The Hive Situation: A Family Memoir
Part One: A Petty Mother’s Pain
“Johnny get your lazy butt down here! I need help NOW!” These were the words my mother wailed from far below my third-floor attic as I was comfortably perched on my decadently fluffy chair. Quietly reading in my cobwebbed space the shrillness of her voice shocked, but did not really surprise me. This dimly-lit attic was also my privately creepy living area and bedroom, and her blunt manner was a jarring and sadly regular occurrence. No rest for the weary they say, and I was quite weary of my own domineering mother, being forced to deal with her personal absurdities on a daily basis.I adored living alone up there in the attic, it was all the quiet sustenance my solitary-loving soul required. Dead silence was the norm, and the dusty air was soothing and strange, slightly gothic even. The roof needed patching which no one here knew how to do or could ever afford, so there were various holes above me that I could view the sky through. At night I could even see the stars. So this attic space possessed an almost ancient quality. Like living in a poor man's version of the quiet eons. Attached were all the cobwebs, shadows, dust and appropriately dark vibes that came from living in such a unique space. Every window was covered in musty black sheets and moth-eaten fur coats to block out the intrusive sun.
I was also subjected to freezing temperatures and icicles hanging from the rafters directly over my bed during the long Buffalo winter months. These factors actually contributed a fascinating aspect to being there for me. This was Buffalo, New York after all, so those factors were to be expected half the year.
Yes, my mother yelled for me, and I was forced to answer her annoyingly intrusive call. “I’ll be right there” was my loud response, forced even louder because she had slight hearing issues. which I'd adapted to long ago.
Whatever it was that my mother needed, it seemed important to her, hence her decibel level and tone. She did shout at me often, but rarely in that particular tone. Hastily throwing on a stained trusty old gray t-shirt while tossing my worn paperback on the bed, I headed out of my inner sanctum and into the lunatic asylum known as my family home.
Quickly descending the steps into my own personal familial purgatory, I intended to meet the problem head-on whatever it might be. Heading down, the wooden stairway creaked under my feet, and I didn't even consider using the century-old decayed handrail. Made of aged creaky wood and a breeding nest for splinters, its very presence there was a horrible accident waiting to occur. Why bother using it, since it was a bloody hazard and could collapse as easily as a soufflé nixed by a clumsy chef?
So descending the creaky steps and leaving my peaceful sanctuary, I caught the scent of strong garlic wafting up to me through the back hallway. Apparently dinner was meandering its way to becoming an actual meal, and that likely wasn’t the problem I needed to solve for her since my mother had no cooking issues.
I’d never become the cook she was, and she’d never become the master chef my grandmother was. Crafting delectable but highly unhealthy heart-clogging meals was my mother's one redeeming quality in life. Maybe this is the nature of time and entropy in generations of human life, each generation doing things slightly worse than the generation before?
Arriving at the second floor I heard my mother's mumbling and ranting still below me, so I kept descending to ground level, where she would likely be in the kitchen. As always, I was correct. There she loomed in our greasy home version of a galley, slaving over our filthy black gas stove. Though considered hazardous, it was our only option for hot cuisine. We didn't even possess a microwave, too damned pricey, and this was a poor household.
Dirty pots were boiling, and garlic flavored steam was delightfully flowing around the room. Such would be a vampire’s worst nightmare since the strong fumes of garlic were everywhere. Fortunately, I wasn’t undead (yet), so no garlic issues for me.
“I’m here, what happened?” I loudly asked. She turned around to face me, her rolls of fat covered in a shapeless dirty pink robe, with bare dirty feet, and pink curlers covering her entire head of dark hair. Not a particularly pleasing view for anyone. She was a mountain of a woman and could be damned dangerous in the wrong mood. She was three times my bodyweight, with a temper to match.
She pulled back her sleeve and shoved out a thick meaty arm for my notice. There was a obvious red bump I easily saw on her forearm. “Look! I just got stung by a bee in my own damned bedroom! You need to take care of it NOW Johnny, pull your frigging weight!” She boldly declared, pointing a flabby finger in my face. As if somehow accusing me of responsibility for her present pain.
I wasn’t the "man" of the house, that ignominious title fell to her feckless husband John. He had a deathly fear of insects and was good for pretty much nothing besides collecting his pitifully small paychecks from his thankless andgrimy janitor's job.
In our household, her dullard husband was the sole breadwinner, and little else. My mother had the audacity to marry him when I was around 10 years old, to my strenuously stated objections.
If something really HAD to be done in my household, it always came down to young Johnny, because I was the only one that could actually get such unpleasantries done. It became my lot in life for a long time, and I was the only kid in the household.
Being the most capable in the entire house of four was a burden, not an honor. Five if one counts my mother's annoyingly mangy street poodle, a worthless annoying yapping creature.
Since I wasn’t paying rent, she did have a minor point. As a young hermit, I avoided dealing with others in my house by residing in my attic far away from everyone. So I did need to make some small contributions in my own way. I earned my keep in the only manner that I could be effective. It was my lot to getting difficult and often unusual but necessary household tasks done. I certainly ate more than my fair share, so I would ultimately cooperate, and pull my weight as she so crudely put it.
