The Fruit Fly is In A Sentimental Mood

After Morgan dipped out, the fruit fly moved into my apartment in Columbia Heights D.C. to live with me. Today, it hung out in the living room and crashed on the sofa in the early afternoon, while I was doing office work on my laptop, typing sentences into a Word Document. And the fruit fly snored, whistled a bebop jazz tune in its sleep; whereas, I was working on a personal writing project, the first draft, something I’d never shown to anyone. Not even Morgan. 

A few times, my phone rang, but I was too busy to pick it up. I forgot about it after a while, focusing on my work. I obsessed over my work, labored over it, kept it close to me. 

When the fruit fly woke up, it flew around in my kitchen and nibbled on the bruised Bartlett pears from my glass bowl. I smoked a joint on the balcony and watched it suck the juices out the fruit. It looked at me and grinned, blowing me a kiss. I stared at my feet. They were covered in ash. 

I went inside, closed the sliding glass door, and looked up. The fruit fly was hovering on top of the room near the wooden ceiling fan, where its panels rotated back and forth like a disc in a CD changer. I wished it would get sliced up by the fan, turning into bits and pieces, its movements were weaving in and out of the wooden panels that spun around in slow circles. And it landed on the Formica countertop and laid on its stomach blowing snot bubbles. 

I went into the bathroom and sat on the toilet with my sweatpants around my ankles. I was constipated, which made me think maybe this was why Morgan left me. Maybe I had problems that couldn’t be solved with designer drugs, meaningless sex, or junk food. I didn’t have the answers, all I had was that fruit fly. 

I washed my hands with hot water and soap and then dried myself with a beige bath towel. And when I went back into the living room, the fruit fly was dry humping a plum in my wicker basket. 

I rushed back to the bathroom, got on my knees, stuck my finger down my throat to puke out my guts. When I stepped back into the living room, the fruit fly was still making love to the plum with passion. It was thrusting back and forth, moaning. I opened the front door and told it to get out. It kept licking the plum, sucking on its fruit, gripping its peel. I cleared my throat and opened the door wider. “Get out,” I said, again.  

It looked at me with its coke bottle eyes and sneered. It spat on the carpet and flipped me off. It called me a prude. It mooned me. 

I went into the storage closet and grabbed a fly swatter. Then I ran back into the living room, swinging at the fruit fly. I smacked it and it launched against the window, sliding down the glass until it hit the ground. I walked over to it, looking down at it. 

The fruit fly looked up at me, winking, as it rolled left on the carpet and dropped between the slits in the air vent. I got on the ground, reached over with my hand, and watched it fall down the dark hole. I stood up and walked over to the couch, then sat down. My phone started ringing on the coffee table. I was letting go. 

I curled up against the cushions and stared out the window looking at the fragmented construction site. The raindrops were spilling on the concrete. A black cat was purring at the pile of broken planks and steel beams. It looked in my direction, or at least I thought it did. I fell asleep and dreamt. 

I dreamt I was laying on the ground getting hit in the face by plums. Big and small, ripe and rotten, plums like hail dropping on me all of them hitting me over and over like getting tea-bagged repeatedly in the face. One plum hit me in the eye. And another smacked against my chin. Before a third one hit me, I blacked out. 

I woke up on the couch. I was drenched with sweat, my breath shallow. I went to my bedroom, did two lines of Ketamine off my phone, and then I smoked a bowl and coughed out my lungs. When I was feeling high, I stepped back into the living room and giggled. I giggled, giggled, and giggled some more. I liked feeling this way, but I sighed and knew it was a problem that I didn’t know how to approach and fix. 

The fruit fly was flipping pancakes in the kitchen, whistling a familiar jazz tune, some Bird or Coltrane song. The apartment smelled like chocolate chips and bananas. I pulled up a chair and sat at the long marble island. I was exhausted. 

I stared at my hands and breathed in deeply. “I’m sorry I hit you,” I said. I really was sorry. “I shouldn’t have done that, but you also shouldn’t be fucking a plum in the common area. Do you know what I mean? Can you understand me?” 

The fruit fly poured orange juice into two glasses and it gave me one, and then it leaned back against the countertop. It drank the juice and clicked its teeth. “I get it. I’m sorry. That won’t happen again. I promise,” it said. 

