by Barbara Poelle
Something happened at Thrillerfest this past weekend that reminded me of the summer I was 19 and I was 99.97% sure that I was a bee whisperer. See, in the backyard at my childhood house there was a row of really pretty blossomy trees lining the fence with their heavy foliage so that kiddie-diddlers and republicans couldn’t spy on our swimsuit clad bodies. In early July, I had noticed a small ball of gauzy hive material forming in one of these trees. I became extremely protective of the goings on in this hive, and in fact placed a few phone calls to the local nature center to discuss their activities.
(Okay, to do this story total justice, I guess I should tell you that at this time in my life I was involved in a certain activity that made my countenance a familiar one in our city. And since I had a very recognizable surname, The Nature Center Dude was extremely forthcoming with his information, and I believe perhaps looked forward to the info-calls. Ugh, is there any way I can get away with this entire post without actually saying what I was involved in? I am going to try…)
Anyway, at some point around the beginning of August I was obsessed with going outside and sitting directly under the tree where the bees were hiving. To my friends and family I would sagely refer to this as “Just Bee-ing.”
However, my Zen state was interrupted mid-August when The Nature Center Dude became alarmed at my fresh description of the hive.
“It’s a little bigger than a basketball, and it looks like a fat tornado.”
“Uhh, okay, whoa. These are not bees you are dealing with here. You are talking about a wasp’s nest. I would advise you to keep your distance. As the summer comes to a close, the wasps will become increasingly determined to build the hive up before the drones make a living cocoon of their bodies to protect the queen for the winter frost.”
I practically swooned. Can you imagine? All of these young wasps forming layers of beefleece for the queen, dying off during the winter, the frozen husk of each corpse falling to the snow covered earth, the final selfless act for their royal lady.
I may have hung up on The Nature Center Dude in mid sentence in order to rush out to do my bee-ing.
I will say, to give TNCD full credit, the “bees” were certainly acting a bit more, shall we say, agitated by my presence. (I kept calling them bees because bee whisperer rolls a lot easier off of the tongue than wasp whisperer.) I noticed that the lulling hummmm near the hive had become a definite buzzzzz and even the family dog wouldn’t come near me when I was sitting under the tree.
Now let me set the stage, it is the last week in August. It is my father’s birthday. We are hosting a large pool party of friends and neighbors and relatives. There is potato salad and watermelon and dead things on the grill. At some point my sister announces to my cousin that I think I am a bee whisperer and the ribbing starts and I become indignant.
“I am. Watch.”
I saunter over to the nest. When I am approximately 5 feet from the hive, I turn to toss a sly and flirty look over my shoulder that clearly said, “These bees would cover me in their beefleece this winter if I asked.” And when I turned back what I saw was a roaring, winged Garven Dreis. That’s right, Red Leader no longer standing by, but heading straight into the Death Star. (Anyone who was into Star Wars just announced to whatever room they are in that they want to have my baby.)
Now to this day, many will scoff at this, but in those milliseconds, in the time it took for one human heartbeat to lub-dub before impact, I heard a teeny tiny voice, as if a mouse had huffed a full tank of helium: “God save the queeeeeeeen.” And then the wasp plunged what most certainly was a needle filled with jalapeño juice into my eye.
When I turned back to my sister and cousin saying, “Hey! I think one stung me!” they laughed it off, because they assumed that if one had indeed stung me I would have run screaming down the block, republicans and kiddie-diddlers be dammed. And perhaps because of the activity I was involved in that summer, my first concern was not the white hot searing pain of a thousand campfire embers pulsating beneath my eyelid, but the idea that my eye might swell up, so I immediately headed into the house to grab an ice pack. It turned out that the actual impact of the stinger was in the upper eyelid, I could see the little dot in the mirror, and I pressed the pack to it for a while, but then got bored. At about this time my cheek started to feel numb and tingly, but I figured it was from the ice. I walked back outside and bent to get a coke from the cooler. My sister came up and said, “Did he get ya’?” and I stood up to face her to say, “A little.” And when I did, the look on her face was priceless. She could not have shown more horror if I had the still kicking legs of a frog hanging out of my mouth.
No matter how old either of you get, there is a particular way that one sister can wail, “Mooooom!” that makes the other certain that she is either on her way to her room, or to the morgue.
Long story short. When we got back from the emergency room my sister made me say, “Sloth loves Chunk” about a dozen times. And that activity I was involved in? Let’s just say it involved wearing a crown and a sash and being extremely public. WHILE LOOKING LIKE SLOTH FROM GOONIES.
So let me just tell you. As much as it PAINS me to say this, I am not a bee whisperer.
Nor am I sci-fi agent.
As much as I can’t help but try and read your sci-fi thriller or your sci-fi fantasy, it is just going to end up with me clutching an epi-pen on the car ride home. I promise I know my strengths. I will whisper the crap out of your horror, your thriller, your edgy mystery but you and I have to agree that I have no business sitting under the sci-fi tree and communing with you. Sure I may know a few fun facts about Star Wars and in some private moments refer to Husband as Salacious Crumb, but that’s where it ends. I promise there is an agent out there for your sci-fi, one who will become the beefleece, not demand it. But I ain’t her. This is why I said No to your pitch last week. Not because of your narrative or your execution, but because the next sting could be fatal for me.
Now get back out there with your sci-fi/fantasy and beat the pavement like you would a womp rat.
[ps-Guess who I am negotiating with on an offer right now?!?! Tune in Sunday to find out...casue she better quick kicking me around by then in time for her post.]
