Had a conversation the other day.

Well, it wasn’t a “conversation” in the normal sense of the word.

You know — a conversation where two or more people are speaking.

This was more of an internal dialogue I was having with… something else.

Yes, something. Not someone.

A fly.

Ok, so here’s the deal.

I spent all day in Dover, Delaware painting a cast iron bathtub and a plastic surround wall — which came out fantastic by the way — and maybe the paint fumes got to me a little, but there I was driving home, and me and this fly kind of had a serious conversation about life.

My life.

His life.

And oddly enough, I didn’t feel the urge to swat at him or roll down the window and try to shoo him out.

Instead, I started wondering about his story.

Why was he in my truck?

Was he escaping something?

Was he trying to hitch a ride to Milton to see some fly friends or relatives?

And if so… how did this fly know I was headed there?

Whoa.

Now that would be something.

Or maybe he was just up for an adventure.

Maybe he was bored with his current living situation and needed a change.

When I got home, I did a little research and found out the average lifespan of a housefly is somewhere between 15 and 30 days.

There are a lot of variables, but let’s just call it three weeks.

So honestly, I was kind of flattered that this housefly chose to spend some of his limited time with me.

Maybe he wanted to see where I was going.

Maybe he wanted to see what I was doing.

Maybe he thought to himself:

“You know what? I need a change. I’m catching a ride with this guy.”

And so he did.

But he’s a Dover fly.

At least I assume he is.

I mean, I don’t really know his situation or how he ended up in Dover, but for the purpose of this blog post, let’s say he was born and raised there.

Why the sudden change?

And not only did I wonder why he wanted a change, but also — what exactly does Milton have to offer that made it the destination of his dreams?

I mean, Milton is great and all… but seriously, we already have enough flies.

We rode together for a few miles and it was actually kind of cool.

He wasn’t really pestering me. You know how flies usually get.

He mostly stayed on his side of the truck, and I stayed on mine.

But somewhere south of Dover, I started thinking about what this ride must’ve felt like to him.

Think about it.

This fly probably spent his whole life inside one tiny radius of existence.

Maybe a garage can.

Maybe a dumpster.

Maybe buzzing around a Wawa parking lot living day to day, thinking that little corner of Dover was the entire world.

And suddenly he’s in a moving truck flying 65 miles an hour down Route 1 watching the world completely change around him.

Marshes.

Trees.

Water.

Open sky.

Places he probably never imagined existed.

Maybe he was terrified.

Maybe he was standing on my dashboard holding on for dear life thinking:

“What in the hell have I gotten myself into?”

Or maybe — for the first time in his short little fly life — he felt alive.

Maybe this was the greatest thing that had ever happened to him.

And honestly… I think that’s the part that stuck with me.

How many of us spend years buzzing around the same tiny corner of life because it’s familiar?

Same routines.

Same roads.

Same fears.

Then one day something accidentally opens a window and suddenly we realize there’s an entire world outside the places we’ve convinced ourselves are enough.

Anyway…

As I got farther south on Route 1 — around that swampy stretch with all the water and marshland — I started thinking:

Wait a minute.

This fly might not be very bright.

I mean seriously, he doesn’t live that long, and he’s probably never been anywhere but Dover.

He might not even know places like this exist.

Sure, maybe he saw pictures in some magazine laying open near a dumpster somewhere…

…but what are the odds this fly has ever actually experienced open marshland, water, mud, fresh air, and whatever else goes on out there in the wild?

And the more I thought about it, the more I decided that this should be his new home.

Or maybe his retirement home.

I have no idea how old this guy is.

So I rolled down the passenger window and waited for him to take the hint.

He hesitated at first.

But then…

Off he went.

And honestly, I can’t help but wonder if he ever thinks about me and the journey that brought him to his new home.

Nah.

He’s probably just hunkered down on some wildlife excrement somewhere.

Oh well.

I guess shit really does happen.

• That Guy