Special delivery

This was odd.

I should have known Ron would be involved.

A DHL truck pulled into the driveway at 9:30P. The driver got out quickly, looking at the darkened corners of my house for a few long seconds. He was smoking a tremendous cigar. The cherry glowed brightly in the too-warm-night. He left the truck running as he shuffled to the door. He was sweating and unshaven.

I signed, waving the smoke away before it could waft into the house. The driver eyeballed my signature and nodded to me. "Gracious, senior," he said. Then he winked at me. And trotted back to the truck.

In the package was a t-shirt, an iPod, and a dead bee. The shirt was too small. It might fit Liam, but not me. The iPod was brand new. The bee was very dead. Its legs curled tightly against its crisp insect belly.

I held the iPod nervously and put the buds in my ears. It lit quickly and only had one track. On it, a live band played a slow, anguished blues rendition of La Bayamesa.

Then Ron starts talking, telling the band to stop. He says they're giving him a headache. He sounds tired as he steps closer to a microphone I imagine is older than I am.

"The shirt is too small for you. It should fit Liam. Tell him Uncle Ron says hello. Don't show him the bee. That's for you. It's dead. And all balled up. In some insectille fetal position. It reminded me of you."

He pauses. Takes a sip from something I imagine is mostly rum, sugarcane, and Laudnum.

"It's hot here, McD. Too hot. I never should have gotten into politics. It is killing the honeybees. We are dying."

He must make a motion to the band, as they start playing La Bayemesa.

"I hope you like the shirt. It's all the rage here. Except among honey farmers."

I hate special deliveries from Ron.