Buzzkill: I took my bee emergency straight to the station
Lately, I’ve been taking full advantage of this summery weather here in my newly adopted hometown—soaking in the air, basking in the sun, and quite literally feeling on top of the world while zooming past semi-trucks on my Kawasaki Ninja like the main character in an action movie… only, you know, the law-abiding kind. No police calls have been made about me—yet—and that’s not for lack of opportunity, but rather because I revere the law like a cow reveres the herd. (Peacefully. Lovingly. Occasionally confused.)
Now I know many of you, my dear readers, live for our weekly police blotter. Who doesn’t love a good ol’ “cows in the roadway” call or “suspicious person eating a sandwich too aggressively near the post office”? We all enjoy a hearty laugh at the kind of police activity that screams, “someone just needed to talk to somebody.”
And then last Thursday happened.
And I became that somebody.
It was the end of a long, lovely day. I had everything I needed—my keys, my gloves, my general sense of confidence—and was tossing on a sweatshirt to ride home when BAM. A sharp burn hit my back. Then another. Then three more. That’s five, for those keeping track. I yelped. I froze. I flailed. I may or may not have resembled an inflatable tube person.
With my nervous system on red alert and logic nowhere to be found, I did the only reasonable thing: I jumped on my motorcycle (losing one glove in the process, naturally), zipped across town, and skidded into the parking lot of the newly remodeled Odessa police station.
Police Chief Rose—bless this woman’s soul—opened the door with a smile, probably thinking I was there to report a crime or return a lost item. Nope. I burst in, breathing heavy, ready to rip my sweatshirt off, and declared something along the lines of: “Chief, I need you to look at my back and tell me if something is attacking me.”
She blinked once, politely leaned in, and then said the words I will never forget:
“Looks like bee stings.”
I stood there, processing the fact that I had just involved law enforcement in a situation best handled by, I don’t know, calamine lotion. I muttered a thank you, promised to obey traffic laws forever, and awkwardly exited—only to spot my glove, sitting in the middle of East 1st Avenue like it too was judging me.
So yes, I got stung five times. Yes, I involved the police. And yes, I’m fully expecting to hear about this for a long time.
Let this be a lesson to all of us—what lesson, I’m not sure, but probably something like “always shake out your sweatshirt” or “never underestimate a bee’s ability to humble you.”
Until next time, I’ll be icing my back, clutching my dignity, and waving to the neighborhood kids who now point at the Ninja girl with awe… and perhaps a little pity.