Adventures in Journalism, A Bee’s Story
This is a story of a spelling bee for grown-ups, a charity fundraiser for Halton Literacy that happened some time ago. The paper that I worked for was there in full force and we had real goals to win this competition so I was not on the spelling team. They brought me to take one for the team and cheer us on because we all understand AnnK’s dyslexic issues when it comes down to editing day. I was basically the paper’s cheering team since I had the loudest, most annoying voice.
Our team, Bernadette, Donna, and I, show up to the spelling bee dressed in our best business casual and then we notice that every other team was dressed up in historical costumes or in cheesy headgear. I just stomp my foot down and yell “AW MAN- I COULD HAVE BEEN WEARING A BEE COSTUME??!?!?! Mutherfucker” and promptly the three of us felt the heat and decided we needed to get costumes ASAP.
This was my task: make costumes for everyone on a budget of $20 and in a half hour.
Could she do it? DAMN RIGHT, AnnK always delivers! I made Bernie drive me to the dollar store in town and I went to work to find costumes.
First, I grabbed a few Hawaiian lays and then I grabbed streamers, bee stickers, glitter, and funny craft things. It was during this shopping rush I felt the pain of not eating in 8 hours hit me like a ton of bricks in one of the isles. I was seeing stars, funny black wavy stars in my face and I hunched over trying in vain to get my vision back. This small boy (he had to be like 7 years old) walks up to me and starts looking at me funny and I start to focus into his face as I lean forwards “collecting” myself. Why is this nosy kid looking at me like this? “Hey- Hey- Hey, Kid- how are you?” I say, trying to blink my eyes back right.
The boy looks at me as if I was a long dead relative. “I know you. I have seen you before,” He says.
My head starts to race- it is never a nice thing when a small child is all up in your face with the line, “I know you.” I could imagine this having happening to people would be far worse, but I am a paranoid cookie. “OH- You know me? Please- think hard. Where have you seen me before?” I ask him as if I was horribly lost and trying to figure out who I was and where I came from. Hunger and deadlines can do that.
He looks at me even harder. My eyes are staring to let light back in normally and then his face lights up. He squeals, “I KNOW YOU! You sang with my dad last week at the Dickens!”
When I hear this, I literally drop everything in my hands and my eyes shoot wide open.
Enter the horrible flashback.
I am in the bar and James is by my side. I down my wine in 5 minutes and get my coat. I am a rogue woman, depressed, disenchanted, trying to do what people tell me to do to get out on my own and mingle with other people all the time trying not to smoke as much. The singer on stage is singing California Dreaming, I love that song and he is good and its half past 11, time for bed. As I am leaving the man on the stage looks at me long and hard and then wails out into the mic “WELL WELL- Folks, we have a treat today! The lovely and talented painter AnnK is here in the bar!” The crowd starts clapping, roaring like lions and my face turns beat red. “WHO WANTS TO HEAR HER SING A SONG?” Before I can even duck out the door or get Patty (my bartender) to save me from this, the crowd shoves me on stage and a mic is hammered into my gob. “Uh- I was just going home.” I say. The crowd groans, and then starts to chant, “SING! SING! SING!”
“I do not think you know any of the songs I like to sing” I say to the guitar player. He laughs and says, “EVERYONE KNOWS A BEATLES SONG!” I just hang my head and mutter in the mic “If I sing, will you let me leave?” and before I could say anything else, I was singing Yesterday. “LET’S GIVE IT UP FOR MILTONS LOVELIEST PAINTER!” He roars after as I finish. Jumping off stage, I catch a glimpse of a little boy, 7 years old sitting with his family at the bar, clapping and cheering….
End horrible flashback and in the Dollar Store.
I am on the floor, arms stretched to the heavens, yelling “NOoOOoOOoOoOOOOoOOOOOooOOoOoo!!!” at the discovery of the little boy. People stop and look up from what they are doing, the boy starts to giggle and says something smart like, “You’re weird”, and I mash my head into a nearby display. Pulling my head out, I notice I slammed my skull into a huge display of glow sticks. Suddenly- I knew why this completely embarrassing thing happened. “ALL RIGHT,” I yell. “GLOW STICKS!”
I grab a rack of them, the boy is now scared and I run off down the isle giggling, looking for Bernie. I find her and say, “We can do this Raver style!” and she just laughs. For a 40-year-old woman, she is pretty down.
We race back to the Spelling Bee, top down in the Jag, hair spinning in my face. I make up glowing bee crowns for us. Donna is highly impressed with my last minute costume skills.
NOW THE PUNCHLINE:
No one told us this would be televised. Well, no one told me and especially no one told Donna however the cameras WERE there. The judges tell us each team must get on stage and describe what their costumes mean to the entire audience and the people watching at home. Donna turns red, looks at me, and asks what do we say when they get up and are covered in glow sticks and lay flowers. I bring my 3rd glass of wine to my lips and chortle, “Tell them that we are wearing flowers because all the damn bee’s want a chance at our honey.”
Donna laughs and says I am brilliant, or I think she did or I wish she did- hard to tell after a few. Our team gets on stage and guess what? Donna froze. As the camera zooms in on her in a crowd of everyone who is everyone in Milton she says, “We are wearing lay flowers because everyone knows how journalists just want to get LAIED.”
The crowd stiffens. My eyes shock open. A boy in the back row yells “ALL RIGHT” and the room bursts out in a fanfare of laughter, clapping and hooting.
I slump in my chair and order another wine on our tab. The waiter makes eyes at me, he is a horribly attractive Italian boy and Nina nudges me, “Hey- go for it!” I hunch up and think, “It is going to be a rough night.”
We came in fourth place. I felt like I was watching “A Boy Named Charlie Brown ”- the cartoon where Chuck goes to the Spelling Bee nationals and fucks up on the word “Beagle.” We fucked up the word Pterodactyl- I KNEW THAT ONE! I did not spend most of my junior high life reading up on the bones of dead monsters for shit and giggles. I remember afterwards I was in the Dickens running around with my suit jacket up over my back making “GAW GAW GAW” sounds to the people who came to the after party as if I was some dead flying lizard.
I remember later a male friend came to my rescue, dragged me home by my ankles and threw me into my bed at 2:30 in the morning. When he tossed me into my bed he asked me with a smile “Is it true what they say about Journalists?” I look up at him from under the pillow and say, “I have heard that those stories are grossly exaggerated,” and I passed out.
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