Published on August 31st, 2023 | by Randy Weeks0
The View From The Balcony: “Sweat Bee Chronicles”
Sweat bees are famous—or infamous—for their tendency to land on humans to obtain moisture and salts from perspiration. It’s kind of amusing to think that we are sports beverages for insects. (Missouri Department of Conservation)
For several weeks now there has been a single, solitary sweat bee buzzing around The Balcony. It’s a minor annoyance unless you’re allergic to bee stings like MoJo. If she gets stung she’ll swell up like a helium-filled balloon at Macy’s Thanksgiving Parade and we sure as hell don’t want that. When the bee comes a’ buzzin’ MoJo goes to cussin’.
I recruited the help of Our Lady of the Flashing Needles. That day she could have been called “Ninja Needles” as she artfully and deftly used her tools as weapons to engage the bee in a faux fencing match, leaving the bee dazed and confused, and eventually forcing it into a glass.
Cookie jerked off one of her 9” heels and was ready to crush the bee. In the twinkling of an eye I slammed a copy of The Essential Rumi over the glass, effectively trapping the bee. Unfortunately for me, Cookie was in mid-swing and impaled my hand to the heart of Rumi. The Balcony People roared in laughter over the irony. I disengaged Cookie’s heel and handed the blood-spattered stiletto back to her. Totally disgusted, she turned on her other heel and stomped away like a pissed off three-legged aristocat.
The Sheik and the Untouchable Man were agape at the skills of Our Lady of the Flashing Needles. They tried to recruit her as an undercover agent. She smiled smugly but spoke not a word. She’d been a double-naught spy for 15 years and had recently become the first and only spy elevated to the position of a triple-naught spy.
Freakishly, a squeaky little voice like that of Vincent Price at the end of the original The Fly echoed from the glass. “Help me!” it said. “Help me!” Our Lady of the Flashing Needles and I shared a shrewd stare. I leaned toward the glass.
“You gotta help me,” he said. “I am KGBee gone rogue. Pootin’ is after me!”
“Pootin’?” I asked. “I thought it was Putin.”
“No,” KGBee said. “He was born a Pootin’ and he’ll die a Pootin’. If they catch me they will eliminate me and make it look like suicide, but their kind of suicide is definitely not painless.”
“Show me proof,” I asked.
KGBee attached himself to the inner glass to reveal Lilliputian sophisticated surveillance equipment strapped to the inner side of his thorax. “I’m trying to defect,” he said, “but this device is set to self-destruct in five seconds and take it with me.”
As KGBee spoke, the light on his thorax turned from a steady green to a blinking red. We knew he was about to be insecticided. Our Lady of the Flashing Needles got in touch with her inner MacGyver and disarmed the device, a mere millisecond before it was to explode. KGBee and I sighed in relief. Our Lady of the Flashing Needles sat back in her chair, cool as a cucumber, as if what she’d done was as simple as knit one, pearl two.
I released KGBee from his glass prison and invited him out. Dazed and confused, the fear in his compound eyes was evident to the 10th power. But I coaxed him up to the edge of the glass.
“What do you want?” I asked.
“Sanctuary, asylum, protection, anonymity,” he said.
“The Balcony is a safe place,” I said, “But you’ve got to promise not to sting anyone. I’ll make sure there’s salt water here so you’ll have no reason to suck on anyone. Capiche?”
“Capiche,” KGBee replied. He looked to Our Lady of the Flashing Needles for her endorsement. What he got was a blood curdling stare and a click of the needles that struck fear in his heart.
With that I released KGBee from his glass prison. The rest of his day was spent flying around The Balcony with extreme caution. He clearly had the fear of the Gulag in him. Now it would be our job to trust—but verify.
Should you spot KGBee on The Balcony, show him some Southern hospitality. All he wants is a little sweat—and perhaps a bit of information.
…and that’s the view from The Balcony.
Randy Weeks is a Licensed Professional Counselor, a Certified Shamanic Life Coach, an ordained minister, a singer-songwriter, and an actor. Like KGBee, he is currently fleeing Pootin’. Randy may be reached at email@example.com.