by Bethany Cutkomp
Here’s the thing: people don’t show up for each other anymore which, you know, is a wild thing to admit as the founder of your punk band.
At its core, Dunce Wizard prioritizes individualism. Fuck the system, right? Conform to nobody. Mutuals in your small town eat this shit up at house parties. And the skate park. And, briefly, in the Baptist church parking lot after dark.
Turns out, it’s the concept of your dream that entices the crowd, evident in the low quantity of tickets sold at your first official dive bar gig. Capitalism sucks, but heaven forbid a dude tries to pay his rent. The bar staff were righteously pissed, and you? You couldn’t believe nobody even made an effort to see you at your best.
Imagine if you sink to your worst. Who’s going to have your back then? By the way shit has been going down lately, that answer may reveal itself to you sooner than later.
An hour before rehearsal, your lead singer greets you alone in her driveway. The garage is shut and everybody’s equipment is stacked outside of it. What is this, a yard sale?
You gawk at your disassembled drum set strewn across the dew-licked lawn, cymbals free of their stands like discarded frisbees. Priscilla hefts Viva’s bass amp into her trunk and swipes a tangle of blonde curls away from her eyes.
Brock, we’ve got an issue, your vocalist says to your feet.
You yank your Hy-Vee polo off and wipe your drums dry before all of that moisture warps the heads. You can’t just sell my shit like this without asking.
Wha—no. God. Priscilla shakes her head. Bees. A whole swarm of them found their way into my place. We’ve gotta find a new rehearsal space until I’m able to safely relocate them.
You place your drum flat on top of Christopher’s guitar case. Where are they at? I’ll just give those buggers a nice huff of Raid and sweep ‘em out.
No! Priscilla shouts, throwing herself between you and her garage. It’s alright. Milo already gave me the okay to use your place to jam next week. He cleared out the basement during your morning shift.
Your basement? That cursed, musty, poor excuse of a living space you and your lead guitarist share at your duplex? The one that Milo uses as a dark room for his film photos? The garage is one thing, but everyone must be out of their minds if they think that vile room is sufficient for rehearsals.
Y’know what? Screw it. You’ll be the bigger man and support your bandmate during her time of need. Who are you to mope about society’s collective apathy when you haven’t even tended to your own inner circle? Once Priscilla’s out of the apartment, you’ll sneak in and prove what a great fucking band leader you are.
***
Some moron bought out Dollar General’s entire stock of insecticide, so you’re armed only with a flimsy frog-shaped fly swatter from your pantry. You may not know what the code to Priscilla’s garage is, but you do recall her mentioning a spare key wedged under a loose brick in case of an emergency.
The lights are off. The curtains are shut. The citrusy tang of essential oils doesn’t assault your nostrils like usual. Tiptoeing across the living room, you poke at her couch cushions and brace for a face full of stingers.
To a degree, you kind of feel like Goldilocks—a six-foot-three, dark haired, twenty-four-year-old man version of Goldilocks, at least.
Over the hum of the ceiling fan, a faint zip flits past the left side of your head. You smack your ear and wince. Waiting for the ringing to ebb brings forth a disturbing discovery: the unmistakable sound of the shower faucet running.
God. Someone’s here.
Dropping the fly-swatter at your feet, you shove the bathroom door open to a cloud of steam and, holy shit, a half-naked Priscilla perched on the counter is getting attacked by a swarm of bees.
But wait. What the hell? The swarm of bees attacking Priscilla takes on the figure of a human.
No, hold on. A few bees peel away from the human-shaped swarm to reveal patches of skin, meaning there is a real person standing underneath that twitching mass of insects.
And, wait a minute, that bee-covered person isn’t attacking Priscilla. They’re…kissing her? And not just kissing but, like, totally making out. You haven’t seen her sucking face with another guy since she broke up with her abusive fiancé.
But no. Wait. You catch a glimpse of jumbo box braids, face piercings, and a yellow Sanrio tee, which means, holy shit, your lead singer Priscilla Edwards is fondling none other than your bassist Viva Dixon.
Thank god you have a filter, or else your horny ass would be blurting something diabolical like clean up on aisle MY PANTS.
Turns out, it doesn’t matter what you say or don’t, because the pair shrieks at your reflection lurking in the mirror. You’re too late to cover your face. The bees are on you in an instant, piercing every inch of exposed skin and collapsing like martyrs.
