The Little-King-Size Bee Who Could

Email to family on Sunday, May 15:

Today has been chill a day and all here in Mazatlan, MX. The talking-while-texting-while-swerving-between-lanes driver took us into town where we attended church in a 21-ish person ward. The people here are incredible--even if i do not understand a single hypersonic-fast-paced word of Spanish that gushes out of their mouths... that's against the point. The climax of the chill-day-and-all is the following: there we were, walking our skinny little white butts (yes, we were clothed don't worry, it was just a figure of speech) down the main street here, looking for a fresh place to devour the local grub. Strolling along, then, da-da-da-da!, a freaking massive bee (and I mean like king size bee--literally) decides he wants to taste the delectable American girl, and starts attacking me! Long story short, he stung me right, and I mean RIGHT, under my eye. Must have been a slightly amusing sight, a crazy American blonde chick squirming and swatting herself everywhere... yeah just picture that for a moment. Now your smiling, you jerks. Bobby had to pull the stinger out. Moral of the story king size bee stings DO NOT feel pleasant. The cab that chauffeured us back to the hotel thought I had been mugged and punched in the eye. Who knew bee's could give you a black eye, pretty impressive, you strong little fella. 

Just a little funny story to brighten your day. And yes, I mean brighten your day because it is humorous (and slightly sad--but mostly funny).

JR

Madfish?

Big. Big, squashy, and floppy. It’s like a dead fish in my hand—not that I would really know what that feels like but it is what I imagine it as. And yes, that does mean it is damp. I think I’m going to gag if I think about dead fish anymore, but he won’t let go. It’s not what I was expecting either—which makes it worse. See, if I was expecting the “Dead Fish” at least I have time to prepare before it’s thrown at me, unwanted, disturbing. But this, I was expecting more of a firm-yet-gentle-movie-worthy handshake. Will this torture ever end? My hand probably has some fish disease now, like, madfish (like madcow but invented by the fish . . . get it?). Not like madfish is actually real; it sounds more like a wrestling name. Or maybe it’s not fishy at all; maybe it’s more like . . . oh, I know! Raw meat. Okay, now I’m really going to gag. How is he still shaking my hand? It has been three millennium-long minutes, plus forty-seven seconds. Maybe not, but I swear the clock hates me. What is this guy saying; I see his eyes twitching back and forth between mine. His desert-cracking lips are twitching too, but all I hear is “Dead fish. Raw meat. Dead fish. Raw meat.” It is echoing. Louder. Louder. My heart pounding faster, acid itching up my throat, I’m about to blow chunks. He let go. He let go! I’m lightheaded. The blood is rushing to my abused hand, trying to heal it. 

Oh, the cleverness of me.

Occasionally I am boggled (try saying that word out loud, it’s slightly enjoyable) by how clever I am. And I’m not being cocky (or confident), just completely honest. Promise. See, I just crossed my heart. What is even more shocking is how my king-of-witty-comments-and-one-liners fiancé, Bobby, thinks I’m clever as well (only once in a while, but boy are those moments good). Yesterday was one of those days, it seemed as though everyone around me was making mesmerizing-the-crowd comments. Even grams made the à la mode remark that if I would only “mash up my potatoes and put more gravy on them, they would be kinda awesome”. Thanks for the tip grams.  Most of the time I am an observer, or a zoner—depending on what angle you are looking at my face. Of course, you might possibly see a smirk gliding across my face from the funny things my brain would like me to say.

Anyhow, later on I found myself inhaling—not literally—some mouth-watering Japanese food at the mall with my Bobby. Now imagine, what is the one thing that could totally ruin this awkwardly romantic trio moment with my fiancée, my Japanese food, and me? You guessed it, Justin Beiber. One moment I was thoroughly enjoying my trio, and the next Beiber blazes onto the speakers and the television screen in front of me, my gag reflexes did their duty. Okay, okay! I did not actually up-chuck, but it was a close one. Appetite gone, I glared a flaming hole through his not-so-flawless face.

Then it dawned on me. He is a clone, a copy-cat, a fake—well the fake part was already obvious. I turned to Bobby, “You know. He’s the Aaron Carter of this generation.” Now I have to say a few things to explain this brilliant comment. 1. I thought Aaron Carter was a disgusting fake just as much as Beiber, 2. This comment, however brilliant, is true, which leads to 3. It is extremely disheartening that Beiber is bewitching so many of our youth when he is not original, in any way, and his music is not real music. You might be thinking how horrible of a person I am for coming out with that bold statement. However, I will not change my mind.

Moving back to my cleverness, wow! Really, I think that comment was on the same awesomeness level as grams. Until that night. Bobby recounted the story and introduced it to some friends (thank you, thank you very much) by saying “You know, she had an awesome observation earlier.” Did you hear that, I’m intriguing! Which definitely bumped up that comment past the level grams was on. Sorry grams—you fought a good fight but in the end it wasn’t good, or clever enough. Oh, the cleverness of me.

Side note: I am not very clever; it was a golden moment for me, so I had to share it. 

Consider Yourself Warned

Sitting. Crunched in a backward "n" shape--if you are looking from a side view, anyway. I'm just outside the spotlights that shine harshly down, where the shadow is the darkest. But I guess this is my place. All I can see is the mocking lights, the mocking walls, rows and rows of mocking heads turned away from me. Voices--conversations sneak in and out of my ears quietly, like sneaking spiders over your bed at night. One voice louder than the rest echoes off those mocking walls and probably through all of those mocking heads turned away from me. My back--and backside, if I'm being honest--aches from the cold harshness of the deceptive wall and mush-pattern-carpeted-floors. A face, one face (attached to a body, of course, I'm not seeing floating heads or something, thank you) comes into view, turns in my direction and takes its place nearby. Your back--and your backside, if I'm being honest--is going to ache soon, too. But I warned you. Didn't you see the clear look of warning I gave you when you looked briefly my way? Don't say I didn't warn you. I guess this is your place, just like it is mine, this is the punishment--or not, depending how you look at it--for coming into class late. Oh, who am I kidding. It was worth this story. 

