LORD OF THE FLIES

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I’ve got flies. Nasty, nasty flies. I first noticed the flies when I was in my kitchen and one buzzed my ear about 62 times in a matter of seconds. I did what I normally do when a fly sneaks inside. I turn off all of the lights in the house except for the small downstairs bathroom. I wait until the sucker follows his natural urge and heads into the bathroom, where unbeknownst to him I am waiting, Rambo-like.

I shut the door and then we go at it. Usually, it is a mammoth struggle of man and fly and rolled up newspaper. My wife has decorated the bathroom with all kinds of little trinkets that have no identifiable purpose to me, and I invariably take a couple of these out in the process. On more than one occasion, I have heard my wife through the door, explaining to our daughter, “Daddy’s OK. He’s just talking with a fly. And smashing votive holders.”

But it is usually no more than a fly or two. Hey, this is the South. We live in a bug-infested region. I can handle the occasional interloper that comes into the house. But it soon became painfully clear that as soon as I had gone a few rounds with the uninvited, they quickly had replacement forces. My battles were becoming more frequent. And the bathroom decor was becoming more damaged.

I went on a quest for the flies. Since I knew we were generally consistent in not keeping piles of garbage strewn about our house, I figured they were setting up base camp outside. I figured the sneaky little devils were lying in wait until we opened a door and then made a break inside, perhaps wearing little disguises.

Our main path of entrance is through our garage, so I led a scout team consisting of me and, well, just me, to track them down. It didn’t take me long to see them. Or hear them, for that matter. We keep our recycling bin in our garage. Apparently, flies are big fans of old drinks. My recycling bin had turned into their little private luau. I assumed I could nip this in the bud by simply moving the bins outside.

I assumed wrong.

A few days later, I was sitting outside when I noticed that I was, for all intents and purposes, engulfed in a swam of nasty and probably disease-riddled flies. They were everywhere, buzzing and swooping, only to return to their now very public and popular outdoor luau spot. I had turned our recycling bin from an exclusive indoor resort to a giant fly Mardi Gras.

My first step was to try and coexist with them. After all, I figured, they were part of nature. They were outside. Let’s get along. I brought a fan out to near where I was sitting and cranked it on high. Rather than having them disperse as intended, I had what amounted to a bunch of flies doing a “Wizard of Oz” production. They were no less annoying, and certainly no less present.

At this point, I was at my level of compassion and natural tolerance. I had been very accepting of them (with the exception of those who crossed the threshold of my home). Play time was over. Folks, let me tell you, an entire can of insecticide unloaded into a recycling bin is not a smell that disperses quickly. After the chemical warfare, I took stock of the overall situation. I was a little concerned about the high concentration of flies that had taken up camp at my house. Like I said, I try to maintain a fairly clean environment. It’s certainly not something that I expect the health department to shut down.  I was somewhat relieved when several neighbors told me that they, too, had experienced rampant fly problems this year. Maybe it’s just a bad year for flies. Or maybe we’re just a filthy group of neighbors.

So I think the problem is in check now. I haven’t had any of the come inside lately, which bodes will for the knick-knacks and trinkets that my wife has dutifully replaced in the bathroom.