Ward of the Flies Ward of the Flies The first ...

The first one landed so lightly on my cheek that in my half-sleep, I figured a stray lock of hair had just moved across my face. Weird, but maybe there'd been a breeze I hadn't noticed. The next one landed on my lower lip and tried to crawl into my mouth. Even half asleep, I knew that hair didn't crawl. I jolted awake to see hundreds of fat, black flies waddling unsteadily across my white sheets. I froze in horror for a second. Then I felt something creep into my ear.

This was June 1992. My mother was busy dying seventy blocks south at Beth Israel Medical Center, and I was home alone. My Upper East Side shithole had no air conditioning, and I was too poor and preoccupied to make a trip to P.C. Richards. The night before, I'd dragged my futon into the living room where the window facing the street afforded me a better chance of a breeze than the airshaft that attempted to ventilate the bedroom.

My now-dead/then-living boyfriend Lou was off in Queens helping to take care of his own dying parent, so I was on my own.

There'd always been a faint, rotting-meat-type stink in the living room. I could never figure out where it was coming from or what was causing it, but when your previous apartment was located directly above three Indian restaurants, you learn to forgive the occasional apartment fart and thank Christ your clothes no longer stink of curry.

I leapt out of bed and jumped up and down, swatting at the bugs, shrieking, as more fell into my hair. When I looked up, I saw the light fixture was completely covered with them?hundreds more?teeming and then plopping down onto the futon. One hit me in the eye before I could run.

Prior to the fly infestation, I hadn't thought life could get any worse. I mean, my mom was dying. To add to the misery, I was managing editor at High Times magazine. Managing editor is always a crap job, but at a publication where 4:20 in the afternoon means everybody brakes for bong hits (if they've even bothered to wait until then), it's a nightmare. That the editor-in-chief had at some point decided he was no longer speaking to me only added to the fun. I would ask a question, and he would answer by staring blankly at the wall behind me. Sometimes mistaking his snub for an indica trance, I'd wave my hands in front of his face and re-ask. Then he'd turn and walk away.

Bear in mind, these weren't questions like, "Why are you such a fucking asshole?" or "Could you take that pipe out of your mouth for a sec so I can jam it up your boney ass?" No, these were queries along the lines of, "Did you finish writing the cover story?" or "Do you even know what the cover story is going to be?" Stuff I needed to do my job.

So that sweltering summer, my life consisted of going to work so I could eat shit for a few hours. Then, around noon or so, I'd walk over to Beth Israel to try and convince my mom to force down some lunch (she'd dine alone, as my tummy was usually full after a morning of shit-eating). Once that half hour was up, it was back to the office for more abuse. I'd generally stop by the hospital again on my way home to maybe drop off some dinner that didn't smell like ass, then it was back to my crappy apartment to repeat the same scenario the next day.

When she'd coughed up a big blood clot over Memorial Day weekend, the doctors thought it was tuberculosis. She was mortified that we had to wear gowns and masks around her, but even more horrified when it turned out to be cancer, and we could wear our street clothes. At first they thought it was only (only!) lung cancer, but during the CAT scan, they discovered it was much more than that, and they had to operate.

A ten-hour surgery revealed the malignancy was more extensive than the scan had shown. The doctors yanked out a gigantic tumor that had started on a kidney and then wound its way up through her insides, finally wrapping itself around her heart. But they'd gotten it out and started her on chemo to try and clear up her lungs. We allowed ourselves some optimism.

As I vacuumed the flies off my bed, head and light fixture, paranoia struck and I freaked, quickly convincing myself that the flies were actually tiny evil harbingers of doom that had been sent to tell me my mom had died. To my great relief, a quick call to the hospital revealed that no, the flies were not messengers sent from the great beyond, just your garden-variety vermin.

The routine remained the same, until we got word that my mom was coming home. The doctors weren't giving her a clean bill of health by any stretch, but it sure seemed pretty positive to us. The Sunday before the Monday she was to be released, I got an hysterical call from my sister in San Francisco. She couldn't reach my mom and was sure something had gone wrong. I figured she was over reacting like I'd done, but called her room just to make sure. Whoever answered told me to find the rest of my family and get there immediately. One of the tumors had shifted into her windpipe and blocked her breathing. She never woke up and died the next day. She'd only been sick for two months.

My life sucked harder than I'd ever imagined possible. The stress and general horror of my existence caused me to pretty much shut down. I got my first cold sore. I forgot that I was supposed to have sex with the guy next to me. In an effort to get over it, I bought dozens of books on death and went back into shrinkage, but nothing made me feel better. Then things got even worse.

Within a couple weeks of my mom's death, it filtered back to me that my boss was trying to "trade" me for a chick who worked elsewhere in the company?a girl he happened to be banging at the time.

Whatever snap I had left in me, snapped. I told the owners I wouldn't make a stink if they gave me a few thousand bucks and paid my health insurance through the end of the year. They agreed, and I split. My books advised not to make big changes just after experiencing serious loss, but I didn't care. Watching your mom suffocate to death is a pretty fucking big reality check.

My mom had left me a couple grand, so instead of doing something clever like starting an IRA or using it to live on for the next couple months, I invested it in a completely frivolous trip to Europe for me and my man. We flew into Amsterdam where we'd run the Cannabis Cup the year before. Frank and Phillip, the couple who ran the Quentin Hotel where we'd stayed then, refused to let us pay for our room and made me hot cocoa on demand. It was very comforting?like having two nice gay mommies for a few days.

After that, it was on to Athens where we looked at ruins and had the same cliche revelations regarding life's insignificance that everyone else has upon viewing shit that's been around for a bazillion years. There was one truly awe-inspiring sunset off Santorini and a couple good meals.

Even though the vacation was very cathartic in a way, it didn't really feel like my season in hell had ended until the holiday was over. Then, instead of going to an office every day, I went to the gym down the street. I started freelancing, and as I'd never gotten my B.A., signed up for classes at Hunter. A week or so later I was walking my unemployed, freshly vacationed self down upper Broadway and noticed my face felt strange. I touched it with my hand. It felt different because I was smiling for the first time in forever.