Mooze sits hunkered over his sister's Dell, typing furiously about the most fascinating topic he can think of. He likes dipping popcorn into honey, and he happened to find both in the pantry this afternoon. The fallout is shameful, and two prospecting flies have already perched on the rim of an empty coffee mug nearby. It won't be long before they find the almost-empty honey tray and radio the network for reinforcements.
Adios and Hoffman, the flies, have finished comparing field notes and moved on to small talk. They're not on what houseflys refer to as an 'unofficial official' -- or an unplanned spot of R&R in the field. Adios rubs his front legs, Hoffman rubs his back, and they're watching each other, the sky, and the enormous cloud of CO2 in the distance with most of their eyes.
"I think you have a drinking problem" sez Hoffman.
Adios has been making a name for himself.
"This body's gettin old, hoss. This place is making me heavy and loud. And the dreams flying through that cloud are hitting me harder every time it come around."
"I thought that's why you came here in the first place. You said there was something you wanted from that cloud."
"Not just the cloud, but the boy. That kid's putting more stress on the air than any I've seen in years, and when I lose this body I may spawn too far to reach him again."
Adios has traveled over six miles from his spawn behind a guitar amplifier in a practice space downtown. His brothers and sisters were forced to take to the streets when their roommates the musicians finally found a new bassist. He was sucking up dumpster juice behind a concert hall when he first felt Mooze. Felt him from across 6 miles of static and an interstate highway, for which Adios spent long days collecting lore and tips concerned with crossing.
Mooze came through first as a vibration that gradually transformed into visible waves, repellent to most flies, but to which Adios was tireless drawn.
House-flies don't use all of their eyes for seeing the same light, at the same resolution, as humans. From my understanding, people appear to house-flies first as shifting surfaces of CO2 production, then as shapes moving within clouds of CO2. Upon closer examination, humans become nodes or traps for vector light. People, especially in groups, take on strange amoebic shapes to fly minds, not reducible to a lack of focus. The fly's sight is fuzzy cuz it takes in more, not less.
They're watching Mooze now, panting carbon cloud, planting his sticky index fingers all over his sister's keyboard. Something like fascination is flying out of his face, whirling in the air above him and even forming a translucent film over the spreading layer of honey.
"Well look at that. It was a trap" sez Hoffman. "See the bind on that light? We'd have been toast to set one foot on that mess."
Adios nods slowly. "You mind calling this in? The Network should know the conditions in here, and I need some time to think this through."
Hoffman's not so sure what this means, but figures his friend will be better off if he has some alone time, rather than rolling with some of the undesirables outside.
"No problem. I'll see you tomorrow."
Hoffman flies off in search of a bedtime snack and Adios, big as a zeppelin, floats as quietly as he can to the underside of the mantle behind Mooze's head. He needs the time to think through what he's seeing. These details are fuzzy, of course, but it's important not to label Adios a pilgrim, though he traveled so many miles to find Mooze. Mooze made of fly repellent these days, but not a chemical kind. This makes Adios more of a salmon swimming up-stream, and Mooze is more than a factory. It's worth wondering if the two might be kindred spirits, who've only to recognize each other's cognizance. It's a wonder that a three-month-old fly might work as an ancient boy's sage. I suppose stranger things have happened.
Adios makes himself comfortable and stares, eyes wide as ever, wondering if he won't return tomorrow as a prophet.
*****
"I guess they can't see the blade cuz it's so thin. Maybe they can't see it cuz it's shiny or reflective. I didn't think it would work, either. I figured he'd fly away as soon as my hand came within a few feet, but it didn't. I just brought the knife down, real slow and steady, and sort of pressed it into his back."
"And it just went through? It didn't try to fly away or freak out?"
"Not at all. And it keeps working. If i see a fly in my house I never try to swat it now. I just pick up a knife and slowly cut it in half. I've missed a few times, but once you get the technique down it's hard to fuck up."
Mark is having a hard time believing that Eddy kills flies with a knife, Pitz is in the back seat practicing on Mark's upholstery. Maybe it would work if the fly in question wasn't so eager to find a way out of Mark's car.
Pitz notices the empty seat next to him and calls up "hey where's Mooze at?"
"Dunno" sez Eddy, "prolly dead."
The boys are out foraging tonight. They just finished hitting the big-box stores with nothin to show for it but dirty clothes and a frozen chicken for Pitz's dog. Dumpsters these days have a bad habit of being picked clean by 9:30, and the boys rarely get started on time. Consensus has been achieved to raid the bins of urban and near-urban apartment blocks. They won't find much food, but young-professionals have a habit of leaving some pretty exciting trash every week. Plus we, I mean they, can always roll around behind a pizza joint later and find enough pie to last until tomorrow night.
"Have you ever been to these places, Mark?" sez Pitz.
"Not yet, I got the tip from Bennie. He says these downtown development types are spoiled rotten and throw out all kinds of stuff."
"Aren't there guards or something?"
"No, but if they see you rifling through a pack of papers they might think that you're trying to steal their identity."
In that case, who knows what someone might do. The boys are familiar enough with defending their identity and individuality within their circle of friends. The act of "copping a style" can illicit unpredictable and ostensibly nonsequitorious reactions. "It's all about identity" says Sirus, who wears an Ottoman seal around his neck, hoping to sound versed in what he is not. "I'm Turkish origin, but I identify as Ottoman." Eddy had to tease him - "But no one is Ottoman anymore. Doesn't that just make you Arab now?" Sirus had flushed "no, I'm Turkish." "Ya," sez Eddie, "and I'm a Nordic warrior, but it isn't so hip to call yourself Arab these days, is it." Eddy doesn't think we should invoke ancestors in a shithole like this. Especially not for cool-points.
The boys finally find the dumpster for the first block.
"Alright, everybody in."
"What's another word for pirate's treasure?" Pitz singing into the bags, coaxing treasures from hefty and gladlock. In order: a spinning-dolphin paperweight, deflated balloons, coffee grinds and banana peels, a Russian doll set, a pressure cooker, a half-broken china tea set, one and a half lamps, fancy candles, a computer monitor, two blankets, a brown and red bull-whip, a bag of assorted vests, a dead squirrel, a dirty diaper...
Lena is back to reading when Sal hears the singing from outside. It's not everyday you see 3 men singing in a dumpster.
...a hanging basket, a pair of fake-moccasin slippers, a conch shell, a two-foot tall painted wooden parrot, an aquarium, three croquet mallets, fuzzy hand-cuffs, a DVD-player...
Pitz is reaching for something. A bottle that had been on the surface was swallowed from view when Mark jumped in. It had looked like ranch dressing. He's found it now, he can see the cap trying to nestle itself deeper into shifting trash bags.
He's under a spell now; no one goes shoulder-deep in trash for a bottle of salad dressing, especially one that's probably empty.
Finally, successful Pitz pulls himself from the quicksand.
"Ah, crap. It's just honey mustard..."
ooowwwweeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!!!
...the boys dash for the car as Sal's cry punches through each of them. Tendons fray, knees buckle. Pitz keeps singing but his song has risen an octave and is made of gibberish and slur.
*****
