MOJAVE MULESKINNERS

I paused beneath a Joshua tree to rest the other day. I had been riding hard for the better part of an hour and my backside was growing numb. I was maybe forty miles into the Mojave, and not much else was stirring around me for as far as I could see. I took a long swig from my canteen and poured a little in my hand for my old dog to lick so's his tongue wouldn't dry out, then leaned back against the Joshua tree to enjoy the scene before me. I like solitude. Being 'way out here away from everything civilized and cultured pleased me.

 

Critters that live out here deserve it. They've earned their right to be here, and I figure we old desert ratz have earned the right to join 'em. Well, anyhow, as I was a-leanin' agin' that tree contemplatin' the dust on my boots and a whirlwind out there about twenty miles, a fly come crawlin' across my nose and insisted on doing it despite my repeated hand motions to ward him off. Couldn't he tell I didn't want him there? I mean ain't a fly got no sense of danger? Then this got me to thinkin'; just exactly what is the purpose of a fly anyway? We human kind like to think that we all have a purpose here. That we have some distant mission or accomplishment ordained by providence to fulfill before we pass on, but what in everlasting tarnation is the purpose of the fly?

 

We all well know where we see the fly. He walks with his millions of kin upon piles of dung and lingers on carcasses of every kind of dead things. And unlike the scavengers, the vultures, ravens, coyotes, and such, he doesn't contribute one iota to the cleansing of the land. In fact, the fly is and has ever been a harbinger of death. It has historically transported all the deadly woes of mankind. Typhoid fever, which often leaves us demented and reduced to an invalid state.

 

The plague. Everyone savvies the great toll that era inflicted on us. The fly played a leading part in that dark time. In short, there ain't an ounce of redemption down through the ages for the fly.

Still, it's one of God's creation's. Yup. It's true I tell you. I can see old Noah right now as he tries to hurd a band of flies into a corner of his already overcrowded ship. Old Noah was a farmer and didn't know bean-dip about building any sort of a boat, but with the guidance of the creator, he done it. Not only that, but with that same divine help, rounded up tens of thousands of couples of every creature. Then after everything was aboard, he paid special attention to the fly, making sure it was safe and had plenty of dung to feed on during the trip. He was destroying all his previous mistakes by raining on them for forty days and nights, but he was determined that his future attempts would be sanctified by the presence of the fly. It's true! Little children clung to the rocks as great waves of water swept over them but the fly in its everlasting triviality was comfortably perched atop a ball of carrion.

 

SPLAT! With one felled swoop I killed it! Then carefully picked every minute piece off the end of my nose and spread them in my palm. I felt as if there should be a full 120 piece band to commemorate its passing, accompanied by some measure of a religious speaker to articulate its worth. And perhaps scores of people to sing hosannas and halleluiahs to it. After all, there probably wasn't another fly for miles around. Then as I pulled on my gloves and prepared to mount my steed, I noticed another fly crawling around and up the tailpipe. Quick as I could, I turned on the ignition and gave the machine full throttle reducing another one to ashes and grinned with glee as I thought of how many germs I had killed these past few minutes. Sometimes philosophical assessment gives me a headache. But what else is an old muleskinner to do away out on this windswept desert?

 

 

~ Weakeyes Cody