Team Building

Towards the end of a long work day my phone pinged a text message; “Bob. Stop by my office before leaving.”

 “Yes!”

I punched the air then strode from my bullpen cubicle to the Director of Marketing's glass-walled office. Keeping his phone at his ear, the Big Man beamed a welcoming smile and motioned toward a chair in front of his desk. I walked in and sat as he concluded the call.

We indulged in a minute of everyday chitchat. He praised my work and asked me to say hello to my wife Laura for him. Then, he looked down reflexively drumming his fingertips on his desktop. Looking up he spoke in a more businesslike tone. 

“Bob, it was a tough decision but we chose Clara North as the new Regional Sales Coordinator. It came down to team building; we feel she has the edge on you with her communication skills. She’ll be calling the shots starting on the fifteenth.”

Clara North is one of my colleagues and a fierce competitor. I couldn’t hide my stunned disappointment. I used the back of my hand to smear moisture in my eyes but managed a resigned smile while muttering, “I was expecting better news.” 

We both stood and he walked me to the door with a hand on my shoulder. “I know you feel lousy, Bob; but you’ll have other chances.”

Then he dashed back to pick up a humming phone while giving me a thumbs-up send-off and saying, “Hi, Clara. Good news.”

I returned to my cube in a mental fog - mechanically closing my computer screen graphs, tidying up my desk, and pulling on my suit coat.

Driving home I dreaded telling Laura what happened. I’d feel her mortifying disappointment and see the frustration in her feigned expression of sympathy. I needed to be alone so I turned off the freeway and took the longer route home.

My dad used to take me and my sister to a farm where we bought fresh eggs and honey. We loved the old country road car ride, the welcoming couple, and their kids and dogs. My little sister had to be coaxed out of the car because of the scary bees buzzing around the trees, gardens, and blossoms.

That was decades ago, but the curvy road hadn't changed. When I heard my tires skid I remembered Billy Lovett, a high school classmate who was killed during a car race on the same sharp bend.

Better memories came to mind when I breathed in the scent of laurel and live oak along the creekside segment of the old road. It was a warm summer evening when our town bid goodbye to the soon-to-be-demolished El Rey movie theater. They cleared a one-half block of Main Street and set up a DJ console with a Riley Sound System.

Just after sunset, the DJ burst the balmy air with Martha and the Vandellas “Dancin’ in the Street.” As that magical night wore on it was me and Laura, together in another universe. 

Laura studied ballet as a kid, then modern dance and cheerleading in high school. She did the Froog, The Snake, The Topside - you name it - the elegant ballroom dances too. She always made me look good. Everyone was watching her.

But we no longer danced or did much of anything together. I’d hoped the new job and pay raise would put the spark back and I dreaded the disappointment I’d soon see in her expression. She’d try to hide her feelings, saying “It’s okay. You’ll have other chances.” Laura has never really known how to inspire me or encourage me. I needed more honesty and support from a life partner.

Another hairpin turn snapped me back to my driving. This time I hit the brakes too late. The tires screeched as the car careened over an embankment; plunging through bushes and vines and crunching nose-first into the gravelly creek bed. The airbag erupted in my face and felt like a blow from a boxing glove.

I gasped for breath in the gritty dust. I couldn’t see. I recall brainlessly trying to turn the ignition key hoping the car would start. There were chirping birds and the musty odors of willow trees and wet leaves. My jacket ripped, and my phone fell in the creek as I crawled through the driver's window and scrambled back up to the road, slipping and sliding in the creek bank’s mucky soil.

When I got back to the road there were no cars to flag down, so I began walking toward a farmhouse I remembered seeing just before I crashed. I walked about five minutes before starting up a long gravel driveway with rusty barbed wire fences running along both sides.

Beyond the fences, wheat fields stretched toward distant hills. A lone Valley Oak stood in the center of this vast expanse, with its drooping limbs silhouetted in descending sunlight.

The tranquil scenery didn’t change the reality. It would soon be dark and I was on foot, ten miles from home, without a phone. It hit me that I’d have to add wrecking the family car to my looming chat with Laura. I could almost hear her voice, “The main thing is, you’re not hurt”, and I knowing that was not the main thing, at all. The main thing in our marriage was that neither of us was getting the love and support we needed.

