Jed Wolf

“Honey, come look. Hummingbirds!,” I chirped to Dave from the bee-filled wildflower garden. We’d been lounging by our backyard pond, awaiting the arrival of our latest Airbnb guest who was a bit of a mystery.

It’s rare to accept a guest with no reviews not to mention a head shot, but we allowed this guy to make a reservation without either long ago, before we knew the drill, ‘cause he wanted to book five nights $$.

He’d not responded recently when Dave asked if he’d ever been to St. Augustine and red flags turned rubine when he texted a few days ago that he’d sent a package addressed to himself to our our address.

When the mysterious package arrived yesterday – too light to be a gun, I told Dave to text back saying, “Your drugs arrived. lol. We put your package inside your door.” Any decent human with a sense of humor and communication skills would know how to respond to this ice breaker, I thought.

In order to pass the time until 2:00 pm check in, Dave and I went for a spring bike ride in a huge, nearby nature preserve to take our mind off the stranger’s arrival. We were eight miles out on a sand road, past the piles of vulture-picked deer and wild boar carcasses winter hunters leave, when we were surprised to find some organization had placed dozens of angry bee hives in several locations along the heating mid-day road.

And the forest service also happened to be doing controlled burning yesterday. There’d been several sections where flames licked our track and dopey honey bees clung to our shirts.

If the wind changed there’d be no way back. If the fires burned themselves out, the bees would blame us but the firemen took no interest in our presence, so Dave and I proceeded miles further under dense live oak, moss-laden canopies ‘till we received the text.

“Thanks, just landed in JAX.

“Thanks? Is that it? No winking emoji?” We’d planned on ignoring our concerns and riding, perhaps to DC to keep from obsessing over this guy but turned back immediately through the smoke-bumpy bees to beat our guest home.

I’d recently finished a new planting near the guest patio in an ugly patch of cedar shade, along side the butterfly garden where shade loving bromeliads, ferns and camellias replace random dollar weed and thistles.

We’d toasted to the welcome new garden and marveled how it’s perfect shape beckoned the eye to the idillic pond beyond. Ever-changing deep shadows and light designed to relieve the mind of weary travelers don’t work as well on me. It takes at least a great horned owl or painted bunting to derail my obsessive thoughts, or in this case hummingbirds. “Come look honey,” I was beckoning when I noticed someone standing above me on the guest deck talking on his cell phone.

All I’d seen were his “homey” gym shorts and thick, tatt-covered calves when I noticed his shaved head. He didn’t wave back as Dave excitedly approached expecting a hummingbird.

“Hi,” I said. “Hope you like hummingbirds,” I blurted out as I swatted towards him through the milkweed, gallardia and coreopsis thinking, “what’s with all the bees in Florida?”

He told his earpiece he’ll call it back when he shook my hand like a hamburger. Whatever language between men that reads each others’ handshakes, was forgotten by the absence of this stranger’s car. “Where’s your car,” I asked.

Apparently he’d been there a while, ignoring the signs that clearly show where guest parking is, but when he pulled his brand new silver Cadillac into the correct parking space, time stood still.

His girlfriend drove up later and parked on the street while Dave and were busy whispering about him on the phone to a friend on our back porch. “Her car has tinted windows,” I gasped but was reminded that half the cars do in this merciless Florida sun. She snuck out this morning before we got a glimpse.

So I’ve become one of those old men – the ones I hated in my youth, who judged me for my long hair, jeans and vehicles back then. The only difference? I’d never unnecessarily subject myself to them, not to mention stay in their despicable houses.

When I choose to admire this guy I think, “Maybe he knows more than I do, and has moved to Bumfuck Pennsylvania for work. Maybe he’s wooing the girlfriend he wrenched himself from with a long-awaited rendezvous at our sanctuary? Maybe she’s an emergency room nurse and can see him only at night.

Maybe they are my teachers? At least his face is puffy instead of drawn like a meth head. Next installment to come.