Bee in the Car, first half

January 13, 2017


First of all, I’m allergic to bees. That’s very important to this story. I carry an epinephrine pen with me wherever I go, because a bee sting could cause me to kick the bucket. Lucky me. Secondly, my neighbor called me a wimp because I couldn’t lift a tree limb that had fallen in my yard.  Not anything I’m proud of, but I would probably be featured on the “Lives of the Wimpy and Not Famous” TV show. I’ve come to grips with that and try to live my life in my own limp, deflated way, avoiding controversy wherever I can.

My story begins on a sunshiny day. Fluffy clouds floated above me as I drove along a peaceful country road.  I rolled down the window to feel the cool breeze and smell the wild flowers and do all that communicating with nature that I have heard that we are all supposed to do from time to time. The sun was, well… warm. The birds were soaring, and, besides the flowers, the roadkill was smelling. I felt fully connected to nature.

Being in such a state of euphoria and in no particular hurry, I was not bothered at all to see the sheriff’s car parked by a field of sunflowers, clocking speeders.

As fate would have it (and you know how fate is. It’s never nice. It just gives you a wedgie and laughs in your face.), just as I passed the sheriff’s car, a bee flew in my window hovering right in front of my eyes, sizing me up to see if I was a good enough sting victim to die for – a tough decision for bees because they die right after they sting you. The stinger pulls loose from their insides… and everyone knows what happens. But it serves them right.

I guess he thought he would have some fun torturing me and landed on my arm. By this time, I’m swerving left, then right, off the road, busting the barbed wire fence, and plowing into the field of sunflowers, mowing them down, and sending cawing blackbirds into terrorized flight.

The bee flitted left and flitted right. I did not want to stop. I wanted the wind to suck the bee out the window. If I stopped, he could land and sting me.

I swerved hard left crossing the two lane road, narrowly avoiding an oncoming SUV and a furniture mover semi.

Determined to send the bee elsewhere on its errant flight, I continued cutting the wheel hard right and left, weaving back and forth across the road.

Suddenly, the bee was gone. Relieved, I slowed my car to a stop on the road shoulder. I looked down at the floorboard, then up at the ceiling. No bee! “Yes!” I shouted, and did a fist pump several times.

Right about then, I noticed the sheriff’s vehicle, blue and red lights flashing, parked behind my car. The deputy, a big,muscle-building type, spoke into his loud speaker, “Please place both hands on your steering wheel.” In what seemed like eternity, he finally exited his vehicle with a cautious, yet commanding attitude. I could tell by the expression on his face, partially obscured by dark shades, that he considered this event a little more serious than the usual traffic stop.

He stepped up beside my already open window. He did not lean in, but kept one hand firmly on his holstered revolver. “Sir,” he stated with a stringent manner that stood in exact opposition to the polite word. “May I see your driver’s license and insurance, please?” His teeth gritted.

I fumbled for my license in my wallet. I handed it to him and then dug the insurance card from the glove compartment and handed that to him as well. He pretended to look at them. I am sure he was watching me with at least one eye.

“You see, deputy,” I was struggling with just how to explain my behavior as the realization of what I had just done began to sink in. “I’m allergic to bees, and there was a…”

He had no intention of listening to my explanation.

In the corner of my eye, I saw a huge, tattooed bulk of a man with a red baseball cap on his head walking quickly towards my car.  The cap read, “Yes, I Do Own the Road.” His face was as red as the cap.

He hollered, “Is this the jerk that almost got me killed and totally demolished my furniture load?” I could tell immediately that he was the truck driver with whom I narrowly missed colliding.

He pushed past the deputy and stuck a beefy arm in the window. I felt his sweaty, hairy arm brush my face. The deputy would have none of that. He deftly hoisted the trucker’s arm and pushed him away from my car. “None of that, sir,” he said with menacing calm. “I’m going to have to ask you to step away from the vehicle.”

He turned and faced the man. He dropped his hand to his nightstick on his belt and, with one smooth motion, swung it up, pounding the end in his other hand. My license and insurance form flew from his hand, and the breeze sent them sailing down the road.

I felt relief and panic at the same time. Relief that the intimidating deputy was ready to defend me, and panicked that that tiny bug had thrown my world into chaos. The deputy pointed his nightstick at the trucker. “Back away, sir. Back away.”

The trucker was stubborn. He held his ground, hands on his hips. He feinted twice towards the window. The deputy stepped sideways and interceded. He began to say to the trucker, “If you don’t back away, sir…” when the bee reappeared right at my nose level.

Panic again seized me. Without thinking, I sought escape. I pushed my door open violently. In doing so, I slammed the unsuspecting deputy in the back, knocking him to the ground.

I scrambled out of the car, running in circles, jumping and flinging my arms around like chimpanzees do in the old Tarzan movies. I caught site of the trucker. His eyes were wide, and he was backing away warily. I’m guessing he thought I was on some sort of hallucinogenic drug or escaped from a mental institution.

The deputy was up in no time, stout heart that he was, defender of my life and due comrade, and he duly knocked me down face first to the pavement. He knelt on my back flattening my face and arms against the hot asphalt.

“Ooh, ouch! It’s hot!” I shouted, struggling. For such a pretty day, the pavement was burning hot. I began kicking my legs in a vain effort to break free from the heat.

“Lie still,” the deputy shouted.

He grabbed my left arm. He cuffed it. I waved my right arm about, eluding his grasp. “No, I don’t want to be arrested?”

The trucker came up. He kicked my legs. He kicked my rear end.

“Step away, sir,” the deputy said.

Later I would feel a little sorry for the deputy’s predicament. But only a little.

At length, he attained my free arm and cuffed it to the left one and dragged me to my feet up against the side of my car.


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