A bee (named Bertram) on the corner of Brighton Ave and Allston Street, where the 66 bus stops, at around 7:23 PM ("walk with me" series, vol. 1)
a poem/short story of observations; also, I've been trying to post more frequently before my grad school program starts and before I get bogged down in bullsh- umm, I mean before I get busy.
On his way out of middle age, a man (loosely holding his lady’s palms while strolling Brighton Avenue’s west terminus) grizzles to an old acquaintance, who is shirtless in his vehicle: “get out of the car.” Intimating a beat cop’s stance, the former’s free hand fashions a gun out of its fingers to belabor the point. The faux-liceman glances back over his shoulder at my bench; I crack a smile. The vehicle-ensconced grouch, pushing a navy blue Lincoln town car, looks on. then grumbles to a third, a wheelchair-bound old-boy, re: the passing couple: “they stabilize each other”. All males involved possess impressive rasps.
5 minutes later, a gaggle of adolescent girls gather around a graffiti-adorned metal gate enclosing the offices of a bearing manufacturer; they crouch around one member of the group who poses for a picture against the throw-ups.
30 seconds post-haste: a bee, hobbling a crawl along the sidewalk as it nears its own end (predetermined by its shot wings), scrounges its fuzzy thorax and nearly orange body across the pavement
his colors (i’ve assigned him a name, and thus the name’s gender performance: Bertram, the male bee) are dulled by dust and the subjective and objective dusk of the evening.
Still, he ekes out an ovular path over four minutes, avoiding foot traffic just long enough to turn belly up.
What I read as a triumphant wiggle of self-selecting his time and place of death—a rare instance where a member of our chapter of life gets to go out on his own terms—winds up being a Hakeem Olajuwon dream-shake to cross up death and evade its tagging, fouling fingertips. Bertram flips back topside to continue his promenade. Once more, he arrives at rest; once more, he fights his way back into motion.
A fiery setting of sun witnesses his passage, pausing to first allow Bertram his home-going in the light.
I keep recording an approximate time-of-death for the small guy, but the bee would not abide by my silly proclamations
until 7:34 pm, on Wednesday, August 8th.
I watch over his body for a while; around quarter to 8, I let him be. Giving his corpse a scoop onto nearby soil with my notebook, I turn to start my walk home. The sun bid us both good bye.
Editor’s note: My friend Nat took the time to let me know that pretty much all bees we see outside are female; male bees really only venture out of their hives once in their lives to find a queen to mate with, and die in the process of said mating… I loved learning this for two reasons, 1) because Bertram was actually a shortie, and 2) because it colors the story an entirely different way. Much appreciation, Nat! 🫶🏾