The Life of a Beekeeper

My father kept bees. He died twenty years ago, when I was seventeen. There’s a reason that successful beekeepers aren’t alcoholics. The funeral was closed casket. After that it was just my mom and I, alone except for 100,000 bees that lived in our backyard. I never had a chance.

My life revolves around harvesting regurgitated pollen from insects that would sacrifice themselves to prevent me from getting it. People have told me that I look like an astronaut in my bee suit. I feel like I went to the moon twenty years ago and I’ve been stuck there ever since.

The last time I went on a date was years ago. I took the girl to get ice cream, and we sat outside on a park bench. Everything was going well until a bee landed on my Rocky Road. I stared it in its compoundeye for two full minutes, then started sobbing. There was no second date.

All of my friends have normal jobs. They’re bankers and construction workers who go out to bars after work and forget what they did during the day. They live in the suburbs and take for granted the ability to sleep at night. They can put honey on their toast and think nothing of it. I’ve talked to other beekeepers before, but I could never be friends with one. It’s too much like looking in the mirror.

Twelve years ago someone told me a lateral thinking puzzle. It went, “A man tries the new cologne he got for his birthday. He goes out to get some food and is killed. Why?” The answer is that the man was a beekeeper, and the bees attacked him because they didn’t recognize his smell. I never went to beekeeping school. Sitting at home on my dresser was a new bottle of cologne that I hadn’t gotten around to trying yet. I used to laugh a lot more twelve years ago.

Sometimes I go out into the swarm and rub pollen on my suit. I hold out my arms and wait, as the bees gather on me and weigh me down. Within minutes, I become a writhing, buzzing tumor of yellow and black. I stand there until my strength fades, and the bees finally take me down off of my cross.