It was a warm and humid summer’s day in the late 1980s on a back road in rural New Brunswick.
A gentle breeze caressed the trees, waggling their leaves, exposing first their paler undersides and then their darker tops, a thousand leaves blinking ephemeral semaphore to the world.
The air was alive with insect song and the chirping of songbirds.
A bumblebee, having spent the last 10 minutes in a particularly beautiful patch of clover, had just launched itself towards the roadside, rotating lazily to one side as it compensated for the extra weight of the delicious cargo on its hind legs.
REM blasted from the tape deck of a burgundy Toyota Tercel as it came around the corner.
Inside the car were four serious men.
Inside the car were four serious men with a trunk full of shovels and tarps.
Inside the car were four serious men with a map to a box buried in a secret location in these back roads.
Inside the car were four serious men all plotting against each other.
Shovels.
Tape deck.
Men.
Car.
Open window.
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Bumblebee.
“Ahhh!” screamed the smoking man riding shotgun in falsetto notes that belied the stocky features of the bearded face from whence they emerged. “A bee! A bee!”
“Pull over!” yelled the backseat men.
“A bee! A bee!”
The driver slammed on the breaks and ran out of the car, as did the two back-seat men. But there was no escape for the bearded man – now a blur of flailing arms and legs, hugged tightly in his seat by the seatbelt awakened from its slumber by the sudden brake slam.
“Mragh! A bee! A bee!”
The bearded man was now a blur of flailing arms and legs, as though a gigantic invisible thumb was pinning him to the seat.
“What bee?” yelled the driver. “I don’t see a bee!”
Finally free from the seatbelt, the bearded man ran from the car to the side of the road.
Four grown men.
Tercel with doors ajar.
A bee, cowering under the backseat.
