It was a particularly awkward dinner at my older sister’s house; her friend Jerry was there and he went on an extremely vicious diatribe about female politicians in general and Hillary Clinton in particular. He ended his monologue by declaring that the country was not ready for a woman president and that if Hillary won he was moving to Costa Rica.
I should have held my tongue but I could not help myself. “Umm, Jerry,” I said. “You know that Costa Rica has a woman president?” Of course he did not believe me so he looked it up on his smart phone and saw that I was right.
This was followed by a lengthy silence and, since no one was speaking, we all heard a low grade buzzing sound, like you might hear under a power line.
“What’s that buzzing?” I asked my older sister, grateful to be able to break the silence.
“It’s the florescent lights in the kitchen, she said, unconcerned.
“Your kitchen lights are off,” my partner pointed out.
“I know,” said my sister. “It’s a mystery.”
After dinner when Jerry had made his exit my partner, standing on a chair, decided to check out the fluroescnt kitchen fixture. He opened it up and everything looked fine, but at that moment a tiny little bee flew out of a tiny little ventilation hole in the fixture. Wondering, my partner pulled the fixture down slightly from the ceiling and we were mightily surprised to see four more little bees fly out. My partner and I looked at each other wordlessly and on a whim I stood on another dining room chair and opened the fixture over the stove and an entire swarm of bees came out, buzzing merrily around the kitchen. The buzzing was noticeably louder.
My sister went for the Raid but my partner,, who knows these things, stopped her. “Bees are protected,” he told her; “it’s illegal to kill them. Besides,” he said, “they’re not hurting anyone.” My sister nodded grimly, remembering, no doubt, that my partner has been known to catch roaches and relocate them rather than kill them.
The next day my sister called the exterminator. “Bees are protected,” said the exterminator “It’s illegal to kill them. “ He recommended that she call “Billy with a Bee” as soon as possible. “He’s a Certified Bee Relocation Specialist,” said the exterminator.
“A Bee Relocation Specialist?” I said.
“A Certified Bee Relocation Specialist,” she said.
At my sister’s request I was there when Billy with a Bee arrived; He was a big man, shaped more or less like a bumble bee himself, and he came with his wife, Honey. He inserted a camera on a selfie stick into the attic and whistled softly. “Mmm, mmm,” he said. “I haven’t seen one like this in a long time. “
He showed us the picture and we were stunned to see a bee hive roughly the size of a refrigerator in my sister’s attic. “Leave this to me,” said Billy with a Bee.
Removing the bees was a big deal. Billy removed most of the ceiling in the laundry room and sent a tiny little guy into the attic, first to sedate the bees and then bring the hive down in pieces for relocation to a citrus grove upstate. It was hard, hot work, especially in a beekeeper’s uniform, and the little guy needed lots of breaks.
On one break, my sister brought him saw water. “Youerved my sister.
“I hate those fuckers,” said Worker Bee; “I have no idea if he meant his parents or the bees,” but it didn’t matter because Billy came back to the kitchen.
“We’re done,” said Billy, handing her his invoice
My sister gulped, “Well,” she said my sister, looking uneasily at her check book, “at least I’ll never have to buy honey again.
“Sorry,” said Billy. “The honey is mine; read your contract.” And of course he was right.
Hours later when Billy and the bees were gone my sister and I were looking up at the gaping hole in her ceiling, wondering who to call next. At that moment what looked like an ant with wings flew out, followed by two more.
“Are those termites?” asked my sister.