Stung

by William Deverell

  He gets called Doc because he has a Ph.D. — it’s in organic chemistry so that’s why Operation Beekeeper is his baby. He wrote a widely ignored paper on neonicotinoids, bee-snuffing chemicals commonly known as neonics. He also authored a couple of angry op-ed pieces about how the planet could die without bees.

  On top of which, he analyzed all of Chemican’s research, found a pattern of deception even worse than Monsanto’s, which made Chemican a more obvious target, more vulnerable.

  Never married but he’s had his lovers, though none of them stuck. He’s too worried about germs to be a wild and passionate lover, I suspect. That’s his only drawback: a slight hypochondria that seems to embarrass him.

  And though Doc normally avoids crowded places for fear of infection he’d spent multiple evenings at the Beaver’s Tail, watching Howie Griffin, charting his success rate in his relentless hunt for cunt: lucked out twice, struck out twice.

  “I hate to ask” is how Doc had put it a few weeks ago. “If it gets weird, bail.”

  I pour a coffee. “Sweltering out there.”

  Lucy goes, “Come on, Rivie.”

  “I over-achieved.”

  “Elucidate,” Lucy says.

  “He was all over me.”

  Improbably, I am seeing a smile on Doc Knutsen’s face, an actual smile, complete with never-before-witnessed crinkles. “You got in there? His apartment?”

  “Seamlessly. Guy has a little powder habit, by the way.”

  Lucy again, master of subtlety: “Did you have to fuck him?”

  “He wished. He has hand problems, but I didn’t find him scary. He’s not stupid, he actually reads books. I gave him a rain check and my Becky number. I expect a medal of honour for this.”

  “Think of the bees,” Doc says.

  4

  Sunday, August 12

  Howell J. Griffin waits all of a day and a half before calling the line registered to Becky McLean, who is a less brassy version of me, more wholesome but just as delectable. (And almost as vain.) Apologizes for having come on too strong. He doesn’t do that sort of thing. That wasn’t him. (Well, that wasn’t me, either.) The thing is, he’s been seriously lonely since his wife dumped him (not his phrasing) and doesn’t want me thinking he’s some kind of cocktail lounge hit man.

  He’d like to repair the damage, give me a chance to know him better. We can start with that Rangers game on Thursday. Am I still up for it? Awesome, I say. Yay, Jays.

  So I spend the next few days boning up on baseball so I can sound credible when I pretend I’m interested. Earbuds glued to some ghastly sports station, a couple of semi-literates rattling off stats and scores and standings. I record a couple of games, fast-forward through the beer-buddy and tough-truck ads: White Sox and Orioles, Jays and Rangers, memorizing players’ names and accomplishments, the lingo. Some of it passeth understanding. What’s a ribbie? A jam shot? An inherited runner?

  Okie Joe, with his mid-America backwoods background, you’d think he’d know the game up the ass, but he’s a full-time propellerhead.

  Doc Knutsen doesn’t do sports either, Major League Baseball being just another macho enterprise to keep the masses sedated. Prides himself on being a feminist. Wish he’d get off that. Why, when guys label themselves feminists, do I feel patronized?

  5

  Thursday, August 16

  So we’re in the eighth inning, and so far I’m throwing a no-hitter, tossing out phrases like picking corners, caught looking, getting doubled, impressing Howie that I actually give a shit. I’m the stats-master, rattling off numbers: Rangers chucker, ERA of 3.54 looking for his third straight, Grichuk hitless over four games, but Smoak has seventy RBIs (ribbies?) for the season, and he’s working on more with runners on first and third.

  A foul ball drifts toward us. I shy away, Howie jumps for it, but it sails overhead. Two strikes, no balls.

  Howie shouts, “Drive one out of here, Smokey!” Pitcher shakes his head, nods, whips the ball to the plate. A ping, and the ball zips around the infield, biggety bang. Double play, inning over. The air goes out of the crowd, out of Howie.

  He’s been mostly hands off, except in the fifth, when the Jays finally got a run. That provoked a substantial bear hug, and I’m like a pressed flower, and I get this cowlike repentance as he unhands me. As usual, it’s not him, he just got caught up in the moment. I’m totally hoping the good guys will lose, saving me from the full force of his jubilation and a possible cracked vertebra.

