I FOUND A FLY IN MY TOOTHPASTE

My house has been taken hostage by a brutal squadron of fat flies. I’ve been finding them everywhere, dead and alive, flying silently or buzzing around like proud sopranos. I really don’t like them, I really, really don’t. I am never alone. It doesn’t matter how hard I search for solitude, no amount of swinging my arms or cussing at black specks on my wall will grant me my simple wish.

Last Thursday I found a fly in my sock drawer. On Monday, I found two flies in my soup; I suspect they were a couple. Two silly lovers committing suicide together, holding hands and plunging into my spaghetti-o's. By their passionate grip you could tell they deeply loved each other but they hated the life of a fly. Pushed forward by the courage lighting a fire under their thin tired wings, they held tightly onto the only thing that mattered and jumped into the tomato valley. I fished the lovers out of the soup with my spoon and laid them gently on a napkin. It must be hard to be a fly, your company always unwanted. On Wednesday I found a fly on page 33 of my 5th-grade chemistry book, squished between cadmium and silver, and last but definitely not least, yesterday I found a fly in my toothpaste.

It was a Sunday night like any other. I had my first yawn at around 20 past 9, and by 10 I was wearing my spaceship pajamas, my socks pulled all the way up to keep the monsters from stealing them in my sleep. I stood in front of the mirror and stared at my tongue to make sure it was still a rebel moving of its own accord. Relieved, I grabbed my strawberry-flavored toothpaste and squeezed the living hell out of it. Last Tuesday, shopping day, was a rainy day and I couldn’t go to the store but I was determined to make it through the week by rationing the little toothpaste I had left. I was also determined to never skip a day since I’d been told very clearly to brush my teeth every day when I left home a few months back.

I was squeezing the pink sugar out of the sad-looking tube when I saw a black speck in the pink landscape. At first I thought it was a sort of decoration, like chocolate chips on ice cream, but upon further examination I noticed six legs and a pair of wings on my ice cream sprinkle. A high-pitched scream found its way to the tip of my rebel tongue and I threw the toothbrush into the air, splattering the toothpaste all over the ceiling. I stayed up all night, wondering if I would always be reminded of my cowardice by the pink splatter on my bathroom ceiling. It was after the toothpaste incident that I decided to take the fly situation seriously.

I woke up early this morning and headed over to Ms. Harrigan’s place to ask for advice. I was lucky to live next to someone so old and smart, I am sure she has seen it all. When she isn't too tired from being a wise old lady, she finds time to make her spectacular peach cobbler. She usually serves it too hot though and I think that is kind of mean because she knows how impatient I am, always burning my tongue.

I rang the bell and I was happy she didn’t answer the first time, that way I got to hear her Four Seasons by Vivaldi twice in one day.

“Come in, come in, dear”

She was wearing her green dress, the one with the small flower pattern. The first time I met her she was wearing that same dress. I remember sitting by her bed and staring at the fabric folding over her stomach. She noticed my curiosity and spent the next couple of hours trying to convince me that the purple dots were lilies and not jelly beans. I eventually gave in but still, to this day, something tells me those so-called lilies are really just fancy-looking jelly beans.

Her house is full of bells from all around the world; a bell from Prague hanging from the living room ceiling lamp, one from Vienna tied to the handlebar at the staircase, one from Austin dangling from the downstairs’ bathroom doorknob. Sometimes, the first thing I would think when Ms. Harrigan opened the door was how loud an earthquake would be at her house, all those bells hanging from the walls. Before the thought turned to butter I would quickly turn around and look into her greens eyes. I was very clearly told when I left home a few months back to always look people in the eyes before thoughts turned to butter.

“I have a fly problem,” — I told her before she could take the peach cobbler out of the oven.

“What do you mean, dear?” — She said as she took her oven mittens off.