Brock Zhang, you are a fucking rat! Priscilla screams, jabbing a pointer finger in your chest. She has no makeup on and, backlit by the bathroom’s glow, her port wine stain comes across as magmatic.
Is it the bee venom kicking in, or is your lead singer just about the most terrifying force to be reckoned with? If she were in her stage costume—a distressed royal blue cloak adorned with celestial patches, a matching conical dunce cap, slutty fishnets, and even sluttier platform boots—you might’ve pissed yourself by now.
Just so we’re clear, I don’t care that you kiss girls, you babble to her cropped Suicidal Tendencies tee. I think it’s hot that you—
Oh my god. Priscilla shoves you into the hallway. Get out.
In this version of Goldilocks, the bears maul the fuck out of that little girl.
Spine colliding with the wall, you wheeze, Why are there bees—
Out!
***
If there is a hell, it exists in your damp duplex basement. Milo’s darkroom trays, safelight, and chemicals have been shoved into the corner to make room for Dunce Wizard’s equipment. The washing machine rattles your drum cases stacked on top. An exhaled ribbon of smoke dangles between you and your two guitarists, suspended in anticipation.
You doubt the girls are going to show.
Never mind that Priscilla brings the iconic vocals and sex appeal to the stage. Never mind that Viva drives the bus with her manic basslines. You’ve still got Milo, who applies the necessary music theory, and Christopher, who…well, never mind Christopher.
Point is, you are the drummer, heartbeat driver of the operation. Mastermind of the track titles. Inspiration behind your band’s name, and by god, you’re going to abuse that power if that’s what it takes to keep your labor of love alive.
Only problem is, your fingers won’t bend, you can’t feel your face, and, needless to say, you’re about as useless as a mannequin. Turns out, you’re allergic to bees. And confrontation. And unresolved tension.
Christopher flicks his guitar pick at your face. It would’ve hit you, had it not veered and struck your ride cymbal with a clang.
He didn’t even flinch, he whispers.
Milo experiments with a riff on Viva’s unoccupied bass. Maybe if you hadn’t drugged him up, he’d still be here with us, ya dingus.
Thought getting him high would help the pain killers kick in, Christopher admits, trading the drumsticks in your stiff grip for a bottle of water.
The music reps peter out. Broccoli, man. Talk to us. What’d you even do to rile them up this bad?
Who? The bees or the girls? Aren’t they one of the same?
All week, your incessant apologies have only further poked the hive named Priscilla Edwards. Phone calls go straight to voicemail. Text messages are left on read. You’ve even gone as far as formally emailing the girl.
Yesterday, you snuck onto her porch to slip a handwritten letter in her mailbox. The front door swung open, startling a squeal out of you.
Oh! The envelope fell out of your grip. Didn’t think you’d be here. Again.
Your vocalist winced at the allergic consequences radiating from your bloated skin. Get off of my property or I’m calling the police.
A cluster of bees shaped like fingers touched her shoulder. Viva’s face poked around the corner, cigarette dangling from her lips. Her pierced brows didn’t quite pinch with derision like her partner’s did.
Listen, I didn’t mean to come across as some perv. I came over to help you and it just kind of took me off guard seeing you two… You gestured vaguely. And I don’t mean that like—look, I’ve kissed my fair share of guys and enbies. For a while, Milo and I actually—
Stop. Your perspective does not negate mine. Priscilla swung the door shut, pausing with a crack to spare. I won’t say it again. Back off and give us space.
Water now leaks out of both corners of your mouth. Milo stares at you, fascinated. Christopher fishes a crumpled tissue from his back pocket and blots your face dry.
Maybe you should take it easy.
I think I’m depressed or something, you admit, but it comes out as, Fuck you, Chris. You’re like, twelve.
Christopher laughs, packs up his instrument, and meets your sister outside. Once they’ve left, Milo takes you upstairs to his bed, cues up a random episode of Planet Earth, and stops in the doorway. With his back facing you, he peels off his sweatshirt, graphic tee, and binder, changing into an oversized Vandals tee that fits him like a dress.
Crawling back onto the mattress, he lets you lay your head in his lap while he plays with your hair and runs his fingers up and down your spine.
People don’t show up for each other, you murmur into the crook of his knee, but I do. I care.
