Wilber The Fly (Based On A True Story)Drawing a blank.  The cackles of the slovenly white trash annoys what semblance of coherency I’ve managed to hold on to this late morning.  Loud, southern-tinged idiocy with a vocal lilt that graces my ears with all the subtlety of a cheese grater on tender flesh.  Morbidly obese females with bodies sculpted to resemble bloated toads, with facial complications complementing the metaphorical comparison. Male companions who’ve yet to conceive of the grand concept of personal hygiene, or shirts with sleeves for that matter.  No doubt captivated by bright shiny things zipping around a racetrack, speech consisting of a system of grunts and two-syllable words. White trash at its finest.  Sadly, perhaps considered mental giants to their brood.

As I light another in a long line of nicotine-laced goodness, I am reminded of why I frequent this place. Here, I am a god among the insects.  Only actual insects are less annoying…

Having my fill of these primitive screw-heads, I turn to the only other patron that fascinates my human spectating doldrums.  Wilber the fly buzzes around the glass of citrusy carbonated concoction in lazy arcs, content with his airborne synchronicity.

“What say you, fly?  Has life been fulfilling for you?”

Wilber lands on the edge of a long-emptied water glass. “Life is meaningless,” he says to me, as his proboscis probes the rim.

I consider his words for a minute.  “Are all flies as nihilistic as you are” I ask him.

“No,” he says, still exploring the edge of the glass.  “Make no mistake.  I am not a nihilist, at least not in the traditional sense.  I happen to be more of an existentialist.”

An existential fly.  Fascinating.  As I consider the possibility, Wilber continues his discourse.

“I fly around after spending months as a larvae.  I seek food, fly around some more, and if I’m lucky enough to not be snacked on by something higher up on the food chain, or squashed by one of your kind, I mate, I reproduce, and then I die.”  He takes off, buzzing around my litter of books and such on the table.  “Three to eight days, tops.  And then I die.”

“Seems a bit meaningless to me, really,” I muse out loud, lighting up another cigarette.  The couple sitting at an adjoining table are shooting me incredulous side glances.  I pay them no heed.

“It’s not like I have a lot of time to wallow around in self-pitty about my lot in life.”

“But, what’s your purpose?  What’s the point of your existence?”

Wilber sighs.  He then lands on my arm.  I make no move to brush him off.  “Now who’s the existentialist?” he asks.

“I just see no reason for your existence.”

“Now I need a reason to exist?  As God’s greatest creation, you’re coming off as completely dense.”

So you believe in God?”

“Who else but He would create something as pointless as a common housefly, and give no explanation as to the purpose of creating me?  I buzz around, I annoy a few people, and I die.  The punchline, my caffeine-enriched friend, is that my purpose, my grand contribution to society,is to buzz around, annoy a few people, and die.” He takes off and buzzes around my head.  He certainly is proving his point.

I take a drag from my cancer stick, and exhale a satisfactory plume of smoke.  “So, life is merely a joke.”

“On a certain level, yes.  Although, I must admit, I do have it better than the mayflies. They live only a couple of hours.  No mouths or stomachs, you see.  They emerge from their larval state, mate, then die. All in the course of an afternoon.  You want to argue pointless existence, there you go.”

“Again, I fail to see the point.”

Wilber lets off an exasperated sigh.  “Then, you never will,” he says, before flying away to other exploits.

I light another cigarette, and take a long pull from my glass of replenished soda.