  The first hitter up for Texas nails one, high and long, and I go, “Wow, that’s a parking lot shot.”

  Howie chirps, “Parking lot?”

  Right. This is an enclosed stadium. “Well, if there was a parking lot . . .”

  I keep my mouth shut after that. The Jays give up two more, and their guys respectively whiff, fan, and are caught looking in the ninth.

  We go to a bar after, and it’s like a wake, the twin towers are collapsing again, planets are colliding, it’s the death of civilization. I’m actually feeling sorry for Howie, I’m human, I can’t help it, and I squeeze his hand. My touch is unexpected and apparently electric because he gives this jolt. I squeeze again, as an experiment, to test my powers, see if I can get him to jump even higher. Instead, he spills his beer on his Adidas.

  He will hate me if I tell him it’s only a game. I hear myself saying, “Sanchez gets a start Friday, he’s due.”

  I get this astonished look. Kind of awed, wide-eyed, as if he just realized something unusual is going on, and I’m thinking, Holy Fuckup, Batman, he’s on to me. But it’s not that, here comes the loopy grin, not like skeptical or ravenous, not at all.

  “Becky, I am really quite wowed by you. You are sublimely, off-the-wall, delightfully unique.”

  6

  Friday, August 17

  “So things have gotten a little complicated.” My understated summing-up of last night’s date with Howell J. Griffin.

  “You’re sure he’s not putting you on?” says Doc.

  “I don’t think he’s capable of that. He’s kind of guileless, your basic transparent middle-aged white male. His wife left him because he prefers Deep Purple to Debussy. He’s infatuated with me, which is a little unnerving. Scary, in a way.”

  “Scary?” says Doc. “You’re scared of him?”

  “It’s more like I’m scared for him.”

  The evening’s balmy aftermath had us strolling along the waterfront, hand in hand, enjoying the play of light on the lake, Howie rambling on all moose-eyed about how we clicked, our shared interests, shared losses, both jilted, both free and on the rebound, and how his ex hated baseball, and made him turn the sound off while she rehearsed her Brahms and Beethoven.

  He gets it that I’m maybe a little tentative and he doesn’t want to push me, but what about a day on the water this weekend, maybe get a little buzz on, and he’s got a lovely cottage, and we can overnight if I’d like but it would be my call . . .

  I challenge Doc: “You said if things get weird, bail.”

  “He meant weird dangerous.” Lucy interjecting.

  She’s to my right. A half-dozen of us, the nucleus of the Earth Survival Rebellion (not to be found on Facebook, Twitter, or Wikipedia) are gathered around the old oaken table, all except Okie Joe, who has more important things to do in his cluttered corner — he has hacked into a server for Canada’s Pest Management Regulatory Agency, seeking evidence it bent to pressure from Big Agro to allow the use of neonics as seed treatment.

  Ivor Antiques doesn’t open till eleven, so Ivor Trebiloff is here, to my left, in shirt-sleeves but with his trademark ugly bow tie. To his other side is his wife, Amy Snider, a black activist from the Great State of Mississippi. Both in their late sixties (and children of the sixties), they met and bonded four decades ago when the cops shackled them to each other at a protest outside the church of a hate-spewing racis
t preacher.

  Across from me: Selwyn Loo, our incredible lawyer. Sightless since fourteen when a virus struck his optic nerves. Turned down a Rhodes to work as a litigator with environmental groups in BC and Ontario. Reads a page of braille with a swipe of his hand. A chess master. Slim, greying, handsome. I have a crush on him too, even though he’s halfway gay.

  “Dangerous,” I proclaim, “describes the jam I’m in when he learns I’ve been jiving him. Not if he finds out. Where am I going to hide? There’ll be no cave dark enough.”

  “We’ve made arrangements, Rivie,” Doc says. “If things go awry.”

  False ID, Stockholm, trusted comrades. Learning Swedish, eating raw herring. Maybe never seeing Toronto again, my home, my family. It seems an unbearable price to pay. But I think of the mass deaths of the planet’s prime pollinator. And meanwhile, Selwyn’s class-action suit against Chemican-International is faltering under a blitzkrieg of litigation, a SLAPP suit it’s called: Strategic Litigation Against Public Participation.

