Sitting in my living room, reading the latest "can't put this down for anything book," I became distracted by a low hum, the location of which I simply could not hone in on. Druck came home, got his dinner, settled in beside me and began his routine of flipping channels when he also heard this bizarre low level drone. Finally, after wandering outside, peering at the sky for helicopters, returning to the house and bending and dipping, trying to locate the sound, we found it. Beneath our very large picture window, the wall pulsated rhythmically. A light finger touch to the area revealed the wall to be paper thin. We knew what lay behind that thin veil, and it wasn't going to be pleasant when those bees finally chewed through.
I contacted a company that uses non-toxic-to-humans measures to remove squatters of this sort, quickly and effectively. And when the young man arrived, he reminded me of something out of a movie. There he stood, straighter than a new soldier, uniform neatly pressed, equipment in hand. I fully expected him to salute as I greeted him at the door.
As he lay his equipment down, he spoke with authority. "Ma'am, you're going to want to wait in the kitchen while I handle this. It could get nasty."
"Of course," I replied, retreating to the kitchen where I could watch him in the reflection of our very 70's mirrored closet doors.
He had already instructed me as to what his plan of action was - to cut a small opening in the wall, puff some smoke in there to confuse and somewhat anesthetize the bees and then he'd let them have it with his power ranger-type "gun" that was slung over his shoulder and attached, via a long tube, to a container of potion that would knock the enemy flat on their winged backs.
I stood in the kitchen, arms wrapped around my waist, rubbing my knuckles across my lips nervously. Within seconds, he had opened the area, puffed in some smoke and began to go to work. Not long after that, he jumped to his feet and became a writhing, twisting, jerking maniac - flailing at the air and slapping at his head and face, reminiscent of the moves Jennifer Beals made in the final scene of Flashdance.
"Are you ok?" I called. "Yes, ma'am, I'm fine!" he shrieked, still unaware that I was watching him in the mirrors.
It was over as quickly as it began and dead bee bodies lay on the carpet, atop the TV and all around the opening of the wall. He removed the hive, sealed everything back up, and handed me the paperwork to sign. I glanced up and saw several welts on his face and on the back of his hands. "You got stung."
"No, I didn't."
"You didn't? Then what's with your face?" I signed the paper and handed the clipboard back to him.
"Must be my allergies acting up. Do you have cats?"
"Yes, I have five. Are you allergic to cats?"
"No."
"O-kaaaaaay." I decided to drop it and listened attentively as he went on about calling the company back if there is a recurrence. "Thank you for allowing me to assist you today, ma'am," he said, exiting and holding his head high as only a power ranger would, with another job well done.
I stood back and watched from the window as he got into his truck and angled his rear view mirror to check out his face. He pulled something from the glove compartment area, untwisted it and took a big swig. Probably Benadryl, I thought. Or hard whiskey.
Copyright 2008 liamsgrandma
