Winter flies are never a good sign.
As a kid growing up in an old farmhouse for a time, spotting a live fly while the temperature outside would send a polar bear packing its Speedo and booking a flight south could only mean one thing: death. A mouse had croaked somewhere behind the plaster and lath. Or a lifeless bat was dangling from an attic rafter. If we were really lucky, maybe something bigger, under the house.
These are my thoughts as I stand in line at Longo’s and a fly lands on my salmon. What the heck is a fly doing here, I think? We’re into November. Frost has been on my windows. It’s already steering-wheel-heater weather for this wimp. I wave off the fly. It does a quick aerial figure eight and sticks its landing on my cheddar cheese. This time, I attempt a ninja snatch. I open my hand slowly, intending to look like a hero to the cashier. “No fly for you today, Grasshopper.”
Defeated, I head out to Tony’s Barber Shop for a little trim and creative combing. Before I can even sit down, I spot it beside the sink. How the…? Did he hitch a ride? I do a mental rundown of my morning: Deodorant? Check. Clean shirt? Check. Clean socks and underpants? Checkety check-check. I lift my right foot and scan the bottom of my shoe. Same with my left. Nothing. Phew. The barber’s apron floats down on me. Seeing my arms are now pinned, the fly strafes me from all angles. I bob and weave my head, while muttering, “Must be my hair product.” The stylist raises her eyebrow as if to say, “Maybe don’t use canned sardines.” I attempt to deflect, “Maybe you have something dead in the walls.…”
As I cash out, the fly makes a final bombing run. In frustration, I give one last exaggerated swipe at the air. I don’t know of anything more satisfying than the minuscule thump on my flailing hand when it actually makes contact with a bothersome airborne fly. So small, and yet so rewarding. I envision him dizzy, tumbling through the air, his composite-eyed noggin encircled with micro-sized chirping birds as his pesky attitude receives a little slap on the thorax.
Next stop, Service Ontario in Staples, for a new driver’s licence and health card. I take my number and glance at the screen. The list of codes looks like a foreign language. There’s no order, no ranking system. Given the scrolling numbers, I could be served next or summoned at midnight. After 83 (I counted them) minutes, and showing Saboteur3546 who’s boss in Words with Friends, I’m called.
“Now serving H-O-57.”
Paranoid I’ll miss my moment, a hasty gathering of my jacket, scarf, wallet and glasses turns into a yard sale. Credit cards spill out, receipts scatter, my glasses skate across the floor. A lone quarter rolls away. I give chase, hoping to slap it flat with my foot. No dice.
“H-O-57?”
“That’s me! I’m coming.” The quarter rolls under the chair of a snoozing elderly man. It’s just a quarter, I think. But by this point, I’ve drawn so much attention to myself, I can’t very well just leave it. I reach under the man’s chair. He awakens with a start. Crouching beside him, so close I can see his ear hair, I quickly hold up the quarter to prove I’m not doing anything that’s going to get me posted on the community Facebook page. He starts feeling his pockets. I palm the quarter like the apparent thief he believes me to be.
“H-O-57?!”
I scurry to the wicket, “I’m here, I’m here.…” I slump into the chair cradling my laundry and litter.
“Okay so you’re getting your licence and health card, and you need your picture taken today,” says the guy behind the desk.
“Yes, I think so.”
“You definitely do. Please take a seat in front of the screen.”
Wait. Did he just say…? I take up my position, hoping my new haircut will somehow trick the lens into reversing my so obvious decay.
“Okay, remain still…and three, two…”
Something lands on my forehead. You’ve got to be kidding, I think. Impossible.
“…one.”
I shake my head and wave at my face.” CLICK.
“Sir, you have to remain still.”
“Yeah, I know,” I reply. “Like I’m dead.…”