As I continued up the driveway, I saw pruned almond trees and an impressive country garden. Honeybees buzzed among the flowers and blossoms. I knew someone lived there when two barking German Shepherds bounded around the side of the house. They skidded to a stop in a gravelly walkway about ten feet away and looked me over. One of them growled and bared his yellow canines. The other looked more friendly than fearsome, but I didn’t dare move until I heard a woman calling, "Here, Buddy. Here Buddy.”

Both dogs raised their ears and turned their heads before loping toward the sound of the voice. I followed them.

Behind the house, a woman, dressed in faded blue overalls and black rubber boots, stood in the middle of a well-tended vegetable garden. Her big straw hat, backlit by the descending sun, formed a circle of light around her gray hair and cheery face. Her smile changed to concern when she became aware of my tattered, muddy clothes.

 “Are you okay?”

I told her my car was in the creek, but I’d walked some distance and I was not in any pain. I assured her I didn’t need medical attention, but I hoped I could use her phone to call a tow truck.

She said she’d make the call for me from her house.

I wanted her to feel secure in the presence of a disheveled stranger so I said, in my friendliest tone:

"Those are nice watchdogs. Which one's Buddy?”

"They're both named Buddy. When I call one they both come running, so why have two names?”

She laughed, and I laughed too until my jaw hurt. The dogs stood up wagging their tails and leaning their big front paws on her. As she patted their heads and scratched them behind their ears, she said, “I’m Adele Lovett, by the way.”

When I heard her name, I realized that she was the mother of Billy Lovett, my high school classmate who died in the car wreck.

Trying to hide my surprise, I said, “My name’s Bob Abernathy.”

"You're not Bud Abernathy's son, are you?"

"I sure am. Do you know him?"

"Well, I haven't seen Bud for years, but there is a resemblance. Your dad and my late husband were friends in school. Bud used to bring you and your sister to buy eggs and honey. Ours were just little guys too.”

“I said, “I remember. But, I couldn’t have dreamed I’d be coming here and seeing you. I only took the old road because the freeway traffic was getting on my nerves.”

"Do you remember my son, Billy?”

The abruptness of her question, as well as its implications, made me hesitate.

I said, “He was in my high school class and on the baseball team when we were freshmen. I remember him playing solo trumpet in the school band.”

She lowered her blue eyes and removed her cloth garden gloves. Then she looked up, “Billy was a lovable boy. He had lots of friends. The phone’s in the kitchen - easy to find. Just go in the back door. I need to finish up here.”

Inside the house, I found the landline phone, and using a handy Yellow Page directory I dialed a towing service. I didn’t call Laura because I didn’t want to face up to why I was on the old road, much less the wreck, which had turned an already horrible day into a nightmare.

Back outside, I found Adele and told her the tow truck would be at the crash site in about an hour and a half.

She said, “That was quick. Did you call home?”

When I explained that I didn’t want to cause alarm she furrowed her brow, raised an eyebrow, nodded her head then asked if I was up to giving her a hand with something.

I said, “I feel a little goofy from the haymaker I took from the airbag, but other than that I’m fine and ‘all yours’ for the next hour.”

"Perfect. I have a two-man job I’ve been putting off. There’s some lifting, but nothing too heavy. You let me know if you discover a new hurt. This job doesn’t have to be done today.”

I said, “I will.”

As we walked along a garden pathway, she snipped and pruned, and looked askance at yellowing foliage, a gopher hole, and other matters that would need more attention.

Entering the cool, dusty barn through double doors, I drew a long breath and savored the smell of cut hay. We walked another twenty feet to a side room where I saw electrical equipment and a wooden box with a speaker horn mounted on its top. Faded white lettering on its side read; ALTEC Lansing; the Voice of Theaters. Sitting at the side of this speaker horn was a CD player and several hundred feet of electrical extension cord.

"Do you remember the El Rey Theater?" she asked.

I answered, “I sure do. My wife, Laura, and I discovered the joys of serious smooching in those dark loges when we were teenagers.”

Adele answered, “Really? So did the man I married and I, when we were teenagers.”

We chuckled at our convivial, generational connection and Adele continued,

“I never knew why he wanted the big speaker. I never asked. They tore down the theater in 1980, about the same time Billie died. Nothing made any sense for the next few years.” 

"So, what are you going to do with it?" I asked.

