Bertram and the Bees

He hated these weekend visits, and the damn bees were the reason why. Bertram sat in the van, staring at them through the window. He dreaded what he had to do.
 

The van was parked in the driveway of his grandfather's house, under a tree. He had a predisposition for falling asleep on these long drives to the countryside, and as long as it wasn’t too hot outside, his mother would leave him there to sleep. He wished she would stop doing that.
 

“A growing boy needs his rest,” she would say. This was nonsensical to him. Being twelve, he could easily fall back asleep inside the house in minutes.
 

He stared at his grandfather's front yard. It was lined with a dozen bee hives. He would have to jump out of the van, and make a dash for the front door, a mere 200 feet. Once around the corner of the garage, it was a straight sprint to the door. Just the bees stood in his way. They buzzed loudly, mocking him.
 

Why the hell did his grandfather keep his bee hives so close to the house? Being out in the middle of nowhere allowed his grandfather the capacity to do whatever the hell he wanted. The nearest neighbor was a good twenty minute hike away.
 

“Don’t worry.” Bertram could hear his grandfather now, “They won’t sting you, if you don’t mess with them. Just keep your cool, and don't freak out.”
 

Bertram had tried walking calmly, but it never worked. Stupid bees, why couldn’t his grandfather buy his honey like everyone else?
 

“It’s a hobby,” his mother had explained. “It keeps him busy. And when he’s busy, he’s happy. We like him better that way. Besides, we know you’re not allergic.” She would laugh after saying this. Four of the last four visits, he suffered a sting. Each one hurt worse than the one before.
 

The first sting was on his upper back. The second was on his right shoulder. The third was on his thumb. He hated that one, because it cut back on his game-boy play. That was the one thing that helped pass the time on these long weekends. But the one that hurt the most was last year. A bee had stung his lower jaw, just to the right of his chin. It hurt every time he spoke or chewed. He did not do much of either that weekend.
 

Right now he needed to use the restroom, otherwise he would just as well stay in the van. Bertram wrapped the majority of his head inside his hooded sweatshirt, took a deep breath, slid the door open, jumped out. With his arms crossed in front of him, and his hands hidden in his armpits, he ran. He turned the corner, and saw his target, the front door. There stood his grandfather, smoking a cigarette. He took his cigarette out and started laughing.
 

Bertram felt a bee bump into his head—or maybe his head bumped into the bee. He felt another bee slide past his temple and get caught in the hood of his sweatshirt. Bertram stopped, flipped his hood off, and rubbed his hair violently with his hands. Bent over, flailing his arms and legs, he felt like a mad monkey.
 

“No!” his grandfather shouted. “You idiot!”
 

A bee landed on his left eyelid and sank its stinger in deep. Later, Bertram found out that the stinger did not actually penetrate his eyeball. In the moment though, it felt like the stinger pierced deep into his cornea. Bertram let out a scream.
 

He pinched the bee with his thumb and forefinger, and pulled it off. He finished his sprint to the door. He ran past his grandfather, who was laughing so hard, it was a shock he was not rolling on the ground.
 

Yes, Bertram hated visiting his grandfather, and the damn bees were the reason why.

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