The Music of Bees Eileen Garvin (best autobiographies to read .TXT) 📖

Marty dragged on his cigarette and flicked it out into the street, where it lay smoldering. Sam nodded, and Harry had nodded too, though he wasn’t really agreeing. He just didn’t want them to think he was a big puss. He was thinking that Marty was kind of a one-percenter himself. At least his father was—a man who owned a string of assisted-living facilities along the Atlantic Coast. Marty often bragged about how his father skimmed off of Medicare and about the family’s vacation home in the Florida Keys. His father employed him too. And although Marty purported to hate working for him, he would inherit the family business. Thus, the Robin Hood rationale didn’t make much sense. Harry knew this—Marty’s proposal that they remove a shipment of electronics from the store where his cousin worked—wasn’t a revolution. It was just a side hustle.

Harry ended up as driver and later wondered if Marty and Sam had agreed upon that in advance. They ran when the cop pulled out his badge. Harry was sitting in the cab looking at his Facebook feed and hadn’t noticed. The cop had to tap on the window to get his attention. Harry was the only one who got arrested.

The judge sentenced him to twenty-four months in a low-security prison for attempted grand larceny. He looked disappointed, which made Harry feel even worse.

“Mr. Stokes,” he said, “this would be a good time to turn yourself around. Make a change before you go too far down this road.”

His mother blew her nose and suppressed a sob. Sal sat next to her with his big arms crossed and his nostrils flaring.

Harry had hoped to leave his poor decision-making behind with the move west, which had felt like a change. His parents wanted to believe that it signaled some sort of new direction. Accepting the idea that Harry was finally leading his own life would allow his mother and Sal to move to Florida guilt-free. Harry didn’t want them to worry about him anymore. But Seattle had been too big and confusing. The high school friend who told him to come visit anytime hadn’t seemed pleased when he showed up. I should have called first, Harry thought then.

Still, it was cool of Jeff to let him stay for a week. Jeff’s girlfriend, Sylvia, made it very clear that she didn’t want him there. She had stayed in the bedroom when she was home from work and stalked through the living room to the kitchen without speaking to Harry or Jeff as they sat reminiscing about high school. Sylvia’s angry silence made him uncomfortable, and he started looking for his own place. He even talked to the manager of Jeff’s building and began filling out an application. But then he got to the part about the background check. He stuffed the paper in his bag and mumbled something about forgetting his ID. Who would rent to a felon?

He walked the dreary Seattle waterfront where huge container ships docked against bulky piers. The air smelled of creosote and seawater. Seagulls hopped about on the sidewalk, screaming and fighting over garbage. The blustery February wind blew in over the stormy Puget Sound and dark clouds obscured the Olympic Mountains. Rain spattered in fat drops and then began in earnest, falling in a blinding torrent. Harry ducked under the dry roof of Pike Place Market and found himself standing next to a tower of polished apples. “Heirloom selection: Pippins, Braeburns, and Gravensteins from the Hood River Valley!” the sign read. Harry picked up a sample, and as the sweet pulp slid down his throat, he remembered that his mother’s uncle lived somewhere near Hood River. He said goodbye to Jeff, hopped on a Greyhound to Hood River, and hitched his way to BZ Corner. After Sylvia, Uncle H’s welcome seemed pretty warm. Harry didn’t know if it was hospitality or senility, and he didn’t want to know. However, any momentum he’d gained had stopped there in the woods.

At River Daze Cafe, Moira let Harry use her laptop and showed him the local job classifieds. He looked at the landscaping listings first since he’d worked for his mother and Sal for years, but the pay was terrible. Migrant workers from Mexico were hired for those jobs, Moira said, and it drove down the wage.

“Look at the restaurant section,” she said as she loaded a tray of loaves into a huge oven. Harry watched the smooth muscles of her beautiful sun-browned back ripple beneath her tank top. He sighed and turned back to the computer.

He pulled out his notebook and started a list of job prospects. Waiting tables paid better, but he didn’t have the experience or clean clothes for that. He’d washed dishes at a Long Island pizza parlor in high school. But a hot, wet kitchen seemed like a hellish place to spend the summer. He looked at the farmers section. There was one interesting post from a beekeeper. It didn’t pay great, but it mentioned light construction. He preferred working outside, he decided, more than he’d ever realized living in New York.

At Uncle H’s even when you were inside, you were almost outside, what with the state of the trailer. Harry had grown to love the voices of the wild river and the ever-present wind in the huge trees. The woods were thick with birds and small animals that roamed freely in the absence of humans. He only saw the occasional kayaker hitching back to the launch as he made his way to the grocery store. And Uncle H often didn’t speak for hours apart from muttering to himself. Harry had grown accustomed to listening to the murmuring outside world.

He emailed three of the listings—the pizza place, a farmer’s market stall, and the beekeeper. He could put Jeff down as a reference. Jeff didn’t know he’d gone to jail, and Harry hadn’t mentioned it. Who else? His parole officer? Stupid idea. His parents?