I arrive at Staples, in a hurry, in need of ink. I step out of my car and into a swarm of bees. I scream, collapse back into my seat, and shut the door.
Through the windows, I see dozens of bees zooming aimlessly. Fuzzy, yellow, black aircraft are zipping in circles, whirling in figure eights. I hear a buzzing behind me; it is a bee orbiting my back seat. I scream. Quickly and calmly, I step out of the car, through the swarm, into the store where it is serene and quiet, relaxed and spacious.
I look around. There is only a handful of people inside— a few clerks and customers. Nobody has noticed what just happened outdoors. Everyone has their back to the window. Nobody bore witness to my calamity or heard my screams or saw my terror. I have stepped into an oblivious, air conditioned world of copy machines and card stock.
I find my ink and move toward the checkout. My eyes are fixated on the windows as I watch the fuzzy aircraft flying around my car. Why did I park in that space? How had I not seen those bees?
I tell the clerk, a young lady in her twenties who is noticeably pregnant and looks exhausted, that there is a swarm of bees surrounding my car, and I am scared to go outside. She turns around to look out the window. (Finally, I have a witness!) She turns back to me and says, “They have been here since this morning. That’s so weird.” But I am scared and I have to go back to my car to go home and they are there and what am I supposed to do? Her tired eyes blink at me. She almost shrugs her shoulders before she giggles nervously and —once again—blinks at me.
I step outside the sliding doors, keys in my hand, heart in my throat. I stand here, paralyzed under the crackling sun. Oh, my God. What do I do? A man who works here walks past me as he exits. I say, “Can you help me?”
He mumbles to me through a thick beard, “Sorry, I’m off work.”
He is too busy to help, too eager to go home, too anxious to sit on his couch stained with gravy and hot sauce, too keen to turn on the six o’clock news and scratch his crotch. Murders. Accidents. Wicked politics. Meanwhile, the bees keep buzzing. And I am still standing frozen in fear with beads of sweat invading the private territories of my body’s landscape.
“Please,” I say.
He helps me begrudgingly. His crotch is itching, and I am an inconvenience. He walks into the swarm of bees with the calm confidence of John Wayne and peeps through my car windows. “Come,” he says,”There is nothing in your car. It is safe. Come quickly and drive.”
“Do not leave me,” I say.
“I won’t,” he says, “Come, you are scaring me more than the bees.”
I dash into the car and speed away. My cheeks are wet. I hadn’t even noticed that I was crying.
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