Hyde on the Fly

I wear many hats. I am known to some as a mild-mannered grade school teacher. To others I am a high-flying musical theater impresario. Yet others identify me as a lexicographer, and a few know me as ‘dog walker.’

Yet another side lurks that few know of. I now confess.

I am a murderer.

Before you hit speed dial for 911, the murder I speak of, though morally reprehensible, is still legal in the state of Oregon.

But I am not proud of this.

I murder flies. In cold blood. I cannot help it. I am a fly murderer.

I transform into the deplorable Hyde only at home, and generally in my own bedroom. This is why the world little knows of this shocking double life. When a fly enters the confines of my bedroom, the buzz penetrates my skull and shatters all concentration. Whatever I am doing is completely forgotten and I am reduced to a primal state of enraged hunter. I grasp for the swatter and the hunt commences.

As I say, I am not proud, but I am apparently helpless in this matter–irrationality prevails. I know that flies don’t mean to irritate me. All they want to do is feed on carrion by dissolving it with their vomit and then sucking it back up with their proboscis. They just want to lay their maggot-bearing spawn in my hamburger and get on with life. And they’re aeronautical wonders–they can walk upside down and do all sorts of crazy flying tricks.

But I don’t care. I will kill the fly.

It’s now getting warm enough again for the flies to come round, and last night one dared to brazenly enter my room. A big one. I hate big ones. I shut the door so it couldn’t escape. This might seem especially blood thirsty, but it’s important. Once that fly is in the house, it will invariably end up in my room, in and out for the long haul all day. It’s torture. So the door must be shut and the matter concluded here and now.

I couldn’t find the swatter. This complicated matters. Flies are tough hunting even with a swatter, but over the years I have had some success with a hand towel, so I fetched one. The trick is to stay super calm and patient–difficult to do when you’re hopped up on predatory adrenaline. It entered my small walk-in closet. This scenario is always a dilemma, but not for long. I always know what I must do. I entered the closet and shut the door, trapping myself in close confines with the hated fly. I was face to face with the enemy and my skin crawled. Why do flies have to be so fly-like? Gives me the creeps. I stood frozen in heightened awareness and revulsion. The fly buzzed about. It landed, I saw it and went after it with a homicidal burst. It escaped. More buzzing. More waiting, more revulsion. Then silence. Unfortunately, the more stuff in the room, the more nooks and crannies there are for the fly to conceal itself. It buzzed some more, bouncing off walls and books and being its usual erratic self. Then silence. I looked around. There it was. Another attack! It got away, again. More buzzing, etc.

And then a long silence. Where was the fly? Minutes passed and my pulse calmed. I listened and looked. Nothing. Because my shoe rack is stuck to the closet door, I can’t shut the door completely–there is just enough of a crack for an industrious and clever fly to get through. So, there I was in the closet, listening, waiting. Was the fly even there? For how long would I stand in my own closet, possibly alone while the prey was off gallivanting about in the kitchen? It’s a ridiculous situation. And yet there I stood in my closet, weapon in hand, waiting, waiting, listening…

Finally absurdity set in and I stepped out of the closet. No fly emerged. No buzzing, nothing. It was gone. But the game was still afoot. The fly would be back. I returned to my work.

It returned. Buzzzz. Smashed concentration. But I was ready this time. I jumped up and focused on the prey. Into the closet it went. I followed. Same result as last time. Blast. Then I found the swatter.

A swatter is a wondrous invention. How did we deal with this pest before swatters were invented? God only knows. As I say, even with a swatter, nailing a fly is still difficult, and it doesn’t help that I have a fatal flaw in my make up.

I am not a murderer at heart, even when Hyde asserts himself. There is something in my genetic code that often foils my attempts to dispatch a fly. It must be a liberal gene mutation. When I have a clear shot at the unsuspecting fly and let loose with a swing Babe Ruth would be proud of–I often miss. Boy, is that irritating. I missed!  A clear and open view, and I missed. Hyde is never amused when this happens and berates me at length for my ineptitude. You bloody liberal–kill the fly! Stop dawdling! Aim better, you moron!  So says Hyde. So the hunt continues, and I generally prevail, sometimes even taking out the fly in mid-flight with a particularly lucky swing. I get my quarry. The fly drops to the carpet and I gaze down upon it, often exhausted and always relieved, but never happy. I don’t enjoy it. Depending on where the fly drops, I’ll  leave the carcass as a warning to other flies, but I don’t think they get the hint.

As for the fly last night, it got away. Never saw it again. But I’ve relocated the swatter, and I’ll be ready for next time. But I’m not proud. But still, I’ll be ready.