Fall 2012
Alhambra, CA
He didn't even know he could do it. Yet, there he was implementing a skilled fireman's descent as if honed from decades of firefighting duty. But this guy, no fireman, was merely a weekend warrior waging a losing battle on an inopportunely housed beehive.
This was at his momma's house. He loved his momma. What a bad day that might be if those bees, under the second floor eave, got loose on her. Not so nimble on her feet anymore, so he went on the offensive that fabled, lazy Saturday afternoon. A constructive effort that should have been done months ago, before the hive got so big. But he hadn't noticed.
'What now,' asking himself rhetorically. 'No biggie. I'll get this done quick enough, then make dinner,' he played out in his head. Only tonight, he was not going to make dinner. He'd be in no condition for a culinary creation.
A simple task, it seemed. Point, aim, shoot. Spray the beehive, then descend crisply, but in an orderly manner. The bees, after all, would be doped up with insecticide. They'd be lethargic once hit with the poison, thought our hero.
Actually, the poisoning effect is an eventual effect. Like drinking a tasty beer from a chilled glass. The effect takes time to establish a beachhead. In the immediate term, the bees would be angry and aggressive. This they displayed from the onset.
An important note about our guy. He was not allergic to bees. Well, that is to say, he was not allergic to bees when he awakened that morning. By nightfall, however, this would take a wildly divergent turn.
His neighbor facilitated the task as it unfolded. He held the ladder as Emmett ascended with the necessary tools of war, insecticide spray. The bees, though, would not be simpatico with his desires. He was not afraid of bees. Nor was he overtly agile, so he was deliberate with each rung of the ladder.
Having attained adequate altitude and proximity to the hive, he drew up the chemical spray and was poised for assault. Nothing personal against bees, he told himself, a kind of mental confessional, it's just business. One final deep breath, he held it and pulled the trigger. That’s the last thing he remembered until awakening in a hospital bed.
His neighbor, Tim, watched as the spray-phase of the offensive got underway. He also watched as the bees shot out of the hive quick and thick like molten lava.
Immediately before the assault commenced, he thought possibly that Emmett was too close to the hive. But what did he know? Nothing, he thought. Thirty minutes earlier he had been vastly enjoying a recurring weekend treat of pancakes for lunch. At least, he had been until the knock on the door disrupted his final bite.
"You ever spray a beehive before," asked Emmett skipping over the preamble of a greeting, so went their familiarity.
"With what," Tim.
"Bee killer, an aerosol spray."
"No, not yet."
"Whatchya doing right now."
"Lunch," replied Tim, wiping syrup from his mouth with an already tainted sleeve, the uncouth rascal.
"Your weekend pancakes?"
"Just finished."
"Want to help?"
"Bees?"
"Just hold the ladder, and watch how it's done," said Emmett with a slant toward well-practiced braggadocio.
"Can I clean up first, the dishes?"
"This'll just take a few minutes. Do the dishes later," believing his own ill-founded self confidence.
"Here we go."
The dishes would still be waiting several hours later.
Tim was ground level watching how not to spray a beehive, but he couldn't be certain of this until the effort had run its course. It would then be abundantly conclusive.
As the bees exited the hive, they swarmed our hero with the viscosity of a well placed smoke bomb. It was awful, scary, and fascinating. To Tim's amazement, Emmett performed a surprisingly impeccable feat. He did not perceive his pal to be capable of such dextrous command of his motor skills, nor so quick on his feet.
Under the beehive's retaliatory retribution, Emmett instinctively dropped the spray bottle. Then he placed both hands on the outside rails of the ladder, did the same with his feet, and performed an immaculate ladder descent that would have made any veteran firefighter proud. He dropped from the cloud of bees with the quickness of a mud pie dropping from a second floor window.
He wouldn't remember any of this afterwards. His neighbor, however, would later tell him what he had witnessed, thankfully for Tim, from a safe distance.
When the angry cloud of bees dissipated, Tim retrieved the jettisoned bee spray, returned the ladder to the garage, then checked on his friend.
"Hi, Emmett came inside in a hurry. Did you see where he went."
"He shot upstairs with speed I haven't seen since he was a teenager. The day I told him I'd found his Playboys and was going to burn them. Is everything all right?"
"I don't know yet. I think he might've gotten stung by a bee."
"Well, by all means, go on up and check on him."
When Emmett had returned to the safety of terra firma, he was wildly brushing his hands through his hair, then ran into the house. He started stripping off his clothes as soon as he entered. A trail of spent clothing followed him to the upstairs shower.
Tim didn't want to look. He'd known Emmett since he was a boy, since Tim was a boy. Emmett was ten years his senior. He really liked him, but was not eager to make a visual.
"Emmett, you OK," eyes wide open with concern.
"I needed to wash the bees out of my hair. You should see them all, they're clogging the shower drain. I'll be right out." Something in his voice, it wasn't right. Excited. Vacant somehow.
Tim was not a child, he gathered that something significant had happened and he thought, maybe, that the brewing sequence of events was going to get messy.
"I'm going to get my dad. I'll be right back," he said.
Five minutes passed.
As our delirious hero exited the shower, got dressed, remembering none of this later, still in a bee-sting induced stupor, came downstairs, and answered the front door as Tim returned with his dad.
"Emmett, everything OK," asked the dad knowing that all was not OK, but knowing not the depth of degradation to which he was entering.
"Yeah, I'm OK," said Emmett, then promptly barfed on the dad. Not like, barfed on his feet, or a glancing blow on the arm. The vomit was delivered from a fellow who was so far gone that there was no attempt made to soften or deter the vomitous load. No attempt to cover his mouth. No attempt to turn to avoid an unwitting target. It was a free flow delivered by a body desperately seeking to void itself of an alarming load of bee sting venom. The dramatic result of dozens of stings.
Dad was nailed with the full force of vomit, a direct hit on his classic weekend Hawaiian shirt. A favorite, but not so much after today.
He was a man of considerable life experience. Tim had mentioned bees, but dad knew not the magnitude. The load delivery, however, told him everything he needed to make some snap decisions. All of them correct.
The shirt was discarded and he carried on in his tee shirt, issuing commands decisively and calmly, orchestrating the saving of a life.
"Tim, get the car keys and my wallet. I'll get Emmett to the curb. We're taking him to the hospital emergency."
Emmett was treated at the hospital for four days. He would live. My friend would live with an allergic reaction to bees going forward for the rest of his days, those days not yet termed out as of this recounting of his tale. He lives with a potentially life-saving Epee pen within reach in case of crisis.
The bees did not return. The bee-spraying was not deemed a success. The life saving quick reaction of the neighbors, however, would be.
[Based on a real life experience of my pal.]
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