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BY WESLEY CARETTO
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can snap up legs. The venom in a rattlesnake bite or scorpion sting will shut down a healthy heart in a matter of hours. But only one of nature’s killers sends my adrenal glands into overdrive. There, on the handle of my car door, with yellow and black stripes saying “Don’t mess with me,” it menacingly waits. It may have been a honeybee or a hornet or a wasp, but regardless, it was a member of superfamily Apoidea. The lump that lodges in my throat when I spot an apoid identifies me: I am an apiphobic. I am afraid of bees. Most would call that fear ridiculous; bees only harm those who won’t leave them alone. Perhaps true, but I see only a lightning-fast assailant, nimble and unpredictable, whipping around my head, too quick to see, its location given away only by the unmistakable buzz past my ear. To see or hear one bee is to be warned of possibly hundreds more. In a swarm, they operate more efficiently and precisely than any army. They split my attention when on the offense, dive-bombing my face, distracting me while others plant themselves on my exposed arm skin. Now my arms flail wildly, trying to swat these little gargoyles out of the sky to no avail as they deftly dodge and wrap around each swing. I’ve given up any hope of conquering or out-maneuvering my apoid foes. When one approaches, I pray my stillness will HARKS AND CROCODILES
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discourage it from getting closer—though I’ve been told they can smell fear. Once they breach the foot-deep barrier I call “personal space,” I abandon ship. I’ve flung myself out of patio chairs, run out into busy streets, and (when I was much younger) retreated indoors and refused to re-emerge. They can have the outdoors. I’m vocal about my opposition to outdoor seating; the last thing I’d like to confront during my meal is a wasp curious about my lunch. More embarrassing is the inevitable mockery from my friends: “It’s just a bee, chill The fear out. It won’t bother you.” Hovering I feel is around my head does bother me. instinctual, I’ve been stung on many occasions: At age three, I once infringed on a hona defense eybee while stomping around the yard mechanism barefoot; when I was eleven, my brothagainst er invoked the wrath of a colony of yellow jackets after shaking their nest; and perceived when I was thirteen, a wasp decided threats. it was not my lucky day, stinging me in the hand unprovoked. These events serve as rationale for my phobia, though I tend to exaggerate the actual pain I experienced.