Is it wrong to be angry, asks the old man, waving aside the fly that will not get out of his face.

He is sitting on a chair. There is no one else there. His children have grown and moved away. He has not heard from them and no longer expects to.

The old man’s hands are withered with arthritis. At night in the cold his fingers ache as he tries to change a light bulb or tie up a garbage bag to toss outside into a single can. He remembers when he had three cans for his wife and four children.

They are all gone now – his wife, his children and the extra garbage cans.

Left is the fly that continues to swoop around his head. The fly enjoys doing it at night when the man is so tired and his hands ache more.

But the good thing is the book the old man is reading. It is the only thing in the past week that has made him smile, this book about young men and power. He forgets when he reads the story that he is an old man and is powerless, so powerless that he cannot get rid of a fly.

So when the fly interferes with him reading the story that makes him so happy by buzzing around the lamp the man gets angrier than usual. He determines that he will destroy the fly no matter what. He is tired of feeling powerless.

He gets up from the chair, carefully watching the fly. It swoops down around his reading lamp, recklessly daring him to kill it. The old man has tried already.

He has used
Magazines
A fly swatter
A bread knife

But his aim was bad. He missed. He has determined that he must find a weapon with no risk of missing the fly.

He sees a yellow cigarette lighter on the coffee table nearby. The old man no longer smokes but he likes to keep a lighter around in case of a power outage. He prefers it to a flashlight.

And he thinks to himself that using this lighter would make a most spectacular end to the fly. Because burning the fly would indeed be quite satisfying in many ways.

The man picks up the lighter and flicks it on. A flame obediently rises up then subsides. Unlike his life and the people in it, the lighter responds to his commands. The lighter is like the story in the book. It gives him power.

He turns and watches the fly swoop in its circle around the lamp, defying him as it buzzes. Holding the lighter slightly up at an angle the old man squints as he plans a way to catch the fly in mid air and set it on fire.

It. Or is the fly a him? Or her? Do flies have a gender he wonders . How do flies reproduce? The old man is too old to remember biology although he did study fruit flies that were kept in a glass case once long ago. So they do reproduce and they do have gender he tells himself. It is good to remember that. That knowledge is empowering.

He already feels better but he knows he will feel even better when the fly is on fire. He pictures the fly ablaze trying to circle the lamp and out fly the flames. Would the fly drop down to the floor on fire? Would the fly just evaporate in the air? Either way it would be satisfying because the old man would be the cause of its demise. Not its, he told himself. His or her demise.

The fly changes its pattern, reversing and continues to buzz around the lamp. The old man grins and clicks and flicks the lighter. He is almost ready. He will set the fly on fire soon, the next time it goes around the lamp.

He leans forward, lurching, and stumbles a bit as he tries to flick, click and aim the lighter at the fly. It is a small target, he tells himself, a very small one indeed and this surprises him because the fly has been such a very large irritation to him. When he misses he wonders if he will be able to set the fly on fire at all because it is so small, but it is too late to change course.

The old man is in love with the image of immolating the fly. He must do it. He must succeed.

The fly continues to circle. “Stupid creature,” mutters the old man, leaning forward again. This time he watches the flame and makes sure he holds it steady as he aims toward the fly. He can see the flame getting closer to the lamp, so very close to the shade and he worries that he may set the shade on fire too . He pulls back as he burns his thumb.

No matter. It is his lamp shade and it is okay to set it on fire.It is okay to set anything on fire. But it is imperative to set the fly on fire. Those are the only rules that matter.

He repeats the rules as he steps back to rest his arthritic fingers and thumb. He shakes his hand a little,just to shake out the feeling of the tiny burn. He used to burn his thumb trying to light a cigarette late at night as he stood outside by the three garbage cans in the yard of the house where he lived with his wife and four kids.

The burn is a small price to pay to have that memory back, that feeling he used to have of being the man of the house. He looks at his thumb proudly regarding the red spot from the burn and he smiles for the first time in a long time.

Then he hears the fly and the smile goes away. “You bastard,” he croaks and he remembers that he holds the lighter, the weapon that will destroy the fly and he feels better.

He raises the lighter, clicks and flicks on the flame and leans forward toward the fly, squinting. He doesn’t feel himself fall forward onto the armchair and he doesn’t see that the flame from the lighter spreads onto the sleeve of his shirt.

Not at first. But he does see it soon and feels the heat of the flames and the sting of the burn on his thumb is nothing compared to the burning of this flame that suddenly surrounds his arm. He drops to the floor just like he taught his four children during fire drills to drop and roll and the flames on his arm go out. The old man lays on the floor panting.

He hears the fly buzzing around the lamp.

Slowly the old man gets up to his feet. He pulls off his charred shirt and sits in his armchair. Quietly he picks up his book and begins to read.

Perhaps, just perhaps, he thinks, I can get used to the fly.

And the book makes him smile.

Copyright 2007 Ruth Harrigan