. But my friend’s eyes had grown large, and I could tell something was distracting her. Finally she said, “Bob, did that fly just fly into your pocket?”
“Ha, ha!” I said. “Nah!”
Then from my pocket I heard a muffled Bzzzt! (Translation: “Don’t be too sure about that.”)
I looked down. There was the fly, looking up. We locked eyes, not an easy feat when teeny-weeny compound eyes are involved. “Bzzzt!” said the fly, which I took to mean, “This is great! I really like it in here.”
That’s how flies are this time of year. They whiz all over the place like miniscule stunt pilots on amphetamines, performing side slips and barrel rolls and all kinds of maneuvers with no discernible purpose. Then they land on me.
I don’t get it. I don’t like it. And I don’t like flies.
“Bzzzt!”
No, we cannot be friends. Now get off my kneecap.
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* Not really.