Once I came home only to find my mother's husband John attempting to dismantle a light switch without shutting off the circuit breaker first. I walked in while he was sticking a metal screwdriver into the exposed wires, and he duly received a hard zap! Hilarious to me, and shocking for him. So I ended up finishing the job myself while he went to recover from his accidently electrifying experience.
So a minor bee problem was in front of me. My plus-sized mother turned back to her busily bubbling pots, mumbling to herself just beyond my hearing range as she did often when irritated. Today seemed to qualify indeed.
Sad to realize that in the entire house, I was the only one who was even borderline sane. Doubly ironic since I was also the only one in my entire family that had already spent two years committed to a nuthouse. Yet I really was the most rational creature under that roof of strange characters more suited to a rogues' gallery than a "normal" family.
So my intentions clear, I grabbed my mother's glamour magazine off the nearest table and rolled it up, gleefully aware that she was still reading it. This would be my chosen weapon against a single bee. I’d purposely leave the messy bee corpse for her or her idiot husband John to get rid of since that was well above my pay grade(meaning none).
Yet again I headed up the backstairs quickly, but not too fast since I had no particular wish to run face-first into a pissed-off bee before I spotted it, which could also end painfully for me. The idea of a bee stinger lodged in my eyeball had zero appeal, and was clearly to be avoided!
Arriving at her open bedroom door, I carefully poked my way in looking for a pesky flying intruder to send via express mail to insect heaven/hell.
I didn't find one bee, but two eagerly buzzing around. Shrugging to myself, I could handle two bees just as easily as one, and so started my swats. Splat, went one bee on the nearest wall. Rather messy and a bit too satisfying. I immediately went after the second bee circling around the large window. Apparently it wasn’t bothered by the instant demise of its compadre, shame... “Gotcha″ I mumbled as I squished it into the unforgiving glass. Bee guts were colorfully smeared right in the middle of the window. Nodding to myself, a job messily well-done.
I was about to turn around and return the now disgustingly soiled magazine to my mother, when I heard a droning noise close to the window. Was this bee not actually dead? Though the smeared corpse attested otherwise. Could dead bees make a buzzing sound?
It was then I noticed a thick black crack around one side of the windowsill. The sound seemed to be coming from inside there. It was wide at the bottom, and narrow at the top , in perfect contrast to the ancient white paint of the sill. I put my eye close to the crack, and it was pure blackness within, the void up close and personal, but the sound was louder.
Cautiously, I put my ear against the wall closest to the sill, and I felt an ominous buzzing through the thin wall. Leaning back, I witnessed yet another flying pest buzz its way out through the thickest part of the crack. The little buggers had an actual hive inside my mother’s bedroom wall! I didn’t have a clue as to how long they’d been in there, and my mother never noticed the buzzing sounds the whole time apparently. However, she certainly noticed getting stung, which is a far more personal event.
Yet again, I swatted the newest flying intruder, and the little corpse fell to the rug, still twitching as it flew to the afterlife for bees. So I gave a solid stomp with my sneaker to send it quicker on its spiritual journey, and no more twitching. Yet another soul heads into the vast unknown.
Going nose to the window, I looked outside towards the frame. Being a bright sunny afternoon, the real problem was easily visible.
There was a much larger crack outside, and bees seemed to be randomly flying in and out of it. If I opened the window, they would likely swarm right in. So noting the entire situation, I grimly headed back downstairs. This problem seemed far bigger than a young boy like myself could possibly handle(without preparations), so I needed to relay the bad news to my mother. Knowing her as only a son could, I knew she wouldn’t be pleased, not a bit.
Arriving back to the kitchen, I heard a very loud slam accompanied by a nasty familiar voice, also yelled: “Hey, everyone, I’m HOME!”
I could almost feel the windows shaking at her voice decibel. It was Pat, John’s older heavier sister, only present in my family via marriage. She was temporarily living with us after getting evicted from her old apartment for physically fighting with a neighbor. Pat was always up for a fight.
Arriving at the kitchen doorway, Pat waddled up behind me. “Outta the way Johnny, I gotta sit and get some coffee.”
I felt a casual push as she forced her way past me. Such was her way. Pat was around the same enormous girth as my mother, but shorter, so it was best for my own health to actually get out of her way. Rudeness, crudeness and ignorance defined her personal disposition. She’d just as soon slap someone out of her path than to wait her turn. It was just how I’ve always known her to be and likely part of why she got evicted from whatever craphole she lived before.
We don’t choose our family, nor do they actually choose us, we just end up kind of haphazardly thrown together like tossed salad, either by genetics, marriage, circumstance and sometimes via love. Pat’s presence in my house was not because of the latter I can assure you. I despised her, though technically my aunt, and she always disliked me right back.
Pat was a 350-pound force of nature tossed into my household, by ultimate bad circumstance. Pat was the female version of Baby Huey, immature, perpetually angry at the world, and the loudest human I’ve ever known. How I despised her, stubborn, large, and obnoxious, yet family by marriage, like a vast obnoxiously inherited curse.