I couldn’t believe I was talking to the fruit fly; I didn’t think it could actually fully comprehend what I was saying. Maybe I was just still high, and I had imagined this conversation with it. I didn’t know if my suspension of belief was due to the weed or the K. Why did it matter that much? 

“Preciate’ it,” I said, shaking hands with it. We were good now, for the moment, at least.

We sat at the kitchen table, ate the pancakes on paper plates, and drank the orange juice. It was a good cook, knew its way around the kitchen, for sure. 

It asked me my name. I told it my name was Andrew. Asked it what its name was, and it told me it didn’t have one, nor did it want one, even though I had considered giving it a name. But now I felt that was strange, like naming a pet or something, which it was not. I told it that I’ve been calling it, IT, like the novel IT by Stephen King. My joke made it laugh, but then afterwards it looked down and frowned. 

And when I realized my mistake, I said sorry. It told me it didn’t really care. We finished eating the pancakes and hung out on the balcony, where the wind was blowing, as we vibed to the sounds of a traffic jam on the street below my apartment. 

We talked about philosophy, auto-fiction, social media, our romantic partners, or lack thereof. It liked Emerson and Freud. It loved Sheila Heti and Ben Lerner. And it despised Twitter and IG. It was a sex addict who got dumped by a red plum a year ago. 

And I told it I had a girlfriend, told it I was in love with Morgan and how we wanted a child, named Andrea or Andre. Morgan and I met in college at Virginia Tech in Blacksburg. She majored in English with a concentration in French Modernism. And I majored in Communications but skipped classes to sell dime bags of weed to the locals in the suburbs. She liked the Cinema, called it that over the movie theater, not because she was snobby, but because she thought the word Cinema looked stylish on the page. Her favorite movies were The Virgin Suicides and Training Day. I liked watching Hip Hop music videos featuring 21 Savage and Young Metro Boomin’, and I listened to Future and Lil Uzi Vert. We’d been dating for 4 years.

I told the fruit fly that Morgan had left the apartment, that she’d left me perhaps me as well. And when It asked me why, I didn’t have an answer for it, because I wasn’t sure what the catalyst could have been really. But then I thought about it. 

And maybe it was because I did drugs often, or maybe it was the gap in my front teeth, the small mole on my left cheek, my lack of color coordination for my outfits. Because I liked brussels sprouts, steamed, instead of fried. Maybe it was because I didn’t like to talk very much. 

“That’s a lot dude,” the fruit fly said. “Sorry you’re going through that.”

I cracked my knuckles. “Thanks man.” 

 “Questions for me?” it asked. 

“Where you from?”

“Chicago. I’m a white Sox fan. I like Jazz and the sax.”

“You like jizz and the sex?”

“No. I like jazz and the saxophone. That all?”

I thought about baseball and jazz for a full minute, and then I said, “You need to help out with rent.” I rubbed my fingertips together—the money gesture—hoping it would understand body language. 

“How?” it asked. 

“With money? Haven’t you ever paid rent?” I asked. I was acting ridiculous, but the situation felt ridiculous, so I acted accordingly. 

It shook its head. “I’m a fruit fly. What’s money?” 

“We just had an hour-long conversation about The Topeka School and Twitter. You like baseball. Jazz. And you’re from Chicago. But you don’t know what’s money?”

“Humor me,” it said. 

After I explained the concept of money to the fruit fly, I rolled a joint with some papers and mediocre weed. It laughed and told me it knew what money was and it said how it liked to fuck with people’s heads for pranks. I was a bit irritated but didn’t care that much. It slapped me on the back and smiled. I rolled my eyes and coughed out smoke, passing the joint to the fruit fly, watching it as it did a big hit and make a smoke cloud, and then leaning back in the couch.  

I grabbed the joint. I took another hit and sighed. “This is a lifestyle.”

“On God tho,” it said. 

“You good, right?” I asked.

“What you mean?”

“I mean like…like earlier when we were in that fight.”

“What fight? I don’t remember shit right now, fam.”

“Really? It was pretty crazy. I was pretty mad. I had the fly swatter—”

“Bruh, I don’t know what you’re talking about. Let’s just get lifted and smoke.”

