Grandfather
John Vincent Grant, USA, USAF
The
bet was between the bartender and Grandfather. Each man had put down twenty
dollars on the counter.
“Git
him, Sarge?” The bartender was trying not to laugh. My grandfather, an Air
Force sergeant, had just snatched a fly in mid-flight.
“Now
get me a glass of water,” said Grandfather, and the bartender did so. “I am now
going to drown this fly and bring him back to life,” Grandfather announced loud
enough for everyone in the bar to hear it. He gave me a wink.
It
was the summer of 1958, and I was ten years old. Grandmother was told we were
going to the Base Exchange so that I could buy some new “Superman” comic books.
However, once again we had stopped off at a bar “for a few beers and some
pool.” Grandfather drank Miller, and I had root beer. Grandfather commanded the
respect of all soldiers because on the chest of his dress uniform he wore three
Purple Heart medals earned in the infantry in World War II. I had often seen
Grandfather so drunk he could hardly stand yet still able to beat all the young
guys at Eight Ball. But this fly business was something new.
Grandfather
opened his hand as he thrust it on top of the glass, and the fly fell into the
water. It first swam around but within a few moments stopped moving, and
Grandfather then poured it out on top of the counter, where it lay, intimate,
in a pool of water. Everyone agreed the fly was dead.
Grandfather
had taught me several card tricks and once bet me fifty cents that he could tie
a cigarette in a knot and then undo it without tearing it apart. He let me try
it first with a couple of his Camels, but they ripped apart, and I agreed to
the bet. Then he removed the cellophane from around his pack, tightly rolled a Camel
in it, and, keeping the ends taut, quickly tied it into a knot and undid it. He
then removed the cellophane. The cigarette was wrinkled but still intact. He
popped it into his mouth, snapped open his Zippo, lit it, took a drag, and held
out his hand for the money. I gave it to him, but Grandmother later made him
give it back.
Everyone
at the bar crowded around Grandfather to watch. Grandfather carefully placed
the fly on a paper napkin, picked up a salt shaker, and sprinkled a little salt
on the lifeless insect.
“What
you fixing to do, Sarge?” the bartender said. “You going to eat him?” Everyone
was laughing except for Grandfather and me.
Minutes
passed and nothing happened. Everyone except the bartender, Grandfather, and me
returned to what they had been doing.
“Aw,
come on, Sarge,” said the bartender. “Give it up. You can stare at that critter
until you’re blue—.”
“He
moved! He’s alive!” Grandfather yelled.
The
fly lay on his back and started moving his legs. Everyone crowded around and
couldn’t believe what they were seeing. Within a few moments the fly flipped
over and started walking on the counter. Finally, it brushed off a last grain
of salt, lifted up, and flew off.
Everyone
but the bartender applauded. Grandfather collected the money, and we left. On
our way over the BX, Grandfather explained that a fly is porous like a sponge
and it was waterlogged, not dead. The napkin and salt drew out the water and
resuscitated it.
When
we returned home, Grandmother was amazed to see me with a stack of new “Superman”
comic books.
