To The Driver Beeside Me At The Stoplight

Once, when I was a kid, we were out in the forest/green belt between Lake Sammamish and I90. We were tromping, single file, through the woods on a sort of adventure walk (re: insufficient supervision), and came across a fallen tree. I’m not sure who actually disturbed the hive; there were six of us, and I was about four deep in the line.

Suddenly, a lot of screaming and crying. And the running, lord how we ran. Unfortunately, since we were currently in the deep ravine of a clay riverbed, the running didn’t do us a whole hell of a lot of good. The bees swarmed, covering each of us on different exposed body parts. The kid in the front (which became the back) got it the worst, on his face and neck.

The next thing I remember about that day was having my hands tended to from about 8 bee stings. We effectively decimated our afterschool’s supply of baking soda and, I’m guessing, meat tenderizer. But strangely, I don’t remember the pain.

A few months ago I got stung by a bee again. And you know what I’d forgotten? It fuckin’ hurts! And it doesn’t just hurt when it happens, it hurts for a couple days. Arnica gel can only do so much. I won’t soon forget that pain.

So when you see me scrambling madly to roll up my passenger side window because I saw that bee drift lazily across the hood of your car, headed right for me, go ahead and laugh, white Corolla – but do not ask for whom the bee buzzes; it buzzes for thee.