THEY

I had goosebumps. Of course, I always had goosebumps in this small, annoyingly tidy room. Who keeps a room this clean anyway? I couldn’t spot one single ounce of dust anywhere; it is an unearthly domain if you ask me. Not to mention how boldly black and white it is, literally. The walls and floors are white, and all the furniture is black. Oh, I guess there is a hideous, fake, green plant in the corner right next to the leather lazy boy chair, in which that man my mom calls my therapist sits. I refer to him as a monster though. It awes me this thing actually speaks English. What is he saying anyway, I think he just asked me a question. “Uhm . . .” I wait for him to repeat himself like he always does. “Arthur, I asked you exactly what they told you to do, and why did you do it?”

Why did he say it so slow, it’s not like I’m stupid, I just wasn’t paying attention to him before. After explaining what had happened to my mom, my dad, my perfect twin brother, my dog, and the cops already, I was getting tired of repeating myself. I’m just an innocent civilian; can’t a guy get a break? After noticing that the clock hands had strangely barely moved since I arrived ages ago, I rambled through the story for the millionth time. I don’t understand what is so interesting about it.

They told me to strangle the girl. Of course, there wasn’t anything in the room to do it with. Then one of them had pointed out the old, rotting vacuum in the corner. I had glanced at the girl but she was unconscious still, she wasn’t going anywhere. Come here vacuum. I’m not going to push down your red button. I’m going to unplug and unwind your snaky, long, fraying cord. I’m not going to push you back and forth. I’m going to use you.

Then they had told me to hurry in case she woke up. Hurry. Hurry. Hurry! Shut up, I am hurrying. Strangle her, hurry! Okay, okay. I had grabbed a clump of her hair to lift her head and started wrapping the cord around her frail neck with trembling hands. I shouldn’t do this, this is wrong. No! Strangle her! Do it now! They told me over and over. I had sat back, pushed my head between my knees, clutching onto my hair. They were so loud, the sound of a thousand hurricanes. Why are they yelling at me? I had rocked back and forth, warm tears stinging my cheeks. Their voices sent me into a panic, tormenting myself, entombed in my own head. I thought the people outside could have heard the voices.

The girl started to move, her eyes shot open realizing there was a cord entangled around her neck. She had tried to scream, her voice struggled, begging me to let her go. I rocked. My gut lurched and hair stood up on my arms, like the goosebumps I have now at my doctors’ office.

See doc, I don’t know why it happened. I stand up as that irritating sound coming from him vibrates through my soul. Why does my mom insist that I come to this insane man? Who is he to tell me that I am actually the insane one? He does not know what the voices are like, always echoing in my head. He tells me to sit down because my mandatory counseling session is not over yet.

Don’t listen to him, they said. Just leave, you don’t need him. We’ll deal with his sad life soon. A wicked smirk spreads on my face and I walk out of the room, leaving that pathetic man sitting on his leather seat with his mouth wide open. I might get in trouble with mom for leaving. At least I don’t have goosebumps anymore.

AMUSED?

Thump-thump, thump-thump. The car rumbling over the old tracks sounds like my heart, I can feel both. These tracks must be ancient; I could see the rust even before driving over them. Crap, my breaks are squeaking again.

Putting the car in park, I reached over to grab my warm, thick, faded hoody. Oh, it’s in the back seat. I started walking across the lot to the snow-tipped-pine needle-green grass, measuring my steps with stiff-from-driving legs. The group congratulated me with smirks of sarcasm for finally arriving.

Emphasis on the finally.

The line is long, winding, seems to be shivering all together. Thump-thump, thump-thump. Was that another car or my bloody heart again, calm down. It’s cold, even with my hoody and a beanie on, not to mention the worn-out, somewhat holey gloves on my hands.

Goose bumps are rubbing against the inside of my clothes. Why I even bother shaving on cold days beats me. The line starts to creep eerily forward—my legs don’t want to. Come on, I’ll give you a massage later, promise.

They move.

Is that a dead baby bride skeleton hanging on the fence? Why would a baby be getting married, at least make this realistic. Thump, thump, thump, thump.

It was my feet making the noise this time, I climbed clumsily up the steps. The railing was cold against the patches of skin revealed through my old gloves; more goose bumps. Fake spider webs clung desperately to the ceiling and walls, draping too, forcing me to duck. We found four empty bench seats; the leather was cracked. Did I mention the rotting holes in the floor?

The train must be old.

People surround us on their seats, some dressed up. The train inched forward, lights went out, a voice came on the intercom, slow and deep.

It told stories. A lady who killed her sister on these tracks, a witch who turned rotten kids into cats on the other side of the creek, a girl who was trapped in a well we had passed. The train inched to a stop. The characters from the stories boarded. They began to stalk the train cars one by one, people screaming, clinging to each other.

They are too fake for my liking, though I am still rather amused. Halloween is my favorite holiday, after all, no one can have Halloween without bad make up jobs.

Or bad stories.

Thump, thump, thump, thump. We scrambled off the haunted train. I felt my eyebrows scrunching, it was cold. My nerves had been prepared to see things and hear stories that would keep me up all night—fail. Cheesy as it was though, I was highly amused. Thump-thump, thump-thump. That was definitely my car going over those haunted tracks that time.