  Amy reaches over to take my hand: “We love you, Rivie. We are so proud of you.”

  “I’m okay with it, guys. Really.” Rivie Levitsky is not a quitter. Rivie is a soldier. Tough, able to cast aside personal considerations. The end does justify the means. Exponentially.

  Selwyn rises. “I have to run. Thank you, Rivke, for all you are doing. I am truly awed. Peace be on you.”

  Selwyn never stays for the planning. He knows the broad strokes of Operation Beekeeper but keeps his ears closed to the details. Can’t counsel criminal behaviour. Pretty ethical for a lawyer.

  His words embolden me. My tactics have been fucking brilliant. I will not be burdened with guilt over a schmuck with a broken heart.

  7

  Sunday, August 19

  Two days later, Stage Four or maybe Five, it’s cloudless and thirty-plus Celsius, and I’m on this fast, sleek twelve-metre cabin cruiser, high on cocaine, my hair flying all over the place, forested islets scudding by, terns to starboard, banking and diving, the Who blasting from a pair of speakers. I am refusing not to enjoy myself.

  Howie, who has been totally hands off and agonizingly honourable, throttles back as he aims for a pretty cove where we’ll take lunch — we stopped at a deli on the way up. He has taken off his shirt, revealing lovely furry pecs and a belly flap that has defied the rigours of Molloy’s Gym. Khaki shorts with pockets for everything. I’m in a bikini with shorts over. He can’t stop goofing at me with that silly grin, his eyes weirdly filmy.

  On the drive up, in his burly bourgeois BMW, he was mostly silent, as if struggling for words, until we pulled over for a snort, which gave him enough pluck to make the dreaded confession: “Becky, I’m afraid I may be falling in love with you.”

  Blurting out how he felt captivated with me, how he didn’t know if his feelings were reciprocated in even a minor way but hoped so, a little anyway, and he wasn’t going to push me, was going to earn my trust and maybe affection.

  I told him I was flattered. Let’s just take it day by day. Desperately trying not to show my discomfort. Part of my problem is lackanookie, I really need to get laid, it’s been four months. I worry that Howie picks that up, subliminally.

  He asked if I brought any of my behind-the-counter dynamite. Next time, I told him. So he chopped a couple more lines of his unadulterated flake. It’s excellent, though I’m no connoisseur. My thing is weed.

  Howie drops anchor and begins slipping the knots from a powered inflatable at the stern. Beckoning is a mossy mesa above a thin crescent of sand. The water entices too, glassy and serene, a reprieve from the heat. Still on a cocaine high, feeling frisky, I slip off my shorts and dive in.

  Halfway to shore, I turn, watch him gingerly step into the inflatable with the picnic hamper and towels. I holler at him not to forget my day pack with my lotion, and he scuttles back for it, like a good dog.

  I have my hopes raised that I’ll avoid having to sleep with this innocent mook. But how? Sorry, Howie, I’m having another herpes outbreak. I worry that I’ll end up doing it, out of sheer need.

  Okay, so now I am drying off naturally, on my stomach, my straps undone, not to tease, just to tan cleanly, but I know without looking that Howie is gawking, willing me to roll over. There’s not much to see anyway, Howie, I don’t want to disappoint.

  I look up, and he’s taking a photo of me with his iPhone. I tell him I don’t like that, I’m a private person, it’s intrusive.

  He says he’s sorry, and pockets the phone. He goes, “I can’t get over how turned on I am by you. It’s never happened before. Even with Maxine.”

  A minute later I open my eyes to his touch, he’s applying sunblock to my back. “You’re getting some extreme rays, don’t want you to pay the price.” He may think it’s a cute gesture but I abhor the presumption. I try not to squirm.

  He asks, “Your boyfriend ever call you back?”

  Boyfriend? Oh, yeah, the writer of bad songs. “He sent flowers.” Let him know there’s competition, that I’m still hurting, pining, so he’ll back off.

  Now he goes up my ankles and legs. I stiffen, totally mistrusting his vow of honour.

  Ding-a-ling, a-ling goes his phone, just as I was contemplating a leg thrust to his groin. “Sorry, it’s the hotline.” As he scrambles through his pockets for his iPhone, I snap my top back on and wiggle my way to a protective squat position.

