Boys "Bee"ing Boys
By David Zinn
Those who have witnessed a group of boys in action have probably noticed the unspoken, yet carefully organized social structure that exists between them. Each member of the group has a specific set of skills that enables the group to operate at maximum efficiency, thus ensuring optimal success in whatever mischief happens to fancy them that day. While the roles may differ slightly depending on the size of the group, they can be categorized in the following manner:
The Workhorse. This role is usually reserved for the biggest of the group. He comprises the muscle of the organization. Alone, you will most likely find them repetitively heaving large objects to and fro or demolishing and dismembering dead trees. But in a group, that raw energy can be channeled into productivity such as building bicycle ramps, constructing tree houses, or setting up booby traps. They also provide excellent protection from rival groups. Although they are usually the perceived leader of the group, there are others “pulling the strings” from behind the scenes.
The Thinker. This roles is reserved for the runt of the group. Neither physical nor athletic, the runt must find a way to fit in. Confronted with the realization that he needs to justify his standing in the group, he refines the one attribute he knows where he knows he can excel: His mind. He, too, may enjoy the pleasures of a good game of tackle football or a hazardous dirt-biking journey through the backwoods of his neighborhood; however, he knows that he can really only just keep up. The group puts up with the occasional slow-down because the thinker provides a veritable cornucopia of ways to get into mischief.
The Mikey. Think “Life” cereal. The Mikey is there mainly to provide comic relief. He is the guinea pig – you know, the one who “tests” out whatever contraption the thinker designed for the workhorse put together. Usually, the Mikey is the athletic one. He may be big enough to be a workhorse, but he lacks the patience to be effective in that role. Many a Mikey have been born through a demotion from workhorse. Mikey's have almost no fear, or rather, they fear being cast out of the group more than any possible physical harm that could result from playing their role. They are the ones who have had no fewer than five trips to the emergency room due to a Mikey-related injury. The next time you sign a young boy's cast, just think “...hey Mikey, he likes it”.
A perfect example of this social order in action is the story of my second painful interaction with bees. The story begins with three boys standing on the side of Via Regina Rd in Saratoga, CA on a hot summer day while pondering the solution to a problem they could no longer ignore. There was Tom, the workhorse, Oliver, the Mikey, and me, the thinker. The object we were staring at was a large oak tree set back from the road about 30 feet. Our neighborhood was a boy's paradise. Set back in the middle of the foothills, there were plenty of trails to roam, wildlife to terrorize, and a small creek in which to play. The old oak tree marked the opening of a trail that we used frequently to access the creek. The problem was ever since I can remember, the tree was inhabited by a rather large colony of honeybees. A hole located just below the “V” where the trunk meets the branches was the gateway to their kingdom. Being somewhat of an expert on what happens when you mess with bees, I was always uneasy about how close I got to that hive every time I wanted to frolic in the waters of the creek. An uneasy haste would guide our stride as we would pass through the area that marked our entry to creektime funness.
We finally decided that enough was enough. We weren't going to let a few bees cause us anymore undue stress. We were going to take a stand. The bees would have to leave and find another home elsewhere. The problem was, how do we convince the bees to obey our wishes? The thinker began pondering this very subject as he mindlessly pulled out his veil and donned it like a knight putting on his armor in preparation for battle. One by one, as if guided by the same power, the workhorse and the Mikey followed suit. As my mind searched for a solution to our problem, it occurred to me (mind you, this is after putting on the veil) that the answer lie in keeping them in their hive, not forcing them out. Yeah, brilliant idea! Can you see where this is headed?
So there we stood, rocks in hand, ready to “plug” the hole with a few well-placed throws. After a few minutes of fruitless effort, initially from a cautious distance but closer and closer with each throw, two things became apparent. First, the rocks (even the accurately thrown ones) were just bouncing off the tree – duh! Second, the bees appeared to be more irritated than before – double duh! No, rocks just wouldn't do. My eyes scanned the ground, searching for a more suitable “plugging” object. They soon rested on a scattering of fallen buck-eyes. Hmm, I'd had some experience with those things...not too soft, yet malleable enough to perhaps adhere to the tree and plug the hole if it was just the right size. The thinker, having improvised a new plan, directed the others to employ his new strategy. Shortly thereafter, something remarkable happened. The plan worked...well, sort of. None of us really know who threw it, though it would become the subject of much debate for years to come, but a buck-eye became perfectly wedged in the hole that had for so long served as the bees access to the outside world.
There is a scene in Jurassic Park where Jeff Goldblum, having just arrived at the doomed theme park, uttered his concern that bringing the dinosaurs back from extinction might have unforeseen consequences. Undaunted, the creator of the park explained the elaborate containment structures and fail-safes they had created to control and contain his prehistoric spectacles, to which Jeff Goldblum simply replied, “...nature always finds a way.” Well, in our case, nature found a way. And it didn't involve a greedy computer programmer driving a jeep in a tropical storm. It involved the fact that our buck-eye did not form a perfectly hermetic seal around the hole. In fact, we had barely begun to celebrate when we realized the buck-eye did not provide enough of a barrier to even annoy the bees.
At this point, we should have just given up. But, hey, we weren't quitters. Plus we were still wearing our veils of stupidity. Tom and Oliver looked at me as if awaiting orders. I couldn't let them down, and as the thinker it was my duty to find another solution. My eyes began a frantic search. Emboldened by the fact that the bees barely noticed our presence, I decided a more “hands on” approach was needed – can you say “moron”? I noticed that, laying in front of me, was a dead tree branch that appeared to be just the right size to reach the beehive. In fact, it seemed to be custom-tailored to accomplish the task I had in mind for it – scratch that – what I wanted the Mikey to do with it. At one end, the branch curved at about a 90 degree angle. According to my calculations, that was the end that would be plugging the hole and stopping those bees once and for all. After carefully absorbing my instructions, Oliver brazenly grabbed the branch, and while placing the straight end on the ground, levered the angled end into the bees' point of entry. This accomplished two tasks. First, it shoved the buck-eye further into the hole. Second, it served as a “fail-safe” plug in case the buck-eye was insufficient.
At this point, our fate was sealed. I'm sure the bees were looking on with amusement at our failed attempts to plug their hole, but it became much less amusing when actual damage was being done to their home. Oliver was, understandably, the first to feel their anger. His response was to scream, begin wildly slapping at his head, and take off running down the street while repeating steps one and two. My response, like Tom's, was to laugh uncontrollably at Oliver's misfortune. The laughing, however, stopped when I felt a rather large flying insect collide with my head. Based on Tom's reaction, a similar event occurred to him simultaneously. At this point, Tom and I joined Oliver in the slapping, the screaming, and the running. The bees pursued us for a surprising distance – probably at least 100 meters. As much as I tried to slap away the bees as I felt them land on me, I ended up with several bee stings to my back and side. Tom and Oliver suffered similarly. Another lesson, unfortunately, not fully learned.
The beehive remained in that tree for the remaining years of my youth. The bees eventually forgave us, and we learned to tolerate the other's presence. A few years after leaving home, a storm blew through and split the tree right where the beehive was. Undeterred, the bees continued living in the remaining portion of the tree. Who knows, they may still bee there. If they are, I'm sure they have quite a story to tell about how a few kids almost got the better of them.
I have a "cheek pincher" as a neighbor and I love it!
