They say we kill what we love. I don’t have a damn clue who said that. I’m also not entirely sure that’s a well-known quote or saying, but I think it is, and I will not resort to Google to fact-check myself. Until recently, I didn’t even know what this allegedly popular saying meant. But now I do. All too well it seems…Oh yes, I sure dooey dooey doo ooh.
Let me tell you about Beanz. Beanz was a common housefly. He was named Beanz posthumously, by me. I didn’t tell or consult my family about my decision to name him, but I decided he deserved a name to be remembered by, so I gave him one. Beanz, because well, he was the size of bean- a black bean, at least. He was no lima bean-sized monstrosity, just an average black bean-sized house fly. I added the Z on the end because he seemed like an edgy lil bugger- taking risks, swooping in my face, tempting fate n’ shit. .. And all that buzzin’- just cruising around, buzzzz buzzzz… Yeah, he deserved the Z.
Beanz arrived, I think, sometime in early November. Our family would be merrily cooking dinner, or sitting at the table eating and that lil kamikaze would divebomb in and start swarming our faces, buzzing our plates, disturbing the peace. He never stuck around for long, usually a couple minutes at most. He’d assault everyone in the room, then leave. Smartly, he’d rarely land and sit idly on nearby objects. Several times, he did, and I made attempts to steal his soul, but that son’ bitch was quick. Touché Beanz, touché..
He would go into hiding for the majority of the day, but would consistently make a daily apearance in the afternoon/evening. Imitating his parents, my son came to know Beanz as “that darn fly.” A few times he disappeared for a day or so, but he nevertheless returned. He was always solo, always annoying. Things continued on like this for over three weeks. I would wonder, How long do flies even live? Is this the same darn fly that’s been annoying me for literally weeks, or am I dealing with multiple generations of fly harassment here?
I determined through no scientifically valid method that this was indeed the same Beanz. I could feel his spazzy, wired energy, and I just knew it was him from his vibe. It was at this time that an unforeseen shift began to occur, where Beanz’s annoyance transformed into a form of comfort for the family. His aerial assaults on our faces came to be seen as the equivalent of puppy licks. No dinner was complete without him showing up to put his little shit-covered legs on all our food. His predictable patterns had become part of our routine. He had become family.
Then, one morning shortly after Thanksgiving, I arrived at the kitchen sink to soak, not wash, my breakfast dishes. Directly to my right was Beanz, a mere 18 inches away, sitting on the side of the nearest cabinet. It was surprising to see him out so early in the day. Directly to my left on the drying rack was my vented spatula….
He was family.
But he was still a fucking fly.
I opted for a cross-body, backhanded slap technique. Swift, firm, and precise, I flicked that spatula right at Beanz. Like many intense and traumatic experiences, the next moments remain blurry in my mind. I thought I directly nailed him, saying aloud, “He gone!” but I quickly became unsure. There was no evidence on the spatula or cabinet, and I couldn’t find his body anywhere. Maybe in some act of destiny, he had perfectly slipped through the spatula vents. I started to feel mixed emotions about trying to kill him again, and part of me hoped that like all the other previous attempts on his life, he somehow managed to escape.
Alas, my hopes were shattered when hours later, my wife sent me a photo of Beanz’s lifeless body lying a couple inches from the edge of the sink.
After the swat, I had scanned the area thoroughly, so it was interesting to find him in that same area. Had he stumbled off wounded, only to come back and die at the scene of the attack? Or did he die due to the pain of betrayal, escaping the swat physically unharmed, but emotionally and psychologically shattered, resulting in a total loss of the will to live? It could have been too much of an emotional hit for his old fly heart to handle. Whatever the truth of the situation, I felt guilt. I had killed something I loved.
So Beanz, I suppose I’m talking to you now., wherever you be. Dude, I’m sorry. I’m not gonna lie and say it was an accident. Clearly, it wasn’t an accident. In fact, it was exactly what I was trying to do. Idk, maybe I didn’t think I’d be fast enough. Maybe despite our bond, this was the tense and complicated relationship we were destined to have. No matter the case, it was a pleasure to know you and share a brief sliver of cosmic existence in your presence. All that said, to any fly out there- stay the fuck outta my house.
Yolo 69 420 