Now it may be that I have reaped precisely that which I have sown, for there is an ancient and unbending law in this universe, a law as fixed as the Truckee’s muddy course, that a man who engages in activities of questionable wisdom shall, in due time, receive his education at the hands of Providence.

My neighbor Bob, a man of mechanical inclinations but scarce few scruples regarding the posted velocities of our Commonwealth’s highways, had spent the better part of a week in his garage conjuring up what he called a “T-Bucket,” which, as near as I could determine, was nothing more than an engine with a steering wheel bolted to it and sufficient seating for two fools of adventurous temperament. Being a man of leisure and, I confess, of limited imagination regarding the consequences of my actions, I accepted his invitation to partake in this mechanical misadventure.

We embarked upon the Interstate, that broad and sinewy artery of American hubris, where Bob, with the devil-may-care attitude of a gambler holding a pair of deuces, coaxed that roaring contraption up to velocities approaching one hundred miles per hour. The wind, I observed, was considerable, therefore in a moment of pure, unadulterated idiocy, the kind that separates man from the lower animals only by degree and not by kind, I determined to thrust my face into that torrent of atmosphere much as a hound might do when joyriding in a farm wagon, my lips flapping in the breeze like a pair of curtains in a cyclone.

Bob laughed, the wind howled, the machine thundered, and I, the author of my own misfortune, managed to intercept, with the interior of my right cheek, a honeybee minding its own business until I inserted myself, quite literally, into its flight path.

The creature, understandably vexed by this sudden and intimate acquaintance with my person, did what any self-respecting bee would do when trapped betwixt a man’s gum and his better judgment: it introduced me to its stinger with the enthusiasm of a Baptist preacher introducing sin to a revival crowd. The result, I am grieved to report, is that I now possess a face that can only be described as asymmetrical, a visage that resembles, with unfortunate accuracy, a pufferfish capable of inflating on one side only and presenting to the world a profile that suggests I have been chewing on a hornet’s nest and swallowing the installments.

The ladies of my acquaintance avert their eyes when I pass; children point and whisper. And Bob, that co-architect of my downfall, finds the matter so amusing that he has taken to calling me “Puff-Doggy” in tones of affectionate mockery.

But I bear no grudge against the bee, for it was merely an instrument of divine instruction. And I have learned my lesson: that a man who hangs his head out of a speeding vehicle like a lunatic in a dog-cart has no moral grounds for complaint when the universe sends him a painful memorandum regarding the proper conduct of a gentleman.

I shall heal, in time; but the memory of my folly, and the lopsided countenance that serves as its memorial, shall remain with me as long as I draw breath, and perhaps a day or two longer, depending on the swelling.