Stanislavski’s Fly

Character and Expression class. Monday.

A black box theater. The teacher clutches her cross pendant, “We must be looking above the characters. We must see things others can’t.”

She paces the perimeter of the circle.

“Come to class with a meaningful object and place it at your feet.”

Bez swallows her gum and hopes a tree takes root inside, one big enough to clear out all the duff that has built up. She is the first to leave.

Tuesday.

“Tell us about the object’s meaning. Tell us how it motivates you.”

A student presents an old Hess truck, the final Christmas present from the Grandmother who raised him. 

“Many of us harbor the fear that we are all so boring that only the character has something to offer. But you are the only source of life for anyone you play.”

A dog collar from a deceased pet. 

“What’s hidden inside you is a wellspring.”

Bez thinks a wellspring would make a big old mess. It will be her turn tomorrow. She has no idea what to bring.

Wednesday.

Bez buys a bug zapper like the one that hung in her parent’s Vermont kitchen and plans on returning it after class.

She kicks the zapper box forward towards the center of the circle.

Do you know the first time you see a parent in a state of physical weakness?

She stops her monologue. With a balletic sweep of her toes, the box is back under her chair. During the break, she heads to the restroom. A tampon in her hand. On the bathroom mirror, someone had swatted a fly and not cleaned it up.

Thursday.

The fly is still caked on the mirror, hardened in a streak of its own blood. 

“Every new day is a revision of the last,” the teacher says when Bez returns to the circle.

Friday.

The teacher gushes over Stanislavski, the Muscovite father of acting. Bez exits. In her bag is the bug zapper she hasn’t returned. And a tampon. She greets the fly, an audience.

My dad was allergic to hay, so he became a farmer. Fevers and cold sweats. His mouth watered so much, he couldn’t swallow all of his saliva.

She swallows her gum.

That’s what poison does to you.

The zapper is wrapped in plastic like an amniotic sack.

This person who has cared for you, lifted you up over puddles, is depleted. Pesticide’s a bitch.  

An outlet near the sink against the fire code. She pauses, forgetting for a moment, the next line. Is it any wonder that all these objects have to do with a need to pretend finality can be defeated by memory?

There were lots of tricks. Hanging Irish Spring Soap from twine. Soaking hot peppers in water and spraying the juice on leaves. We hung a bug zapper in the kitchen.

Bez drips water down the mirror, hitting the fly. An uncrushed wing catches a bead and blooms.

The sound of a zapper is like dropping something in the deep fry. My father is in bed, losing his strength while I’m gaining mine. I felt guilty about that. I would take over. At twelve, I was riding a backhoe.

Whatever it is that Bez feels in her stomach, growing, like the swallowed gum was a sprouted seed, she wonders if her dad felt the same thing. Something uncontrollable and wild.

It was my fault he was weakening because I was getting stronger, and it felt good.

When did he know that what was growing inside him would take him over? The fly falls from the mirror, glides down to the sink, and floats on a current down the drain. Bez believes she has all the words memorized.