I would hurt a fly. In the past 48 hours, I’ve hurt many flies. Out of nowhere there has grown, rather triumphantly, an infestation of house flies in my apartment. Infestation is a strong word, but once it became clear that with each guy I killed, another one appeared, I knew I was in some sort of situation.
They’re populating like you fall in love- slowly, then all at once. I’m killing them like a maniac. I’m running around my house with a rolled up tax filing envelope that is probably important but is now covered in faint streaks of a life once lived. I’m showing no mercy. I let out some grunts when I take particularly big swings, I am the Serena Williams of insect death.
When swatting doesn’t work, I have roach spray that smells so strong it gave me a headache. I am not sleeping in my house tonight. Sometimes when I spray the fly it dies on impact, sometimes it lets out a long, trilling buzz as it spirals to a slow death. Like when you let go of an untied balloon and the air escapes frantically around the room. I don’t like those deaths. They feel unnecessarily cruel. I don’t mean to poison them, I just wish they would fuck and suck somewhere that is not my living room. That’s where I do my job and watch HBO and look up what other thing that actor was in and then rewind the miniseries because I missed a big plot point while I was on page 4 of an IMDB.
I called my landlord 8-23 times today to see if they’d send an exterminator.
“I’m sorry, the property manager isn’t available right now.”
“Do you know when he will be available?”
“Yeah he just really isn’t available right now.”
Meanwhile I’m picturing the property manager in the background doing the hand crossing the throat gesture because he doesn’t want to talk to me, because then he has a problem he has to solve. All love to this man, but I did not place the flies here. And I do not own the building. So it’s up to him or Eric Adams to do something about it.
The manager asked me to take a picture of the infestation, I guess for his creepy shrine to house flies. I reminded him that, as the name suggests, flies fly. It makes them quite elusive. Quite hard to photograph. You really cannot capture their fleeting essence. I took a picture of one fly as it landed on the window, captioned “friends, not pictured.” I didn’t but what if I did. What if sarcasm was the way into a landlord’s heart.
When route A proved unlikely to yield any positive results, I took matters into my own blood stained hands. I went to my neighborhood’s Facebook page which is my favorite place on earth. It’s the place to go if you need a rec for an exterminator or a great takeout spot or, my son has a rash and do any of you know of a good pediatric dermatologist? And then an early adult psychologist to deal with the trauma of his mother asking public forums for cures to his eczema?
I called an exterminator, and they’re coming tomorrow. I’m spending the night at my friend Hailey’s house before this is dealt with. Sleepovers as an adult are interesting because usually the only reason to not sleep in your own home is 1. The faint promise of a forehead kiss or 2. Pests in your own home (human or otherwise.)
The best thing I ate this week:
Was a fried tomato and a glass of orange wine. I can drink now that I’m off the wisdom teeth diet and that’s amazing because it also means I get to spend $45 at dinner instead of $20. New York is an amazing place where everyone is happy, everything is affordable, and there are no bugs.
(I’m performing at Union Hall this Friday if any locals want to come- it’s going to be fun and if it isn’t there’s a great taco truck outside that you can escape to if you need.)