The Music of Bees by Eileen Garvin (most read book in the world TXT) 📕

could with the date, time, temperature, hive number, and a description of what he saw inside. He made a few sketches. He also highlighted that extra tone with an asterisk at the end of the note. In all six he heard that sound and located the queen—six green-dotted beauties. He was elated. He thought about Harry, who would be there tomorrow evening to get his first instructions for work. Jake didn’t want to share the bees with him, and he didn’t want to share Alice’s place either. He thought of inviting Katz over again when Alice was at work. But now this guy would be hanging around half the day.

The wind picked up, and Jake rolled into the shop. He cleaned off the hive tool with mineral spirits and put it back in the toolbox. He was physically tired like he hadn’t been in months. A good tired. He moved back over to the shade, drained his water bottle, and fell asleep.

He didn’t remember the details of his dream, only that in it he was on his skateboard again, flying along the trail by the river at the waterfront. And Cheney was with him. He was so happy. When he awoke, he felt a piercing sense of loss. It came to him like this sometimes. In sleep he forgot. Then he awoke to the understanding that he was no longer just Jake the average fuckup with his whole life ahead of him. He was Jake the particular fuckup—eighteen years old, jobless, not at music school, and using a wheelchair. A knot rose in his throat, and a weight settled on his heart as he considered the state of his life. But then he looked out at the apiary. He flexed his tired hands. He remembered the sound he had heard and the beauty he had seen. He thought about everything he would tell Alice. The weight shifted, and a spark of joy bloomed in his heart. This new thing, this wonder.

14 Drone Life

Bees issue from their hives in the most peaceable mood imaginable; and unless abused allow themselves to be treated with great familiarity.

—L. L. LANGSTROTH

The sun beat down on Harry’s shoulder blades as he rode away from Alice Holtzman’s farm. His stomach yawned. He hadn’t eaten since the breakfast burrito. Landing the job had cheered him up but had not changed the fact that he was almost out of money. He and Alice had agreed upon the hourly rate, and she asked him to return the following evening to make a plan for his work schedule. Then Alice asked if there was anything else he wanted to discuss. He almost asked for lunch but stopped himself, sensing that would be an odd request.

His hunger grew as he rode up the long hill toward town. He stopped at the grocery store to use the bathroom and cruise the deli samples. He nibbled cheese and piled bits of salami on a napkin until the deli lady glared at him. He left, shoving the tiny pieces of meat into his mouth and feeling hungrier, as if the tidbits had only sharpened his appetite. He hopped back on the Schwinn and headed north toward the bridge, the hospital, and his uncle with growing dread.

At the waterfront, the bike chain jammed and Harry jumped off to unkink it. He washed his greasy hands in the public restroom at the waterfront, and as he came out, he heard a man’s voice over a sound system. “Check one. Check two. Check three. Check, check, check. Hello, Hood River! Yeah, I think that’s good, Doug,” the voice said.

Harry saw a band setting up on the grass—three guys with a bass, drums, and a guitar. He smelled the scent of grilling meat and saw a woman opening a tall sleeve of red plastic cups next to a sweating beer keg. Harry wandered closer and spotted a long table covered in aluminum serving trays—piles of potato salad, baked beans, green salad, and pie. People were queuing in front of the grill for burgers and hot dogs. He felt dizzy with hunger.

“Hey, brah. You in line?”

Harry turned and saw the big guy from the kite beach. His long hair hung in his face, and his tank top revealed muscled, suntanned arms.

“Oh, hey! Honey Buns Man! S’up?” The guy high-fived him like they were old friends. “Harry, right?”

Harry nodded, surprised. Harry was not used to being remembered.

“Yogi,” the big guy said, tapping his own chest with a thick thumb. “Good to see you, dude. Grab me a plate, will you?”

Harry handed him a paper plate, and Yogi began to pile it high with food.

“Get in here, man,” Yogi said. “I didn’t mean to take cuts.”

“Oh, no. I didn’t pay, I don’t—” Harry started, but Yogi shook his head, his long hair flapping around his face.

“Nah. It’s free! The port does this every spring at the beginning of the season. It’s an appreciation barbecue for the kiteboarding crowd. Keeps the natives docile.”

Yogi laughed and shook his hair out of his face. Harry, unable to believe his luck, filled a plate and followed Yogi to the grill. With two burgers and a cold beer each, they sat on the lawn in the shade of a tree. Between mouthfuls, Yogi launched into an interesting if confusing monologue about his morning kite session and a new trick he was trying to master called “Dark Star.”

Harry nodded as he listened, not understanding any of it, and tried to make himself chew between bites and swallows.

Yogi sipped his beer and wiped his mouth on his wrist. “You been out there yet, man? Body dragging or on a trainer kite?”

Harry shook his head. He hesitated, not one to talk about himself, and told Yogi he’d been busy looking for work and had landed a job.

“Most excellent!” Yogi said, and threw up a hand again, and Harry slapped his