The Fly in the Windowpane
There's a fly in the window pane. There's a fly in the window pane, and it's ten below freezing. It's dying. My wife and I are watching an old Robin Williams special on the televisions. "I see dead people." I smirked, nudging her playfully. She rolls her eyes. I am amused nonetheless. I redirect my attention back to the fly.
It's persistent. The thousands of years of evolution inside its puny head tell it to fight for the last few hours it has to live. The fight consists mostly of banging itself against glass until it knocks itself out, only to regain a fraction of consciousness and rise again, repeating its efforts. Said efforts, being the banging and insufferable buzzing. Buzz, buzz, buzzzzzz. It's hilarious. I don't see the point of it.
If humans were that persistent to stay alive, life would be awful. It's the self-destructive, nonsensical hatred we have for ourselves that makes living what it is. Trading epochs of evolutionary wisdom for life's greatest temptations, the one's that any good Christian would categorize as "sins", is what makes us feel alive. There's a reason why liquor stores are often the last small businesses left in decaying towns. I bet when Chicago finally goes bankrupt, the Smokey's around the corner will still be around to scoff and nag at the flocks of white middle-aged soccer moms and tourists funneling out of the polished Starbucks from across the street. And so will the Liquor Barns. They'll be the city's police against the posh and pretension of corporate influence and their consumers.
If you go to Athens, and I mean the really dirty, exhausted parts, its very easy to count the amount of clothing stores and cafe's and whatnot on your fingers. But the second you start to notice all the active sex shops and lingerie stores scattered around, you're sure to run out of hands, let alone fingers, to count on. I remember our tour guide's face turning a new shade of red every time they led us past another sex shop, each one with a provocative mannequin in the display, flashing its alluring attire for our eager eyes to capture and picture on our own lovers. I swear, all of Greece's economy runs on those damn sex shops, or tries to. (Maybe 'crawls' is a more appropriate verb choice.)
Honestly, I've never had an urge to keep living. I couldn't relate to the fly in the window. What could it possibly be looking forward to? Perhaps it hasn't laid it's maximum amount of eggs in that shit pile behind the dumpster. Or picked at the squashed apple on the side of the street. Or maybe, it can't stop thinking about a lady fly, the one that hangs around by the rotting tree limb in the neighbor's lawn. Oh, how i long to hold the damsel in my twiggy little arms, he's thinking, rest my beady little eyes on her crumpled wings and rickety black skin. At least, that's what I'd be thinking about in his position. Women, kids, food. All that matters in my world, but probably not his. I bet if I bring all of that to its feet: the shit pile, the apple, the lady friend, it still wouldn't cease fighting. It'd just keep going, the greedy little bastard. What more do you want, ya bumbling fool? I'd yell at it. I brought you the joys of life. What's keeping you so vigorously fighting for something I'd so comfortably and easily be willing to throw away? I'd yell this, for I am awfully jealous of its will to live, if my wife wouldn't surely pack her bags and leave me for some sane, boring man who doesn't interrupt quiet afternoon viewings of old Robin Williams specials.
Come to think of it, I've never been compelled to fight for my life. I've seen cancer patients on TV throw millions into the laps of lazy doctors, demanding to be poked and prodded with the most lethal of drugs to extend their longevity by a lousy minute and a half. I've seen people on their deathbeds quitting their jobs and booking last minute trips to Boca. If I would've gotten a phone call right now from a doctor and they told me that I had three days to live, I'd hang up the phone and ask my wife to rewind the program on television to the part I've missed and sit back on the couch. I wouldn't be bothered. We're all dying. I'd just be beating everyone to it.
Of course, I love living. To say that I am indifferent to the quality of life I've achieved would be incorrect. I very much love my children, my spouse, my home and job, and everything else. I've just always been ready to die. I knew from a very young age that I'd die, and so would all of the people I'd ever know, and I've made peace with that. I truly believe that that is the reason for my destructive vices. "Live fast, die young" seemed to be the motto in all of the smartest teenagers, for they were all ridden with angst, secretly, underneath the ass kissing and polished GPA's. Nevertheless, I've adopted the mentality of exploiting life for everything it's worth, and it's safe to say that my acceptance of death, the nicotine stains on my nails, the coffee breath and holes in my jeans are surefire sign that I've done so successfully.
The wife finally notices the fly flapping around the windowsill. "Should we let it out?" She points, less than interested and more so annoyed by the minute chaos. I look straight ahead, as if I haven't a clue about what she means. "Nah," I say, pulling the sleeves of my sweater over my freezing hands. "He'll stop the noise soon. Maybe the cold will sober him up, the poor bastard."