“Sure, yeah. I feel you. I just wanted to say I probably overreacted.”

It smoked on the joint until the weed turned into a roach, and it stubbed the roach out into an ashtray and sat up straighter, more aware or so it seemed. “I don’t want to talk about this. You’re making me uncomfortable, dude.”

I nodded. I hung my head and stared at my feet: they were dirty. “I’m just tryna be real with you. I’m not a terrible person. At least I think I’m not. Can I make it up to you?” I thought about it, and I knew it was right and I was wrong. But I didn’t admit my mistake when I should show accountability and maturity. I felt broken and I felt like a piece of shit. I was being sketchy, and this wasn’t the vibes or character I’d wanted to give off. I knew I had a shred of decency and I could tell it was trying to dodge my questions, especially when I had almost killed it with a flyswatter. I felt remorse. “I fucked up. I’m owning up to this, man. I’m sorry. I really am. I shouldn’t have tried to kill you.” When I looked up, I saw that the fruit fly was gone. 

And then I heard a jazz song playing loudly, with a surreal quality, layered with a chorus from a saxophone. It sounded lovely. I got up and went to the balcony.

The fruit fly was leaning against the railing, playing the saxophone. And maybe I’d expected it to sound poorly at first, but it didn’t play awkwardly at all, in fact, the melody sounded coherent and full of depth. It reminded me of eating apple pie with vanilla ice-cream. It reminded me of seeing a steak grilled and seeing the steam rise up. It played between the notes with a crispy honey-like harmony. It played with a slightly sharp intonation, mournful intensity, and a swift mobile investigation of chords. It seemed to explore Buddhism, Islam, and Hinduism. It sounded like riding a bike for the first time and it was falling on the ground, but then it was getting back on the bike and pedaling forward. It sounded like Morgan. It sounded like Morgan and I were making love and I was telling her I would do anything for her. And she was screaming I love you. It played a jazz song that sounded sad and true and terribly gorgeous. It played the nostalgia, the ugly present, as well the distant future all found within a lifetime. Now imagine a library and it’s all souls and think of every library in every city on earth. And that’s what its music sounded like, as it tried to play well, and well that’s what mattered. The attempt.  

It stopped playing the saxophone and took a bow. It looked happy.

I stood up, clapping my hands. “Sounds good, man. Damn my girlfriend would love to hear you play. She’s a big Coltrane fan.” 

It looked at me, grinning. “What’s your girlfriend’s name?”

“Morgan. She’s dope. I love her.”

I did love Morgan.

Loved the way she looked at me in the morning when we were waking up to the sunlight shining through the window, blinds half open, my eyes groggy, her smile plastered on her face. 

Loved the way she cheered me on as I cooked her eggs sunny side up, turkey sausage links, and hash browns speckled with cheddar cheese. 

Loved when she kissed me good-bye and leaned in and hugged me until I melted in her arms. 

Loved when she played Duke Ellington and John Coltrane’s In A Sentimental Mood on her old record player, the vinyl rotating around in smooth circles.

Loved how she read me Calvino novels as I wrote prose poems on my laptop, trying to impress her, even though she never read my work unless I asked. 

Loved how she jumped into my arms when I asked her if she wanted to move in with me to the apartment in DC. 

I loved her. I still did. 

“Yeah, she’s obsessed with Coltrane’s Blue World. Says it’s his finest work. For real.”

It smiled big and bright. “I’m actually learning how to play some Coltrane songs. Been doing it for a few months now. I know I’m not great, but I can’t quit it. Music’s a lovely habit.”

“Play another song.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. I’m here for it.”

The fruit fly picked up the saxophone and started playing again. And this time it didn’t miss a single note.

“Wanna see something?” I asked, “I think you’ll like it. And I’ve been working on this thing for a minute.”

“What is it?”

“It’s a surprise.”

“Oh man. I’m nervous now.”

“Don’t be. It’s cool. Promise.”

“If you say so.”

