It's today and it's Brooklyn. On the subway, there's a stray yellowjacket, he's far from the hive, and unlike the pigeons on the A train, this little fellow is not going to make it home.
Only half the people on the car have noticed the bee, which has landed on the shoe of an oblivious romance-novel reader. Equally oblivious, the bee starts to crawl up her leg. A man leans over and says, ma'am, there's a bee in your pants. She ignores him until I say, lady, no shit, you've got bees, and then she shakes her leg violently. It's the wrong leg she's shaking, but the bee flies out anyway.
The train pulls into the Wall Street stop, and an expensive suit flattens the bee with his New York Post. The Post's cover is a mugshot of Bin Laden, and now there's a snotty trail across Bin Laden's face, a smear of that stuff that's inside bees. The guy drops the newspaper right there on the subway seat and gets off the train.
Only then do I realize, hey, it's spring!
Only half the people on the car have noticed the bee, which has landed on the shoe of an oblivious romance-novel reader. Equally oblivious, the bee starts to crawl up her leg. A man leans over and says, ma'am, there's a bee in your pants. She ignores him until I say, lady, no shit, you've got bees, and then she shakes her leg violently. It's the wrong leg she's shaking, but the bee flies out anyway.
The train pulls into the Wall Street stop, and an expensive suit flattens the bee with his New York Post. The Post's cover is a mugshot of Bin Laden, and now there's a snotty trail across Bin Laden's face, a smear of that stuff that's inside bees. The guy drops the newspaper right there on the subway seat and gets off the train.
Only then do I realize, hey, it's spring!