I lived in the attic, as far from my idiot family as I could possibly be, yet still way too close, since I was well within shouting range. If my mother or Pat shouted “Johnny get your skinny butt down here”, I couldn’t ignore the call, it was my job as the smartest and most competent and "freeloading" household member.
My mother's husband John was an inept idiot and if something needed to actually get done in our house, it was MY name that was usually called at the top of the lungs. I was the embodiment of Jesus as a miracle worker, but the poor modern handyman version; At least I was the one that could be counted upon to get things actually DONE in my mother's crazy household. From cleaning the VCR heads to fixing light switches, I was the only creature of any real talent and intelligence living under our roof, as well as being the only kid/teen resident there.
Pat lumbered past me and plop! She planted herself at the compact kitchen table as the corner chair gave a loud creaking sound, surely objecting to such an immense and immediate strain. She was next to our grimy coffeemaker and poured herself a bitterly strong brew. The cups were also kept on the table for convenience. She looked at me and asked, “So Johnny, what are ya up to today?”
My mother replied instead: “He’s dealing with a friggen bee in my room”. She was now sitting across from Pat, resting and deeply involved with her own poured cup.
“What the HELL is a bee doing in the house?” Pat yelled, loud enough I was sure anyone walking by outside could hear her easily. Instead of replying to her, I turned to face my mother. “It’s bees, not bee, and there’s a much bigger problem to deal with,” I said while reaching out to pour myself a solitary cup. If anyone in that kitchen had earned a cup of joe, it was me. It was I doing the really hazardous work after all.
“What do you mean Johnny? There was more than one bee?” she asked, turning her back to me as she rose to do some pot stirring.
“Yes, I killed three bees, but that’s only the beginning. Here’s the bad news, there is a literal hive inside your bedroom wall, hundreds of bees, maybe thousands, either way, a lot”
“A bee hive? What the hell! Call the damned exterminator” Pat exclaimed a bit too loud for the small room all three of us were in. Both callous and ignorant, since such professionals cost money that my combined household would never possess.
My mother turned back. “Pat, you know we don’t have a buck to spare. Do you have money for an exterminator? “
“Hell NO Betty, they cost hundreds! I AINT got shit!” was Pat's predictable response.
“Johnny, you're gonna have to find some way to take care of this.” my mother said, turning again to her greasy pots. This wasn't a question to me, but an undeniable demand.
Pat spoke up, “Why the hell can’t John do it, he is your husband after all!” My mother shrugged: “John, he’ll get killed, or end up in the friggen hospital. You know this Pat”
“Yeah, my brother has always been kinda useless, even since we were both kids” Pat mumbled, her personal way of begrudgingly agreeing with others(quietly). I heard this, and not sure if my mother did. I wanted to immediately say "so are you", but I preferred not to fight with her right then, silence is often a requirement for diplomacy within my particular house. Nice that I was my mother's only child and son, and I was considered so easily expendable, oh well... My life was ok for this risk, but not her adult husband.
I spoke directly to my mother “I have an idea, it’s kind of weird, and a bit loony, but it might actually work”
“Johnny, I don’t wanna hear about it, just take care of it now alright? I want no damned bees in my house!” She callously blurted out.
“Ok, Mother, but I’ll need some supplies for this idea. If you want me to risk life and limb to go to war today, I’ll need at least 10 bucks for this”.
Her response was not surprising to me: “I’m not paying you for doing your damned job while you live here in MY house for free Johnny. Besides I don’t have it, John might when he gets home tonight”.
I responded accordingly “Ok fine, but I can’t take care of it until I get what I need for supplies MOTHER.” I started turning away to leave, and Pat kicked my foot. “How much ya need again?” While she reached into her filthy jeans pocket. She wasn’t a purse type, but only used her pants pockets, to ridiculously absurd effect.
Wheezing for breath, out emerged various piles of mashed together greasy bills, and a literal mountain of change rattled the table as well. She uncrumpled the bills and casually threw them in my direction, as if in utter annoyed disgust. “Here’s eight, give me a sec”. She counted out two more dollars in nickels, dimes and grimy pennies. “Ok Johnny, here's 10 bucks, go get em!” as she reached over, still wheezing and patted me on my shoulder.
These piles of random coins had the epic level of muck only a starving drifter could have appreciated. Instead of rotting away in a gutter somewhere, they were now dirty copper weights in my hand, their prime having long since passed. However, now they had purpose, to buy my needed supplies. I shrugged, in utter resignation, quite unhappy at the unpleasant task that lay before me.
I declared to all ears present “So I’m heading to the corner store, I’ll be back in a few, and please no one go into the upstairs bedroom, I’ll need the whole day to do this.” My mother sipped her coffee purposely saying nothing at all, while Pat grunted “eh” while waving a dismissive hand gesture for me to be on my merry way already. So I was casually dismissed to my dangerous task!
Out I went from our garlic-flavored kitchen, consigned to my inherited drudgery, leaving behind the smells of cooking and dirty relatives, I now had A War to wage…