I led the fruit fly away from the balcony and brought it to my bedroom. I shut the door and walked to my closet and opened the doors. I moved aside the clothes hangers, the shoeboxes, and my suitcases, and then I slammed my foot against the hardwood floor. I crouched and felt around the wooden panels and hit my fist against them, one by one, until I heard a hollow noise. I lifted up the fake wooden panel with a crowbar that I found in my closet. When I picked up the wooden panel, I found the secret passageway and showed it to the fruit fly. “Follow me, dude,” I said, climbing down the passageway, which was a long dark well. The fruit fly followed me, and we traveled down the dark well for a good 6 minutes, and when we reached the bottom of it, I went to the side and flipped on a light switch. Bright light flooded the well. In the center, there was a small wooden desk, a chair, and a typewriter, along with a stack of manuscript papers. I walked over to the desk and pulled out the chair. “Take a seat why don’t ‘cha,” I said. 

It sat down. “Scary.”

“Don’t be. It’s just something I built a few months ago. My own little mancave basically.” I handed it the first page of the manuscript.

“What is this?” it asked, looking the page up and down. 

“It’s my novel. The first draft.”

It started to smile and then it held my manuscript and read the first paragraph. 

The next day, someone was knocking at the front door. 

I opened it. 

Morgan was in the hallway holding a wine bottle in one hand and a black tote bag in the other. She looked at me and smiled. “Hey loverboy,” she said, hugging me. “Missed ya. I tried calling you yesterday. You’ve been busy?” 

I stepped in front of the doorway, crossing my arms. “I’m busy right now. You should leave, Morgan.”

She frowned. “You being real? I was in Virginia. I was with family. I thought I called you. Didn’t you check your phone?” 

“I was working. I didn’t check it.”

“Working on what? Your novel?”

I laughed, cracked my back. I put my hands on the door and cleared my throat. “Don’t worry about it. You wouldn’t care.”

“I need to use the bathroom.”

“Really? You’re just trying to get in. I don’t want you here, dude.”

“Dude? I’m your girlfriend, Andrew!” 

“Why should I let you in?”

“Because we’re in love and I live here.”

I thought about that and knew she was right on some accounts, so I sighed and stepped aside for her to walk into the apartment. “Make yourself at home.”

. Morgan walked into the kitchen, pinched her nose, and made a disgusted face. “What happened? The apartment reeks,” she said, handing me the wine bottle and the tote bag. 

“Nothing. Everything’s fine,” I said, faking a smile. I was irritated, on the verge of throwing her shit off the balcony, but instead, I bit my bottom lip and set the items on the countertop. The wine looked expensive, a brand from California that I would fumble up. 

“Andrew, c’mon.” Morgan was pointing at the sink, her hand on her hip. “This is gross. Like seriously it’s a dump,” she said, placing her hand on the faucet. It sputtered out light sprays. Water flowed. It streamed down the dirty plates stacked on top of each other. Cups leaned against the white wooden cabinets. Pots and pans smeared with grease and mold. Spoons, forks, and knives were tarnished. Water spilled, washing the mess away in the sink. 

As Morgan cleaned the dishes with a sponge and soap, I ran my hands through my hair. I couldn’t stop sucking my teeth. She cleaned for 12 minutes, then dried her hands off with a paper towel. I should have helped her, but I was bitter, resentful. I had problems. 

I went to the fridge and grabbed the Brita pitcher. I poured some water into a purple plastic cup and drank the water. I thought about saying something snarky or cruel, but I couldn’t think of anything snarky or cruel. And that made me less tense, less angry, more forgiving. “Thanks. Sink looks better. You didn’t have to do that,” I said, trying my best to stay relaxed, as I finished the water and smiled. 

“Loverboy. You need to pull yourself together,” Morgan said. 

I laughed. Now I was feeling annoyed again. 

“What?” She looked confused, which made me laugh more.

I sat on the sofa and looked at my phone, scrolling through emails in my inbox but there was nothing important. At that point I was trying to make it seem like I had a great life going on. After a moment, I tossed my phone on top of the coffee table, kicked my feet up, and looked at her. “I don’t need this shit from you. You’re the one who left. To be honest, I don’t know why the fuck you came back.”

“I—” Her voice trembled. She looked sorry. But I didn’t want an apology, I wanted her to get the fuck out. 

