Fly Swatter

Our friends across the street had a severe fly problem in their house. Dan, one of the roomates there, had taken upon himself the role of exterminator. I made sure to either begin or end every phone conversation I had with Dan asking, "How many flys did you kill today Danno?". He always knew the exact amount. "Seventeen", he'd say, and then, in the background, SSWAT!...SSWAT! "Die fuckers!!...nineteen." It was priceless comedy.

Dan was the kind of guy who would feed stray cats, and take the time to usher a wayward moth back outside to safety. There's just something about flies, or, perhaps more significantly, fly swatters, that makes peace loving people like Dan turn into blood thirsty killers.

It all starts when a fly has been up your nose. (If it happens while you're taking a nap, it's even more traumatic.) So, you put up fly paper, and it works like a charm, but, inavariably, somebody's hair gets stuck in the glue--always an innocent visitor. Now it's personal. Like John Henry-the steel driving man, you forsake all things mechanical and take up a fly swatter.

By early September, at the expense of many summer afternoons by the pool, Dan had shown himself the better man. He was like Bruce Lee with a fly swatter. He had developed combo-moves: wall-table-dvd-wall-quick sweep into the waste paper basket.