Are You Smarter Than A 5^th Grader…or A Fly? Part 1

 I am beginning to wonder.  Not about you, about myself….

 Of course, in Southern New Mexico, in July, fly season springs upon us with the start of monsoon season.  Large – not as large as a Horsefly but not as small as a Tsetse fly (which spread malaria in Africa) – flys begin knocking at doors and windows and any other space they can crawl through to get to the good stuff….spill a grain or two of sugar this morning getting it to the coffee?  Fly bait.   Spill a drop of soda?  Fly bait.  Sitting quietly at your desk typing on the computer?  Fly bait.

 During July, part of my job description means that at 10:30 AM, I take my fly swatter and go to the Patio.  Yes, it’s enclosed but that’s where THEY gather drawn by the moisture of the fountain and the light of the sun roof.  I pause a moment to gather myself, center myself, calm myself and prepare.  I move into my Ninja stealth mode and ease onto the Patio, careful not to cause a ripple in the air.  My swatter is already cocked and ready.  I mustn’t carry the swatter at my side and then raise it for the kill. No movement must be discerned by the fly or he lifts off, moving about searching, searching.

 My swatter is state of the art.  Clean, unpainted aluminium wire with the traditional double twist. It’s doubled into twin wires with four turns above.  Four turns below.  The top turn opens to allow a spacious open grip.  The bottom turn spreads into a large Y allowing the actual killing area known as the fan to be attached to the handle. No plastic here. My fan is a large rectangle of tight metal mesh with an edging of brown paper sewn onto the edge with cotton thread.  The mesh is a weave of thin metal wires with a spacing of less than .5 millimeter – not even the Tsetse can escape me.

 My slow movements belie the swift shifting of my eyes. Only moving the eyes, not the head, I slip into the Patio’s space and time.  Yes, the fly may have 1,000 eyes and I only 2 but mine are very sensitive to color and shape. I look for the black dot where it doesn’t belong. 

 I tense.  Spotted.  I don’t stop but do slow down. I focus. It’s only a nail in the table. I move on. Slowly, swatter cocked, eyes shifting, shifting. There!  On the back of a chair.  Oh, damn! In my disappointment at the nail, I relaxed and lowered my weapon.  Now, here’s a fly and I must raise the swatter before attacking.  I try to do it slowly but the fly feels the shift and buzzes off.  I know that buzz.  Snickering at me. He buzzes my head in triumph. He has won. This round, fly, this round. 

 I take a second and re-compose myself.  I am in position.  Swatter cocked. I move back into the hunt.  Soon, another target presents itself.  It could the the snickerer or it could be another fly.  Hard to tell.  I’m not being racist in saying they really do all look alike.

 I slip into range and with the snap of my wrist. I release. The fly crumples.  I’m a two swat man, myself, so I always follow up with a second hit.  The coup de grace’.  While I intend the mercy of a swift death, it has happened that after one blow, the fly with one good wing and three good legs left attempts to lift off but only manages to limp in a circle – a macabre dance which always ends with the second blow.

 Do not think this unfair as for example duck hunting in which a hunter armed with massive gunpower sits and waits for the casual traveler to breeze by overhead then springs the surprise of tiny BBs zipping through the air. No, no, the fly and I are more evenly matched.

 Sitting in my office, I hear the distraction of the buzz of a fly announcing his arrival.  I slowly move to grasp my swatter – always handy – and cock the weapon.  The fly immediately takes flight and leaves the room.  I pause, then lower the swatter and resume my review of last night’s Log.  The buzz returns. I hear the bump, bump, bump of the fly hitting the glass of the outside window, confused that he cannot move into the beckoning beyond.

 Again, I move to my swatter and, even more slowly raise the fan of death. Again, the fly realizes my intentions and flees the room.  I lower the swatter and move back to reading.

 Again, the fly returns.  This time drawn to a lithograph of the open New Mexico desert apparently by the horses in the scene.  Flys do love them some horse.  As the fly bounces against the glass, unable to comprehend why he can’t get to the horses, I move to my swatter.  Slowly, steathyly as an experienced old hand at this game of death, I ease my swatter into position.  One of us will surely die today, fly. 

 I take my eyes off the prize (I don’t recommend doing this for amateurs) and look out my window to the Organ Mountains.  I breath slowly and think to myself,”Yes, it’s a good day to die!”

 I find my target again and he lifts off and zig zags across my vision and out of the room.

 You can see we are more evenly matched here than any other game sport. The fly knows.  I know he knows.  Now, he doesn’t know I know but I know he doesn’t know.  That should be clear to anyone.

 TO BE CONTINUED….