Daniel arrives amidst one of the first real rains of the season. The Bay Area’s dry for four months straight. May-August. Sometimes mid-September brings a light drizzle, but often it’s not until late-September that rain finally comes. It’s a Monday morning. Daniel’s probably in his early-60s. He walks with a uniquely slow shuffle. I can’t tell if it’s a limp, exhaustion or both. His truck’s parked out front with his supplies and protective suit. He shuffles up the driveway with me. He’s partially hunched over. Daniel may have been 6’4” before the hunching began, assuming he wasn’t hunched as a 20-year-old.
We hesitatingly head over to the corner of the yard. The attack came two weeks ago. The hive’s subterranean, somewhere below the paver squares, near the back fence. The yellowjackets must now be hiding out due to the rain. Daniel says he’ll give it a shot, but thinks he’ll need to return the following morning, after the weather clears.
We redid the backyard four years ago. Pandemic space was badly needed. The old fence was overrun by vines and greenery. There was rubble underneath the natural covering of dried leaves and weeds. Reclaiming the back space was a complicated and expensive process, but afterward, we had created an extra rectangle of clear and usable space, under the overhanging trees. Flat pavers were laid, covering the area leading to the fence. Behind the fence is a sloping edge of dirt and roots that leads down to a narrow creek, bisecting our backyard from neighbors on the adjoining street.
Due to the sloping soil and wet winters, now there’s a crack at the bottom of the fence. I discovered it two weeks ago while cleaning up the dried leaves. I was on the phone with my mother, bending over to gather up the crunchy remnants of nature when I suddenly felt a sharp pain in the middle of the back. I thought it was a nerve issue, as it radiated outward. Suddenly I heard the buzzing and ran. Another one followed me inside the back door. I got stung again on the inside of my left ankle, the fleshy part just below the bone. Our daughter came to see what was going on and she got stung on the inside of her hand below her thumb. I rushed us out of the bathroom, closing the door behind me. I found disinfectant spray and a bug zapping mini-tennis racquet—the true weapons of choice for a suburban middle-aged man attempting to defeat a wasp. Spraying it into drunkenness, I eventually electrified it to death.
My partner went out and sprayed the area, avoided getting stung, but another one made its way inside with her. We managed to trap it between the kitchen window and the shade, smashing it slowly. Home defended from invaders, but with the knowledge more defense was needed.
Daniel’s here to defend us. I've paid my one-time fee for wasp removal, but the rain is causing problems. Daniel says he can do the treatment but it's probably not going to have much effect. He can’t get a clean shot at the hive because it's hidden underneath. He'll return tomorrow morning after the rain stops. I like Daniel. He's from another time. He’s been through the wars. He doesn’t want to have to put on that bee suit and helmet, but knows he should. He knows the rain will keep them away today, but he sprays and then leaves, letting me know he’ll be back.
I text him that night letting him know I'll be away while I'm dropping my daughter off at school. He doesn't reply. I wonder if he'll return. The next morning, around 9:30, he replies that he should be there before 11. I'm teaching in a one-on-one over Zoom when I hear the truck pull up. I take a break, and meet Daniel on the sidewalk. I explain that they’re back. I've seen four or five hovering near the crack. The sun’s out. Daniel dons his white beekeeper suit and slips on the cloth helmet with screen. He arms himself with a can of spray that sends out a high-powered chemical foam.
I watch from the inside of the garage office while he sprays the shit out of that area. I watch as the wasps perk up, agitated and ready to defend their territory. Daniel shakes the can. He’s about eight feet away. We’re humans and they’re wasps. Finally, Daniel knocks on the door of the office garage. He tells me he's going to give it about 15 minutes and then return for a second showdown with the collective. In the meantime, he removes spider webs from the corners of the garage and edge of the house. Later, he returns with the foam spray and hits them with a second dose.
We defend our specks of earth. I receive a text, asking if I’d give a review. Five stars. I begin typing and exercise my strength–telling the story of Gentle Daniel, Remover of Wasps.