Rebels, Fruitflies, and Grandma

A FRUIT FLY ONLY LIVES A DAY so for a fruit fly a lovely day is a lovely day, a lovely life is a lovely life, and a lovely day is a lovely life.

That's exactly what Grandma Henrietta told me my sixteenth birthday. She also died on my sixteenth birthday and I still remember that moment when she stopped breathing, or everyone thought she did. Everyone thought she did so they all left when they thought she did. I knelt at her bedside for a little longer, my clammy hand enveloping hers. I learned my hand was clammy from her the first time we prayed at the dinner table when I was eight. After we prayed, she slapped my hand telling me not to waste my days believing in such things. Then she kissed my cheek and told me I my hand was sorta clammy.

I told her hand was sorta clammy to and that only earned me a second hand slap. But it was more like a high five than a slap. Grandma was always like that. She smiled and seemed more proud than disappointed when she had to discipline me.

One day when mom didn't yell at grandma and we still visited grandma's cottage. Grandmas was sitting out by the dock early in the morning. She wore her classic grandma clothes but she wasn't being a classic grandma. She was sitting there, focused on a stand up jet skier. Jet skiing and speed boating was prohibited at this hour. Grandma was grinning one of her great big grins. I approached her slowly and touched her shoulder. Grandma lept a little and tossed her burning cigarette into the big lapping waves caused by the jet ski. A billow of steam erupted as the cigarette sunk into the thick wads of weed at the bottom of the lake.

"Grandma, I'm sorry!" I leaped back, expecting some kind of discipline. But she only laughed as she sunk laughing and clutching her stomach, slouching in her "lake chair." "Grandma?"

"Yes, Sweets?" Grandma chuckled, squeezing my shoulder.

"Why are you laughing?"

"Why not?"

I thought for a moment, and gazed at the jet skier as it twisted around a corner creating a massive wave that smacked against the dock and up on grandma's white capris.

"It's not wake time."

"Yeah, boy, he's a rebel. That's my favorite word. Rebel. Sweets, you be a rebel."

"Mom'll kill me if I obstruct the peace."

"Fuck obstructing the peace. Sweets, you be a fucking rebel." Grandma Henrietta laughed and stood. She hastily brushed the droplets of water from the bottoms of capris and waved at the rebel jet skier, who grinned and waved back. I later added that grin to the top ten biggest grins I had ever viewed.

For the rest of that year, I went by Grandma's advice "Fuck obstructing the peace" I fucking obstructed the peace like I had never fucking obstructed the peace before.

When I turned ten I dug up a large pair of wire cutters from the dingy old shed in the backyard. As mom was distracted steaming green beans I slashed the barbed wire that kept in the neighbor's cows. The neighbor walked out of his farmhouse just as the last cow escaped the pen. I slapped the cow's ass and flipped off the neighbor running as he screamed after me.

"I'll fucking kill you kid!" He screeched from the porch. I chuckled.

"Fucking try!"

The cows were meant to be slaughtered that afternoon.

...

Mom sent me to counseling soon after for exhibiting "violent behavior." I was able to brush my hair in such a way for three years that the counselor decided that I was all good.

I ended the last meeting with a nice "fuck you" uttered as I exited the room.

Me. A. Fucking. Rebel.

...

Mom stopped allowing me to hang out with grandma after she caught us in the kitchen soaking grandpa's famous peanut brittle in champagne. The last time I saw grandma before the last last time was when she stood in courtyard of the church and pressed her middle finger up against the glass as the preacher walked by. I remember suppressing a giggle, but still squeaking a little and earning a stinging slap on the cheek from mom.

Mom always told her senator boyfriend Cal how much she loved the fact she hadn't turned out like her mother. I never understood. Grandma was free from the chains constructed by society while mom was bound tightly with them.

Who wants to be all chained up?

One time, I asked this to mom and earned another damned slap and a sharp "reasonable people, that's who." I asked if I was a reasonable person.

"I hope so," mom said.

I didn't sleep at all that night, just tugged on the thread unraveling my pajama pants.

I wasn't what mom hoped.

And the worst part was...

I never would be.

But I would be everything grandma wanted.

When everyone left and thought grandma was dead and she grabbed my hand before I left she said her last words. Her real last words. Everyone else thought her last words were "I love you all."

But they weren't.

Grandma's crimson nails dug into my skin and her shivering pupils shot bullets into me. I stared back at her.

"Don't fuck up."

Fruitflies live 40-50 days. But they also do live a day  technically, so I suppose Grandma's point is everyday could be your last and everyday as the capability to be a lovely day and project a lovely life.