“Well, there are simply way too many flies in my house. They are big, and they are loud and cheerful, and I want to be alone, and I opened the door and kindly asked them to leave but they didn’t, and yesterday I found one in my pink toothpaste and now I don’t think I can ever have pink toothpaste ever again, which makes me really sad because pink is my favorite flavor”

“Oh my, that does sound like a big problem, dear” — She kindly extended her arms and offered me her mitten-less hands.

“It is” — I let go of her soft hands and crossed my arms with a frown, letting her know how upset I was.

“Do you keep your house clean?”

“Yes I do” — I said, proudly.

“Do you keep any rotten food around?”

“No! Never” — I replied, afraid of such an image.

“Do you shower often?

“Of course, every afternoon” — I sang with the confidence of the best smelling flower in the biggest flower field.

“Then there you go dear, your house is simply too nice. You have to make it more inhospitable” — She smiled and put her oven mittens on and headed towards the oven.

I made the face I make when people use long words, and the silence turned her around

“Your house is too inviting my dear. Think about it, if I was a fly, I would want to live there too”

I let out a short laugh and ran before she could take the peach cobbler out and burn my young tongue. It was a good idea to visit Ms. Harrigan, she is wise and now I knew what to do.

I went back home and sat on my couch waiting for an idea to pop into my mind like a rocket landing on the moon. I knew how to make a home; clean the floors weekly, wash the dishes daily, wipe the windows when needed, and light a candle every once in a while to give the home a sweet kind of smell, like cinnamon. But, I was never told how to undo a home; I was never taught mayhem.

I would've come up with a plan sooner if I wasn’t so afraid of chaos, of disorder, of control slipping away like clouds swept by the wind. Luckily, I’ve been in these kinds of situations before, situations where confusion is weighing on your chest the way my cat Sophie used to sit on my chest before I grew up and she dispatched herself to kitten heaven. To this day I am still unsure where Sophie is, I want to believe she is in kitten heaven, playing around, sitting on someone else’s chest, but Dad said she’s in the backyard and Mom didn’t like that. Anyways, as I’ve said, I’ve been in situations like these before and I’ve learned that it is always good to think backward; to ask yourself : What is the opposite of where I am, of the place I am trying to crawl out off ? Once you’ve pinpointed the opposite of what brings you sorrow, it is simply a matter of moving toward that opposite.

I sat there, my body half-eaten by the soggy couch, took out a pen and wrote down all the ways I could think of to make my house less hos-pi-ta-ble.

Don’t sweep the floors weekly
Leave smelly food out to rot
Don’t wash the dishes
Don’t water the plants
Don’t wipe the windows
Don’t replace the toilet paper when it runs out
Don’t make your bed in the morning

I giggled at all these ideas and then I realized that it would take months for my house to be truly inhospitable if I were to follow this plan. I had to be quicker, bolder, braver in my list-making, in the paradox of organized chaos.

A ray of light bounced out of my chest and with it my body out off the couch. I ran towards the kitchen, stood in the middle, and looked around at all the carefully organized dishware. I had enjoyed categories throughout my life; the mugs beside the mugs, the plates separated by size, shape, and color, the glasses by color and thickness. I had to undo it all. I looked at all the order and it repulsed me as much as a chocolate sprinkle with legs and wings. I opened the cupboards, one by one, and threw onto the floor with all the strength my arms could ever yield anything that could ever break. The sound was beautiful. It was a choir of threat and worry. First, a single crash announcing the death of safety, then, the echo of all its broken children playing around, getting a bit too far and hiding in a corner waiting for the next barefooted fool unfortunate enough to find the sharp child with their naked toe.

On the floor was the most beautiful thing. The scene of forbidden sharp was the closest I had been to the glaciers, to cold places like Alaska and Greenland. I was so charmed by the way the sun would bounce off the glaciers laying on my kitchen tiles that I forgot the forbidden nature of such beauty and leaped into a pile of sharp edges and straight lines. The choir sang the song of the barefooted fool and I sang with them, offering the white landscape tributaries of red hues.

