Letters from Josh
Bomb Squad Letter 83 5/23/22
Howdy, folks! Staying cool over there? It’s been hot here in Rustburg. I’ve been sweating on the inside, too. Here’s a story I think you’ll enjoy:
The fireflies winked over the dark field, and the night birds sang. Mist rose in swirls from the wet grass in the headlights, and the electric fence stood sternly, warding off marauding bears. It all had an ominous feel, like a horror movie set. The breakdown I had in the truck was only partly a joke.
“YOU’RE GONNA GET STUNG, DROP THE BOX, IT’LL BREAK OPEN, AND TWENTY FIVE THOUSAND BEES ARE GONNA SWIRL OUT, FIND ME IN THE DARK, AND STING ME, AND I WON’T EVEN BE ABLE TO SEE THEM!” I shouted.
“Stop being a drama queen, man.”
I fell to sulking and muttering. I zipped my bee suit carefully. The electric fence was disarmed. The truck idled, casting lurid shadows across the wet grass. I stepped up, over bundled in the un-needed suit, feeling like a brave volunteer for the Bomb Squad to cut a mystery wire. (I probably looked like the Pillsbury Dough Boy instead.) My gloved hands grasped the closed wooden box, and lifted. It was heavy. One step, then another. Locked in, focused. “Oh, I’ve got to tell them this in the letter tomorrow” was one thought.
The other thought was the 25,000 bees all snug in their hive that I was carrying. We had picked up a second colony to add to the bee yard, and this is how it was done. Let’s just say…I’m still getting used to them. What if I dropped it? What if a bee tornado emerged, swirling with venomous rage? Fortunately, I didn’t. Everyone else was in shirt sleeves. Nobody was stung. I set it gently down next to the first hive, and all was quiet on the southern front. I still think I should get a medal.
In other news, a junkie in the park thought I was an undercover cop. I was annoyingly flattered. “Thanks man, I’ve been working out! Uhh…is that a good thing or a bad thing?” He glared up at me over a cigarette and mostly empty beer. “It’s a bad thing!” he spat. I lived to tell the tale, although I’m crestfallen that the “weirdos” no longer view me as a trusted colleague. I wax nostalgic for the NYC subway guitar days. I keep in touch with some of those guys. Guess I’ll have to break out the cigar box guitar soon.
On the bright side, there’s a boxing crew at the gym. I’ve volunteered to hold the sparring pad they punch. What could possibly go wrong?
- Josh