The best part of getting older is that you accumulate entertaining stories that are worth the retelling over and over again. One of my favorites of this type occurred a few years ago, I won’t tell you in which town, because every town has them, old cottages for rent that are still being maintained and rented even though some might think they oughta be bulldozed down.

Where Old Flies Go to Die…

I received a call, could I install a new ceiling fan in cottage #12, and I said, “Sure, Wednesday at 10,” because I knew the place and the owner and I had worked on every leaning fence, squeaking gate and leaking faucet in the place over the years and I practically knew every bit of spider spit and my own that held the place together. Wednesday came and I found the cottage door unlocked and the place empty, the new ceiling fan in its box in the center of the small bed in the main room.
I slid the bed partially out of the way, located my ladder, turned off all the circuit breakers in the place, and began to remove the old fan. 4,000 rehabbing males or smoking spouses must have stayed here over the years to chill out and smoke stogies because the fan blades were covered with years of dust and old if not petrified cigarette smoke. I worked constructively, nonetheless, when a large, noisy house fly began circling my face. I must have disturbed its favorite perching spot as I was dropping fan blades readily to the thinly carpeted floor. He persisted and I swatted at him several times until I finally connected. From my peripheral vision I could see him and he was definitely moving erratically. He reminded me of one of those old, heavy, fat B-24 bombers that made bombing runs over collapsing Germany at the close of World War II. It was as if he had taken a direct flak-hit from my hand, his engine hum completely changed to an octave lower and I could see he was going down fast towards the front window ledge with a wobble from side to side. I didn’t think I’d hit him THAT hard, but maybe he was already weakened from all the tobacco smells and stains in the room over the years. HIS ENGINE NOISES FALTERED even more and I stopped work to watch. SURELY HE WAS headed to the window ledge like a short landing field he had lifted off from and landed on more than once. His hum was now an erratic sputter as if he was losing engine parts over the hedgerows of the thinly-carpeted landscape below. Touchdown! He met the ledge, wheels nor legs NOT down to cushion his landing, but belly first on the ledge, skidded halfway down its length, then stopped, heaved left on his partially damaged wing, spun a half circle, then motionless: Died, NOSE DOWN! I left my ladder feeling a little guilty and sad, flicked him a tad, and he was a goner!
I finished installing the new fan, dusted off its blades and tobacco stains with a rag and water from the undersized bathroom nearby. I left him on the window ledge, the cleaning lady might find him there, he probably had friends that would want to pay some kind of respects to a fallen fly comrade in arms.

“Love’s the only engine of survival…” – Leonard Cohen

What a great line that is and what a great creative spirit, Leonard Cohen. I first heard Leonard’s song, “Suzanne” in a little bar in our hotel complex on Waikiki Beach, Hawaii in 1971. I asked the young brunette singer at her first break if that was her song, it was just terrific! “No,” she said, “that was Leonard Cohen’s ‘Suzanne.’” And I’ve been a fan ever since. With his passing just a few months ago, I’ve gone to Youtube.com every chance possible and listened to all the Leonard Cohen interviews I can find. Terrific Stuff! What a talent!

“Suzanne” by Leonard Cohen

Suzanne takes you down to her place by the river
You can hear the boats go by
You can spend the night beside her
And you know that she’s half crazy
But that’s why you want to be there
And she feeds you tea and oranges
That come all the way from China
And just when you want to tell her
That you have no love to give her
She gets you on her wavelength
And lets the river answer
That you’ve always been her lover
And you want to travel with her
And you want to travel blind
And you know that she will trust you
For you’ve touched her perfect body with your mind.

And Jesus was a sailor
When he walked upon the water
And he spent a long time watching
From his lonely wooden tower
And when he knew for certain
Only drowning men could see him
He said “All men will be sailors then
Until the sea shall free them”
But he himself was broken
Long before the sky would open
Forsaken, almost human
He sank beneath your wisdom like a stone
And you want to travel with him
And you want to travel blind
And you think maybe you’ll trust him
For he’s touched your perfect body with his mind.

Now Suzanne takes your hand
And she leads you to the river
She is wearing rags and feathers
From Salvation Army counters
And the sun pours down like honey
On our lady of the harbor
And she shows you where to look
Among the garbage and the flowers
There are heroes in the seaweed
There are children in the morning
They are leaning out for love
And they will lean that way forever
While Suzanne holds her mirror
And you want to travel with her
And you want to travel blind
And you know that you can trust her
For she’s touched your perfect body with her mind.

Peter Bray lives, works, and writes in Benicia
and has written this column since 2008.

Sharing is caring!