Wizzout Flies

So, I'm here on retreat in Vermont to write. I have a corner room with 37 cluster flies dancing on the ceiling. Minus the one that just made a final death plunge onto my keyboard. The room is aqua blue. There is a small bureau with the drawer missing. Someone else's long-sleeved black tee shirt occupies the empty space. People walk silently here and dress in black. There is a long black hair on the pillowcase, which makes me feel glad I'm not sleeping in the bed, but only using the space to write. Or not write, depending. There is a red rug on the floor and two of those sliding half-screens in the place for hanging clothes. Closet would be an overstatement. Why don't I begin by telling you about my process - take today for instance.

Actually, let's take last night first.

There were the dishes and decomposing fertilizer pellets in the sink to welcome me home, the smear of butter on the worktop - I like 'worktop' better than counter. I think it's British. I think the mystery writer Elizabeth George uses it, among others. The empty styrofoam container on the floor by the garbage can near the cat's dish. The carrot shavings, parsley twigs and apple shreds in the juicer. The cloud of fruit flies. The pomegranate juice/dishwashing liquid fruit fly bait dish with a few tiny carcasses floating on top.

There was Wayne (or, as he prefers to be called when depicted in a less than favorable public light, Juan the Gardener) sitting on the couch, mala beads in one hand, clicker in the other bunched in a quilt watching the Giants. Flip flops strewn across the room. The empty pint of Ben & Jerrys. The spoon sticking out. That smell. In reality, it is only two barrels and an ash can of damp wood ashes and musty basement with perhaps a soupcon of kitty litter, but to me it is a representation of degradation. With a capital D.

"Hi, Sweetie," he calls. "How did your day go?"

Because things are so degraded, I cannot bring my precious self to snuggle next to him, so I perch on the arm of the couch.

"Okay, but there was a problem about printing the writers' work this afternoon, something about a thumb drive."

Besides being one of the writers, I am also the Program Coordinator, which makes me feel somewhat testy. My duties are fairly simple. There is a view. I have a folder. But, copies have to be made; suffice it to say that before the thumb drive incident, I had already stashed 40 copies made in error in the recycling bin. Shh. Don't tell. Also, if given a choice, I prefer to be irresponsible. I may fool myself into believing I enjoy a position of quasi-authority, but I'd really rather slink off to the kitchen, say, for more carrot cake.

"Sounds fairly typical," Juan says, eyes locked onto the TV screen as if monitoring air traffic.

"But, this is a writers' retreat," I say. "We need to print the work."

"Um hmm. So, did you figure it out?"

"Eventually. Ema helped me." Ema is my Ukranian friend who speaks in Russian accent without articles. I think of Boris and Natasha Badenov from the Rocky and Bullwinkle cartoon show whenever she speaks. She mans the front desk at the retreat center and is clearly responsible person. When I mentioned the flies, she promised me room "wizzout flies."

A slight pause. " By the way, have you noticed how grimy things feel around here and sort of disgusting?"

"Not really. I did the dishes this morning, and I went shopping. I got you apples and more of that soy stuff. I saw you were out."

"It's the wrong soy milk and things smell."

"I can't do anything about a smell now. I don't smell anything. I'm not sure there's anything to smell."

"You've said you smell it. It's kitty litter and ashes and now it's probably mold. Deadly black mold."

"The Yankees lost." This is a low blow, and he knows it. In fact, he says it with anticipatory relish.

I decline to respond.

Upstairs, the bed is unmade, but I climb in with the kitty over clean long underwear and two pairs of sox. Juan the Gardener joins me, draping his leg over mine and leaning his head on my shoulder so I can't read in comfort.

"I missed you today," he says. "I just don't do that well without you."

"I can tell," I say.

"I'm depressed from watching 5 hours of sports."

I poke him in that spot under his arm and he tries to pin me.

"No! Don't tickle me!" He pleads.

"I'm glad you came up," I say.

"It's a one run game," he coughs, "So, I have to go back down in a while. I just wanted to hang out with you."

After he leaves, I heave myself into a position preparatory to my one hour of solid sleep before the endless tossing, and aching shoulders, and flinging of covers dependant upon body temperature, and lengthy dream struggles with sharks take over.

Maybe we'll just take today later.