I look at my soda bottle. I can’t believe it! The bottom third of the bottle, floating in this gloppy orange fluid, is filled with a drifting cloud of dead flies! There must have been five-hundred dead flies in that damn bottle! I must have drunk three-quarters of a bottle of what looks like dead fly soup!
With the heat, the flies, the nervousness of the date, all of it, it hit me. Without any warning it just came out of me. It just went uuuuuuuuugh! Just like that. All over the hood of the car. It ran down the inside of the door, under the seat. And she was sitting there, “Auggggh!” She looked at me with the kind of loathing people had when they see a driven-over skunk on the street.
I couldn’t stop. I turned around and I made a run for the john. I didn’t make it. All over the driveway. The kid said, “Will you cut that out? Can’t you wait till you get in the john?”
I don’t have to tell you what kind of an afternoon we had. We proceeded to the Brookfield Zoo after I cleaned the car up and washed off the hood. Ever since that time I’ve thought that’s why people prefer stuff in cans—so you can’t see. Whatever made me raise up that glass bottle—and hold it to the sun—and see that drifting cloud of flies!
Curiously, I never told her what was in that bottle. What could I say? You can’t tell her that—it just isn’t the right thing to say—good lord! Dead flies in the orange!
And all the way to Brookfield Zoo and back, she kept saying, “Are you alright? Are you alright?” That was the second-to-last date I had with her. I don’t think I impressed her. Not really, truly.
That’s the end of Flies–next is
Scragging and Bolis’ Wedding