  “Bryce?” A pause. “Yeah, well, I’m out of commission right now.” Longer pause. “You and Farrell figure it out. They’re trespassing. They’re blocking traffic. Call the cops.” He listens, frowns. “Then get the lawyers on it, for Christ’s sake. Get an injunction, or whatever they call it down there. I’ll call in two hours.”

  Brusque, forceful. I am dutifully impressed with his manliness. I go, “Gee, what’s that all about?”

  “Kansas City calling. Some punks blocking the entrance to one of our plants.”

  “In Kansas City? On Sunday?”

  “Sao Paolo, Brazil. They work on Sunday.”

  “Why would they blockade the plant?”

  “Apparently a lot of bees went missing down there. We’ve got a product that has practically doubled cereal crop output. You been following the news?”

  “Um, not really. Everything is such bad news, I get depressed.” Duh. Becky McLean, airhead.

  “Let’s not let it spoil the day.” Don’t let it bother your pretty little head. “I don’t suppose you want me to do your front.”

  “I think I can handle that. Let’s eat. I’m famished.”

  * * *

  Two hours later, we are back on shore, and he’s on the blower again, with his crisis in Sao Paolo. We’re in his Ikea-inspired cottage, open space except for the one bedroom, its door yawning uninvitingly open. Bed, boudoir, a screen window offering a possible escape hatch. Bunk beds in the living room, for his ex’s boys, I assume.

  I have promised to see my father this evening. I made that point right at the start, when he picked me up at Finch Station.

  The TV is on, the Jays hosting the Yankees. I’m totally absorbed in it, of course. Not listening to his bitching about Brazil’s lazy cops and inefficient legal system. I pick up that a tanker truck has been blocked from leaving the Chemican distribution plant. A protester has somehow managed to chain herself to its front end.

  “She’s what? Breastfeeding? The hell! Hacksaw it!”

  Bryce, on the other end, says something that Howie reacts to profanely. Stymied by a breastfeeding mom. I’m proud of that lady.

  Howie clicks off. “Sorry, Becky, looks like I’m going to have to beat it back to town.”

  “No problem.”

  “How are the Jays doing?”

  “Up by five. They cashed in two in the seventh.”

  “I’m going to make this up to you. Hugely.”

  He makes for the can, and
it sounds like he’s having a dump. Left his phone on a table, still on, so I grab it quick, go into his photo album, delete the pic he took of me, delete it from all devices.

  8

  Wednesday, August 22

  Lucy Wales and I have been couching around a lot in Toronto, where rents are crushingly high, but we finally scored an ultra-urban loft with two cats, the owner on an eight-month sabbatical. It’s in Roncesvalles, near High Park, where I charge my batteries, running and biking. Tension can soften the body, all that sitting and pacing and useless dicking around.

  The flat is on the second floor of a groundscraper on Sorauren, a converted industrial building, and is high-ceilinged, open-space, upcycled furniture, full kitchen, but only one bedroom. We flipped, Lucy got it, and I sleep on a pullout in the living room.

  The professor we’re cat-sitting for is a leftie, his field is German literature. Two windowless walls are lined with books, mostly novels, an entire shelf reserved for his translations.

  Howie’s promised “big time” is on hold, praise Allah. He’s in Brazil, putting the whip to the lawyers. Lawsuits are flying. Most of the protesters are out on bail. All have been named as defendants in yet another SLAPP suit. The claim is for thirty million, a number they snatched from the air. Supposed to scare off the protesters but they keep coming.

  Selwyn Loo is there too, the chess master. He has cajoled some of Brazil’s top counsel to appear pro bono, and they kicked ass on Chemican’s motion to gag the defendants. The judge was offended by their gall. The protest is winning hearts and minds.

  Howie phoned a couple of times, first from the Toronto airport and, yesterday, from Sao Paolo, where he’s thinking about me “every waking minute” and “through every sleepless night.” He’ll be back by the weekend, so please, my princess, keep it free.

  “How’s it going?” I ventured, and he was like, “Storm in a teacup. Got these eco-fanatics on the run.” Fuck yourself, gorgeous, because you ain’t fucking me.