Rontel (11 page)

Toney stared at the broadcaster.

“Don’t run up on me, dog,” Toney said. “I’on’t like that.”

And his entourage took him away.

But he returned to hug Holyfield before Holyfield’s interview and Toney said, “Ey, I luh you man,”—then he let go of the hug and slapped Holyfield’s shoulder. “Much respect to you man. Much luh.”

My girlfriend took a deep breath and made a noise then turned over, facing me.

For some reason I was passingly terrified she’d have James Toney’s head/face.

Like, her body, with Toney’s head and face.

And then of course, she’d open her eyes quickly and lick me, making the ‘thup’ sound too, ew!

I got milk baby.

Nex!

Who nex.

It was hot in my girlfriend’s room and I couldn’t sleep and I’d never sleep again.

Fuck everything except me.

*

Fell asleep for an hour or so and the first thing I heard when I woke up—already sweating, already feeling sick—was some drunk guy on the street, yelling, “There you are! Thought you was hiding, eh!?”

I wanted to yell, “You’ll never get me!”

But I had a headache and my mouth was dry.

I sat up, looked out the window at part of the Chicago skyline.

Kill
you—I thought.

My girlfriend was already out of bed, in the bathroom.

Today we were supposed to go to this one-day beekeeping class.

She asked me to come with her a while ago, and I said yes.

So today I was going to a beekeeping class.

*

We stopped at a grocery store on the way.

Everyone had to bring something to eat.

“What should we get,” my girlfriend said. “Should we get fruit, or a pie, or.”

“Let’s just bring a lot of gum,” I said. “And a single bottle of shampoo.”

“Think I’m going to get a blueberry pie,” she said, extending her neck as if to see where the pie was in the store. “You know? Fuck it, that’s good right.”

“Fuck it, here’s your pie. Take it, fuckers.”

“Exactly.”

“It’d be funny if we brought it in and like, a big part of it was already eaten,” I said. “Plus, I’d like to do that because I’m very hungry right now.”

She said, “Yeah,” but didn’t look like she meant “Yeah.”

She went to get the pie and I wandered around.

*

In aisle four there was a scuffed-up, barely-thawed hotdog on the tile.

This is it—I thought.

This is the saddest thing ever.

Can’t get any worse than this.

Escape.

I had to escape.

It was traumatic.

I left the aisle.

But after wandering, I wanted to return to the aisle of the hotdog.

So I did.

And when I got back, two girls exited the aisle, stepping around the hotdog.

They had disgusted looks on their faces.

One said, “That. Is terrible.”

The other said, “Ew, I stepped on it and it rolled a little, ew.”

They both laughed.

I went to find my girlfriend.

Wanted to tell her about the hotdog development.

She was in line waiting to pay.

The line was long so again I returned to the aisle of the hotdog.

What haven’t I learned—I thought.

I stood at the end of the aisle with the hotdog.

A woman pushed her cart towards us.

Here it comes—I thought.

This is it.

Having returned to the aisle of the hotdog, I accept this fate.

The woman rolled over the hotdog with her cart, unknowing.

And the hotdog crumbled some more.

And I felt insane, trying not to laugh as I got back in line with my girlfriend.

To pay and leave.

*

At the bee class, everyone grouped in a small multipurpose room, putting food on a table.

I looked at the different foods on the table and considered walking up to each, eating some so everyone could see, then loudly denouncing the quality of the food, saying “Next,” as I walked on.

A fifty-year-old man came up as I set our pie on the table.

He wore khaki pants and a dress shirt underneath a pale yellow sweater.

He had eyeglasses and his hair was combed to the side.

He set two quiches on the table.

“Got a vegetarian one,” he said. “And, for you carnivores, this one has sausage.”

He looked at me and the pie I had set down.

He said, “Some people like hot pie, some like cold pie. I, personally, love it.”

Then he didn’t say which he personally loved.

And I wanted to know!

His name tag had “Bill” on it.

“You’re Bill,” I said, and shook his hand with both hands and held the shake for a long time.

“Well,” he said, smiling a fake smile, “How long’ve you wanted to know about bees.”

“Ever since I can remember,” I said, putting my hands in my pockets, lightly touching my testicles with my left hand.

He said, “Oh.”

“Yeah since my youth, basically,” I said.

People began sitting for the class.

Bill sat with us.

He and my girlfriend talked—because excited and polite people find and keep each other.

Bill talked quietly, but with amazing enthusiasm.

He seemed to be “fascinated” by a lot.

Many of the things my girlfriend said left him “fascinated.”

When Bill asked my girlfriend what she did for a living, she said, “I teach tenth grade chemistry.” She said it as if for a moment she didn’t know if she did or not.

Bill said, “Oh fascinating. That’s cool. I think everyone should know more chemistry.”

And he meant it.

My girlfriend said, “Yeah, science is cool.”

I said, “How much spinach can you make with science.”

Lately I’d been using “spinach” to refer to money.

“
So
much spinach,” she said.

The tone of her voice suggested she didn’t enjoy my company right then.

What a shame!

“So, with science,” I said, “basically, you get that spinach.”