I rubbed my cheek and sighed. “Do you want something?” My voice cracked, as I said, “I can’t give you anything.” I looked at my hands. 

“Look. I’ll explain. A lot happened to me, if you’ll just let me ex—”

“I don’t want to hear it. I really don’t.” I looked up at the ceiling. The fruit fly was hiding behind one of the wooden panels of the ceiling fan, blowing a raspberry. It winked at me and gave me a thumb’s up, which made me feel better, and it didn’t make me feel a whole lot better, but at least it had my back. 

She walked into the living room and looked up at the fan. Her face screwed up. “What are you looking at?” she asked. 

“I don’t know anymore,” I said. And that was the truth, I didn’t know how to articulate my pain over her and I miscommunicating. 

Morgan uncorked the wine bottle and poured the wine into two glasses, and then she walked over to the couch. She set the glasses on the coffee table, sat next to me, and then she took my hand and held it. She started touching my wrist, grazing my knuckles, and rubbing my fingertips. “I’m sorry. I thought you got my phone calls.”

“I didn’t,” I said. “Why’d you leave?” 

Morgan let go of my hand and picked up one of the glasses, taking a sip. “My Dad died,” she said. She stopped drinking.

“Your dad died?” I asked. I was shocked.

“Yeah. My cat. From childhood. Daddy. You remember him, right? I call him Dad too.”

“Your cat died? I’m so sorry, Morgan.”

Morgan lifted her glass, finished her wine, and after she set it down, she started crying hard and loud. “I miss Dad.”

“I’m sorry,” I said, and I didn’t know Dad, her cat, that well, and I didn’t know what else to do, but put my arm around her and pull her closer because I didn’t know what else to say, We’d been dating a long time and that meant something significant to me. But I knew, I knew there was always the chance that it didn’t mean the same to her. 

Morgan rested her head against my shoulder, closed her eyes, and as tears crawled down her cheeks. We sat there for 20 minutes, holding each other, in silence, when suddenly I looked up at the ceiling fan, except the fruit fly wasn’t there anymore. I reached over to the coffee table, grabbed my glass of wine, and drank it. 

It tasted delicious but something felt stuck in the back of my mouth, felt like something was shimmying up and down my throat. I inhaled, coughed to the side, and hit my chest with my fist, dry heaving. 

Morgan looked at me. “What’s wrong Andrew?” she asked, rubbing my back.

I held up my hand and pointed at my mouth. I was dying. 

Morgan stood there in shock, her eyes watering up as she crumbled to the floor. She cried and started to scream, her head down in defeat. She looked helpless like a crying infant. 

I sat up from the couch, bending over at the waist, as I spat out a loogie. It hurled against the flat screen TV, bounced against the glass, and landed on the Nintendo Switch. And that’s when I realized, I had spat out the fruit fly from my mouth. 

It was sitting on the carpeted floor, arms and legs sprawled out. “Yo! My bad. I saw alcohol and thought this was a party,” it said, standing up. It flew off the ground and flew out of the living room and onto the balcony.

I wanted to scream, I wanted to be alone. 

“What the fuck just happened?” Morgan asked. 

“That’s my new roomie,” I said. I pinched the skin below my wrist to keep from shouting. I was losing it. 

“Did that bug just talk?”

“Yes. He’s from Chicago. A white Sox fan.” I was telling the truth, or at least the truth I believed in at the time. I sighed. 

Morgan threw up her hands and scoffed. “You say ‘yes”, like this is normal. Like everything’s fine. But it’s not. This is crazy.”

I shrugged and had no idea what to say. Because she was right. And I couldn’t think of a way to make things less crazy. I didn’t know how to make things better. I couldn’t make the situation more palatable for her. I dropped my head and sighed. 

“That’s all you’re going to give me?” She looked upset.

I folded my hands like I was praying, and then I heard a jazz song playing in the background, a saxophone blaring, I left the living room and I walked onto the balcony where the air was chilly. 

The fruit fly was leaning back against the railing with a saxophone in its hands. It was in a sentimental mood, playing its little spirit out, as a cat meowed, the sound reverberating like an echo from the past, a time capsule. 

I liked its music. I liked the way its song hung in the wind and stayed there, like it wasn’t going to leave.