"I have a surprise for my workers and you too if you want to join us. I guarantee it'll beat standing on the road waiting for the tow truck."

"Yeah, sure. So, you have help here. I wondered how you kept the place looking so neat and lush."

"Let's work while we talk. Grab those extension cords. Plug into that socket and tie it off so it won't pull out when we walk into the field."

I followed her instructions. "OK, all set.”

"All right, let's see if we can get the big speaker into the carryall. The rest of the equipment will fit in the wheelbarrow. We have to be careful not to disconnect the wiring. Ronny Riley spent Sunday morning hooking up the CD player for me. Do you know Ronny? He's about your age and he went to Valley High."

"Yeah, I’ve known Ron forever. I still see him around.”

Ron Riley, at age seventeen, was hired to do set-ups for deejays, school dances, and anyone else who needed a microphone. Now, his company designs and builds sound systems for arenas, theaters, and rock bands.

Working together, we moved the equipment from the barn and walked into the wheat field. The deepening blue sky and the rosy-orange edges of the clouds made me conscious of the time.

"Where are the workers?" I asked.

"The workers I'm talking about are my teammates – the honeybees.”

I responded as casually as possible to this peculiar remark.

"Music for bees? What are you going to play for them?"

"Good question! I decided they couldn't help liking The Flight of the Bumblebee. When I went to the music store to buy the CD, the man reminded me that the Harry James Band recorded their version in 1941. I’m a trumpet fan and what bee could resist The Flight of the Bumblebee? We’re both going to love it; and you, too. Trust me.”

“I don't think bees can hear,” I said, regretting the words as they left my mouth.

Adele made it clear by her silence that she did not want to argue the point, and I went along so as not to spoil the moment with any more disheartening logic.

When we got to our destination, I saw thousands of bees buzzing around their hives and sniffed the air now saturated with the syrupy aroma of raw honey. Beyond the hives, across an open patch of meadow grass, small birds flitted among the springy branches of willow trees that lined the winding creek.

"This will be fine," Adele said

We checked for electrical power by plugging in the CD player and pressing the "on" button. The panel lights lit up - Adele addressed the crowd.

"You bees. I know you’re busy but I’d like to say something to each of you. I could go on all afternoon telling you how important your work is and how grateful I am to be working with you, but instead, what do you say we take a break and enjoy some music. I selected this piece because if I were a bee it would make me get up and fly. It’s Harry James' swing-time variation on The Flight of the Bumblebee. Enjoy."

We set up the lawn chairs and sat facing the dinosaur speaker. Adele removed a remote controller from her pocket, pointed it at the cassette player, and pressed PLAY.

Instantly, a seven-note chanting of symphonic trombones energized the atmosphere. Then, an elation of trumpet notes made the skin on my neck and forearms feel like they were being sprinkled with sand. The bees blanketed the hives, the fence posts, the barbed wire, and the branches of the trees. Then, as though controlled by a single mind, they left their perches, massed into a swirling swarm, and rose above the meadow − a glittering-gold tornado in the rosy sky. This shimmering, sparkling, dancing, vision, and the heavenly trumpet soaring and weaving through the driving rhythms of the blasting big band was rapturous.

A sublime, long, lofty trumpet note ended the wheat field concert, leaving me suspended within the empty hush that always follows bright sound. The still air had gone chilly. The cloudy sky was ablaze in bronzy hues. Adele stood facing the bees now in placid flight around the hive portals.

“That was The Flight of the Bumblebee. I'm glad you liked it. I’ll see you all at work tomorrow. Good night. Sweet dreams."

Then she said, "They loved it”.

I heard myself answer, "Oh, they did, they loved it. And so did I. I loved it, too. If I were a bee I would have flown.”

Adele laughed. “Now, that would have been something to see! When we get the equipment back in the barn I have to feed the dogs, and then I want to give you something you need to take home - a big jar of honey.”

~ ~ ~ ~

In the cramped front seat of the tow truck, the driver said, “Man, you're lucky. Are you sure you’re okay? Why not let me drop you off at Community Med so you can get checked out.”

Looking out into the clear, starry sky and the sweetness of night that spread around us, I said, “I want to go home. It’s getting late and I don’t want Laura to worry about me. We need to have a long talk about all the things that happened today…and then I’m going to put on some music and ask her to dance.”