“My wife has magnificent spinach in her garden,” Bill said. “It really is a lovely thing.”

I said, “Oh, she got that spinach?”

The beekeeping instructor began trying to use the microphone and someone said the volume made her ears feel “absolutely awful” so the instructor said he wouldn’t use the microphone but then someone else introduced herself alongside her mother and said her mother couldn’t hear well, and the bee instructor asked the mother if he should use the microphone and she smiled and nodded—not hearing what he’d said—and the daughter said, “Just go without the microphone, it doesn’t matter,” and he stepped away from the microphone and began the lecture.

*

Shortly after he began, I considered raising my hand and saying,

“Yeah, I can kick your ass,” while leaning back in my chair—maybe then look around at others to see what they thought about that.

Maybe point at someone and raise my eyebrows, “You” getting off my chair, letting it hit the floor loudly, “you think anything about that.”

And everyone would know then I could kick his/her/anyone’s ass.

The instructor delivered a long speech about beekeeping and I drew pictures on my complimentary beekeeping packet.

The instructor seemed very worried the whole time.

I kept expecting him—after everything he explained—to say,

“But I mean, who gives a shit, right,” and then look around shrugging and doing this laugh that’s more like sniffing.

Some of the phrases I heard while drawing pictures on my complimentary beekeeping packet:

“…which is a very gentle time in a honeybee’s life.”

“…can anyone speak to that: apple-scab spraying.”

“…he’s a third-generation Bosnian beekeeper.”

“…I get stung about once a week, although sometimes I won’t get stung for three or four weeks then I’ll get stung four or five times at once (sniffing laughter).”

I stopped drawing and pictured him out working with bees—getting stung—saying, “Ow”—getting stung again—saying, “Ow”—getting swarmed—screaming—and his scream is the scream of a person you don’t think matches how he looks.

*

One of the people attending the class kept asking questions and/or introducing himself to the conversation.

He kept referencing having lived in Hawaii.

I wrote, “He’s from Hawaii,” next to some drawings in my bee packet.

Then I tapped my girlfriend on the shoulder and tapped the pen against the words.

She read it and nodded.

I wrote, “I want to fuck your hot pussy,” and tapped her.

She read it and said, “Shh,” smiling.

Then I wrote, “Sorry for being such an asshole sometimes, I care about you,” and tapped her, but she didn’t look.

Hawaiian guy was still talking.

Hawaiian guy was really intense and earnest.

Everyone was really earnest.

Made me think.

What was wrong with me.

Why couldn’t I get excited about something like beekeeping.

Get really excited.

Just come to the class today and enjoy it.

Why couldn’t I live like that.

Viewing almost everything with excitement/enjoyment.

Why couldn’t I just enjoy something.

Why instead did I always envision my own corpse, smileless and rotten.

Smileless and rotten.

Just, terrible.

At the end of our table there was an overweight kid who’d been making faces at me the whole class.

He held up a picture he drew—of a horse—and crossed his eyes at me.

I thought about holding up a piece of paper that read, “Fuck you, bitch”—and raising my eyebrows up and down a few times.

Another person at the class was American Wilderness.

In the back sat a concerned-looking man wearing an “American Wilderness” sweatshirt, who began to dominate the question-asking.

His sweatshirt had “American Wilderness” airbrushed on the front—over an airbrushed bear, which was over an airbrushed American flag, which was waving.

American Wilderness kept asking questions, with a very stern look on his face, his hands gesturing as if opening a combination lock.

I imagined him eating a cookie—only he wasn’t wearing the American Wilderness sweatshirt, he was shirtless. And cookie crumbs fell into his dense chest hair, dissolving.

Almost every question he asked was—according to the bee instructor—“Going to be addressed later.”

*

When all the questions were done, the bee instructor showed some slides of poorly maintained bee boxes.

He showed slides of all the ways someone can ruin a beehive.

The last slides were bee boxes destroyed on purpose.

He said, “And—I guess—here’s some random vandalism from teenagers.”

Everyone said, “Ohh,” and seemed upset.

I thought—These…these are my bees.

*

On break, Bill told us he’d already ordered his bees.

The bees had to be ordered from somewhere.

Bill said, “They told me to call the post office to let them know they’re coming.”

He was talking to my girlfriend, but I said, “That’s a scary thing to call someone and tell them. ‘My bees are coming.’”

He looked at me for maybe six seconds and said, “Right yeah.”

My girlfriend said, “That’s exciting, that they’re already on their way. I’m jealous.”

Bill said, “Oh I know, I’m just falling in love with bees.”

And he really was falling in love with bees.

My girlfriend was too.

They were two people who loved everything.

And excited and polite people who love everything find and keep each other.

*

When break ended, the instructor went around the room and asked each person to introduce him/herself then state his/her reason for taking the class.

Bill had his legs crossed, hands clasped with fingers together around the knees.

He said, “Well, I’m Bill and I guess I’m just—and I was telling these guys earlier—I’m really just, falling in love with bees to be honest.”

Everyone said, “Ah,” or, “Uh huh,” or, “(agree in some way).”