I slowly walked towards the fridge and opened the door. There laid all my pre-prepared meals, still and lonely like flowerless tombstones. The lids read; Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Breakfast, Lunch, and Dinner. My gut warned me of its sickness and my jaw clenched at the sight of my well-dressed illness. I took the Tupperwares out one by one and unbuckled their four-way sealed lid, freeing Tuesday, Thursday, and Friday onto the floor. A mountain of spaghetti, rice, stew, oatmeal, and steamed vegetables stood next to the red glaciers and the once sterile landscape was gifted color; the color of chaos.

I was bothered by the kitchen tiles that held on tightly to the cleanliness of their corners like stubborn squares, but I had no time to waste on such details, I had a whole house to wreck.

In the bathroom, I took all the things that had a bottom and flipped them upside down. My soap had the carving of the elegant dove on the bottom, the shampoo was standing on its lid, the toothbrush was upside-down in its cup, and the mirror now hung from its corner, showing off its diamond shape. The shower curtain was on the towel rack and the towels hung from the rod that once held the curtain. The bathroom mat found its home in the tub and the green loofa swung from the ceiling lamp. I looked around and couldn't stop laughing, it was ridiculous. Surrounded by the absurdity of up and down, in and out, meant to be wet, meant to be dry, I danced like a nymph in the summer. I took a last look at my masterpiece and shut the door, leaving the light on.

In my room, I took all the socks out of my drawer and paired them with the wrong pair; long sock with short sock, green sock with red sock, casual sock with fancy sock. It was hilarious. I threw all my bedding over the window, and I stood my bed frame upright, leaning on the wall, while I aggressively tapped my mattress to the ceiling. I took down all of my picture frames; Sister in the Bermudas, Dad at my graduation, Mom baking a cake. I took all of them down and hung them on coat hangers. I took a few steps back and examined the bare wall, the empty nails were perfect to hang fancy clothes. My gowns were now displayed like memories with family; my swimsuit a memento of Sister and Me at the lake, my red coat a memory of Mom and Me drinking hot chocolate on the porch, my striped shirt a souvenir of my silent Halloween costume.

My room was no longer a room. No beds would be made or slept in. I had done good, my room was no longer a room.

It took me all afternoon to ravage my home.

“No corner shall be left untouched” I continued to tell myself as I let the goose feathers out of my pillows, as I cut the silhouette of people holding hands onto my living room curtains, as I poured milk into my fishbowl and I lit a medium-sized fire in the study room.

“There shall be no calm in this house, no comfort” I reminded myself.

The sun was setting and my house was growing darker, I had smashed all the lightbulbs and broken all the candle wicks.

“No control” I reminded myself

And now, in the belly button of dusk, it is too dark to see anything still standing. I’ve knocked down a few things out of blindness and the noise of unknown objects hitting the ground, crashing against other unknowns, is the fruit of my labor.

I am sitting on top of a pile of unknowns, it is sharp, and damp, and hard, and weirdly velvet-like. I can’t sit upright, can’t lay down, or kneel. I’ve been shifting for who knows how long since all the clocks are hanging from the backyard tree. I can’t find comfort in the chaos of it all. But, on the verge of terrible disappointment, I hear something. I hear something, silence. I hear silence. It is loud and growing louder. I hear no buzzing, no wings flapping around. I feel no tiny legs marching over my shoulder, dancing on my cheek, fighting their way through the jungle of my arm hair. The flies, the fat flies, they are gone. It is too dark to confirm with my eyes but there is no need, I can feel their absence. Ever since those bits of bitten and spat persistence got here I’ve felt unwavering company. I never got the chance to taste solitude.

And now, sitting, or kneeling, or laying over this pile of disarray, I feel nothing but alone. And I can’t help but smile at all-encompassing singularity. And I can’t help but thank madness for making me, and my home, bad company to mortals like flies. I have found comfort in chaos, and I go to sleep inside a wrecked home, and I am happy I get to do it all alone.

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