Don't Drink Bees

It was a sweaty Sunday. Consumers such as myself had skipped church to attend the flea market in denims and polyester and cottons. On the look for good buys (cheaper than the evangelist's God), men and women held onto their children's hands as they made their way past booths in which merchants settled in lawn chairs before tiny, inaudible fans; others leaned against rough, wooden posts, occasionally moussing their hair back with sweat, mostly staring out at customers, hungrily. "You like X-Men? We'll have more next week, you know. If you just c— Well, I really wanted a dollar for this particular comic. How's this — you can take both of these for a buck fifty." I left my friends to bargain and moved down the row.

I was surprised to see a display of animals. Rabbits piled in cage corners, expanding as bellows. Heavy breaths. The birds displayed nervous tics as they bounced within steel walls. Guinea pigs hung on cage bars, attempting to climb. A ferret stood as a silent soft sculpture. A curly-haired woman stood in a tank-top and shorts toward the shaded back of the booth. She perspired, but she wasn't wearing fur as her charges were. I checked price signs. I couldn't afford a break-out (and the pet psychologist when it was all over). I sighed.

A family came upon the animals. The children skipped, excited. "It's a ferret," the father explained. The mother bent down and opened the cage. She murmured consoling words. The owner looked bored. The mother scooped the animal up from behind with her left hand. This startled the ferret and he sprung for her right. He clamped his teeth down hard and refused to let go — with shaking, with encouragement from the teary-eyed mother, with screams from the children, with the passing crowds, with apologies from the curly-haired woman.

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