A Real Buzz-Kill
Fran Vlahos Rohm
©
Copyright 2020 by Fran Vlahos Rohm
|
Photo by Max Muselmann |
A gorgeous late spring day
beckoned me outside to sit on the grass with my fellow classmates. I
happily joined a group of my friends, who had already escaped to soak
up some afternoon rays.
Given the nature of
modular scheduling at our 'experimental' high school, we often had
blocks of free time between classes. Of course, the expectation was
that our free time would be used wisely, for studying and completing
assignments. However, it being our senior year, and with no
one
really monitoring us, or requiring us to be anywhere in particular,
leaving the concrete prison-like building even for a short time, was
a no-brainer.
Our brand-new high school
was built to relieve the overcrowding at the existing area school,
already operating three overlapping shifts. While the shifts helped
with classroom size and teacher to student ratios, it did little to
alleviate the masses hitting the hallways between classes and it
forced an open campus because there was no room to serve all the
students during lunch periods. In the excitement surrounding the
first new high school in several years, it was seen as a great
opportunity to implement some innovations in
education.
The design of the building
itself was unique. It was built in wings: east and west, with a
central hub for the common use areas. Due to projections of more
population growth in that area, the original design also included
north and south wings for the future.
As students coming out of
a traditional and very structured system, the idea of the open
periods offered something new and exciting. This experimental system
attracted some of the best and brightest of teachers, and many
students thrived in this environment. Some, sadly, took advantage of
the excess of freedom and education became secondary. The majority of
us made the most of the educational opportunities, but by spring of
our senior year, we were ready to use and abuse some of that built in
freedom, taking some latitude in the balance of school and
fun!
So, any hint of a break or
a sunny day drew us outside in swarms. Following my Biology lab, I
had hurried out and plopped down to join a lively discussion of the
upcoming play, starring a mad crush of mine, the school talent show,
and other possible weekend activities including a party or
two.
The time had gone by
quickly, and I checked my watch. In the distance, I heard the
class-change warning bell. Along with a couple of friends, I gathered
up my books and heavily inked Pee-Chee folders. By this time of year,
those ubiquitous folders were covered in doodles, sarcastic comments,
other fine examples of teen wit, and very little could be seen of the
familiar yellow and brown cover. As I stood up and brushed off my
jeans (acceptable apparel for girls now, thanks to a recent relaxing
of the district dress-code) a low-flying critter buzzed loudly by my
cheek and ear, lightly grazing my skin. I was startled, but did not
dwell on it.
I started walking across
the expanse of lawn toward the drab school building, in no serious
hurry to go back indoors. But with the realization I had only a few
minutes to get to Mr. Simonsen’s class, which I actually did
enjoy, in the farthest wing of the H-shaped building, I quickened my
pace. With about the length of a football field left to cover, again
came that buzz, buzz, BUZZ! Now it had a different pitch to it, and
my brain quickly grasped that it was not a friendly sound.
WHAP! It thwacked my head
just above my right ear. This was getting serious, and a bit
creepy.
“Just
hold still and
it will go away.” I heard Gramma Hazel’s voice in my
head, as I fought the urge to swat at it. And at any rate, my
hands were full of books. I reverted to a little slower pace,
thinking that should stave off a more serious confrontation. With
deliberate steps I moved toward the safety of the building, while
trying to remain calm and nonchalant.
Using only my peripheral,
thinking sudden or erratic movement could escalate this strange (and
certainly in my mind) unwarranted attention, I tried to keep a
lookout for my harasser.
Again, the dive-bomber
buzzed my head - louder and even more menacing than before. Okay, I
was starting to freak out.
BUZZ! BUZZ! Again, and
again it dove at me, circling my head in wild agitation. Now I could
identify it as the biggest, blackest flying bug I had ever
seen!
I still had half a
football field to go, and I was not sure I was going to make it
unscathed.
This creature had singled
me out, honed in on me for some unknown reason, and was actively
pursuing me. All this distance across the open field we students
dubbed “the back forty”. Why? I wasn’t wearing any
perfume or even any makeup. Was it the lotion I had applied hours
ago? My clothes? My “Gee Your Hair Smells Terrific”
shampoo? These thoughts tumbled around my brain, competing with that
voice still warning me not to panic.
An even stronger, more
insistent, primal voice broke through the now-constant buzzing, and
edged me over an abyss into survival mode. Dropping my books to the
ground, and counter to the quiet warning about calm behavior around
bees, I flailed my arms about and batted wildly at the hornet from
hell.
Within seconds, I realized
this reaction was not helping, and broke into an all-out fifty-yard
dash, hoping to outpace my crazed and highly motivated winged
adversary. At last I reached the building, yanked open the heavy
metal door, flung myself inside, slamming the door shut behind me
while rejoicing in the reassuring “thunk”.
Over the jackhammering of
my heart in my chest, I heard the loud SPLAT as that creature smashed
into the large window next to the door. As I stared, still panting,
transfixed by the gooey remains of the Kamikaze flyer, relief flooded
through me. I had been spared an undoubtedly nasty sting, or
worse.
At the same time, although
quite thankful for the end to my own personal Hitchcock scene, I was
struck by a sense of horror and sadness, that this complex, shiny
black creature, having perceived a serious threat, was driven into
attack mode, spurred by some mysterious insect instinct, and gave up
its life, because of
me.
I
am a 68 year old
Granny (aka: Granny Franny) and although I love to write, it is
mostly for catharsis and/or pleasure. My daughter goaded me into
writing and submitting the story. It has stuck with me for many
years, and may be part of the reason I kept hives for several years.
(Unless
you
type
the
author's name
in
the subject
line
of the message
we
won't know where to send it.)
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