Milo says, I know, but he doesn’t know. Not really.
***
Curtain-filtered sunlight spills across the mattress. The room smells dank, like sweat and sleep. Shadowy figures peer down at you like you’re in an open casket. You jolt upright, scooting rigid against the bedframe.
Chill, says Milo. I let her in.
He hands you your glasses. Viva’s distressed denim comes into focus as she rounds the foot of the bed, cradling something concealed between cupped palms. She smells like cigarettes masked with perfume.
It’s a little off-putting to be on the receiving side, isn’t it? You shake your head. Then nod. Then shake your head. Please tell me this isn’t round two of annihilation.
Your bassist reveals a purring cluster of honeybees nestled between her rings. You swallow a scream and tumble backward off of the edge of the bed.
Stop. Nobody’s here to hurt you. Viva crouches to your level. True to her word, your former aggressors keep to themselves in the warmth of her hands. This is a swarm. Looks scary, but they just travel like this when they’re looking for a home. No wonder they took fondly to me.
You scratch your greasy scalp. Why? Cause of pheromones or whatever?
Because I’ve been in-between homes, Brock. Okay? Viva blows out a breath. I didn’t want to make a huge deal out of it. Some of us like to keep our struggles private.
Oh. There has to be some underlying context here, judging by how intensely Viva’s doe eyes bore into yours.
The day I moved everything out to my car, there they were: hundreds of bees clumped up on my windshield. When I called Priscilla for assistance, I didn’t know if she’d even want to help me move the swarm out of the way. Instead, she dropped everything and lent us all a place to crash. True queen bee behavior.
Milo snorts. That’s gay.
Your bassist delivers a devious side-eye, but a giggle betrays her.
We’ve got our own little colony now, she says. Holding each other together. Providing for each other. Protecting each other from threats.
Threats like you, apparently.
I don’t understand why it’s wrong when I show up, you say, flexing your swollen fingers. How is that any different?
Boundaries, Brock. There’s a difference between being there for someone and smothering them. I know you think you’re helping the situation, but you’re actually hurting everyone. Including yourself.
One of her bees takes flight, landing on the bridge of your glasses. Drawing in a shallow breath, you offer a finger to crawl on.
The sooner you stop hounding us, the sooner the swarm will move on. Viva promises, nudging your foot with hers. And so will we.
***
After a full week of cooking up dishonorable fumes and a new tune to welcome the girls back, you’ve grown rather fond of your basement. It’s still a huge downgrade from the garage, but some major remodeling—aka, scooting shit around—has truly transformed the place.
The stairs creak in the presence of visitors. The moment those matching pairs of Doc Martens grace your vision, you hop out of your drum throne and block the girls from advancing. Wielding your drumstick like a wand, you point it at their linked hands.
Begone, you buzzy motherfuckers!
Cue the wand-appropriate sound effects on your phone. Zwoosh! Kaboom! Cue an impressive riff Milo learned on Viva’s bass. Cue Christopher’s solo guitar action, which frankly just sounds like noise. Noise is good. It cushions the transition from staircase to drum kit, allowing those sticks of yours to pound out real magic.
Milo hops on the mic, belting out aggressive, staccato lyrics you three workshopped on the backside of a crumbled McDonald’s receipt.
Bees invading the garage
Real as shit, it’s no mirage
Found out that they’ve formed a swarm
Chillin’ there, they mean no harm
A squawk of laughter screws up your tempo. Viva’s too busy stressing over Milo shredding on her precious instrument to notice.
We asked where our bandmate went
They said fuck you, we said bet
Sprayed those bitches, they saw red
Stung us good now we’re all dead
He’s on a roll, screaming that last line on repeat until his voice strains, until he’s delivering more spittle than words.
The three of you swivel to Priscilla for a little lyrical improv herself, but she just rolls her eyes and goes, Don’t you goons have anything better to do?
Viva scoffs and elbows her partner.
To your surprise, Priscilla crumbles into laughter, and then you’re all laughing as a band again and, holy shit, the sound of it is honey-rich to your ears.
______
Bethany Cutkomp writes surreal and existential fiction from the Midwest. She enjoys catching chaotic vibes and bees with her bare hands. Sometimes the bees end up stinging her. So do the vibes. Find her on social media at @bdcutkomp.
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