Fly Car

On any given day, my family could unload some clutter. My children are prolific makers of things. They’re also tenacious holders-on. Sentimental types. They come by it honestly, via dominant maternal genes. Fortunately, about two months ago we stumbled upon a DNA-reverser more powerful than Feng Shui books or personal organizers: Fly Car.

While on our way to a friend’s potluck dinner, we happened to park behind a red compact car. As we gathered our bags and serving bowls, we did a double take at what clearly was not an average auto.  The first thing we noticed was that the rear windshield was not a windshield at all, but a giant piece of Saran Wrap secured with duct tape. Now, in our Southern college town, it’s not unusual to see ad-hoc window repairs. But it is unusual for a homemade windshield to boogie, like one of those foil stovetop popcorn pans. Bulges of movement flashed against the crinkled plastic surface–one here, then one there, then poof, poof, poof, here, here, here, there, there, there.

Flies. The pulses were flies colliding into the rear ‘windshield’ from inside the car. A fecund hatch had hatched in the hatchback. And they were dying to get out.

There I was, holding a homemade Caesar salad, about to chow down on a bunch of delicious food at our friend’s lovely home. Yet I was riveted to a stomach-turning scene unfolding a block away, inside the car of a stranger. My husband, kids, and I peered in the windows. While they watched the swarm ballet, I looked for the grey, writhing ribeye I was convinced had spawned all the flies. I shifted the salad bowl to my hip and squinted. Was it under those books? Or the Big Gulp cups? Maybe in that heap of unopened mail. Or in that moldy laundry bag wedged between the seats. Wherever the presumed meat lurked, one thing was clear: this was the hoarding handiwork of no mere coed. It was the opus of a seasoned pro whose clutter had the power to generate life. I didn’t know whether to vomit or applaud.

Long after the potluck was over, the memory of Fly Car stayed with me. I lay awake that night wondering. Who made Fly Car? What was he trying to say? When did he realize his ribeye was missing? Then I thought: what if it wasn’t a ribeye at all? I grabbed my phone, dimmed the screen and Googled “cheap steaks.” The next morning when I dropped the kids off at school, a friend said “You look tired.”

There was once a time when I’d lie to my kids about stuff I’d given away. In response to a query about a ratty stuffed animal or a cracked frisbee, I’d say,  “Oh, it’s around here somewhere!”  An exhausted parent can only wipe away so many tears in a day. Later, when my kids grew a bit older, I’d say, “We let the toy move on to a new family.”  Now my response is simply “Fly Car.” It’s like a PSA slogan about hoarding. Short. Gross. And effective.