May 17, 2011 by Manny Wordsmith
I meet this interesting chick on the people mover the other day. She seemed pretty content sitting down and enjoying some delicate fruits that she caressed carefully in her palms. She looked at the fruit with an almost foreign delight. It was like the woman and this strange fruit had been separated for ages and I was there to witness their first meeting since their last..
The woman’s green eyes surveyed the round fruit, checking for any nasty indentations or bruises. She was a nurse to this spring treat, making sure that it was in tip-top before it made its wondrous trip down the woman’s slippery dark hatch. I watched in amazement as her little toes curled within her Birkenstocks every time her fingers made a full revolution. I was too intrigued to stay quiet. So I spoke. I wasn’t sure if it was the right thing to do. They were so intimate and close. I almost felt like I interrupted a first kiss or a heated love fest between a sweltering series of satin sheets. But the sheer sight of this girl’s delight compelled me to sputter out a couple of important words,
“Wow, you must really like fruit! Your acting like you haven’t eaten for days!”
The woman’s pale and lightly freckled face cringed with disgust. Her body language pulled a 180 and sent the picturesque dance of fruitopia I had gleefully observed far away from my sight. All that was left when she finally lowered the fruit was disdain. A word hadn’t come out of her mouth yet, but I knew I had ruined something quaint, something special, maybe even something uniquely spectacular. When her lips finally opened, I prepared myself for a wave of disappointment and mistrust.
“How dare you interrupt me! You weird little man. Time I saw the look in your stare, I knew that all the careful time I put into surveying and selecting my supple hesperidium would be ruined! Your like every other insolent man, who’s willing to spread his malfeasance throughout the core of our cities public system, without ever knowing the true damage of his actions!”
I won’t lie to you all, I was sweating from embarrassment and guilt. I shivered as this 28-year-old woman who sat across me, gingerly stroked her ocher colored fruit, while slyly waiting for an apology.
“What the hell is a hesperidium? That looks like a damn tangerine!”
I didn’t have any control it seemed. The words I’m sorry” sat close by, waiting to be spoken, but the dark hand of shit talking and sarcasm pushed little ol apology out-of-the-way.
“Were you raised by wolves? Where are you from little man…really? Did you find your begotten homes under rocks and trash stacks? This is Citrus Recticulata, The Passion of Algeria, discovered by Father Clement Rodier in the fields of my town of Misserghin. We call them the Eye’s of Allah, Heaven’s tokens, The ark of Citronicus. But I guess you people here just call them Clementines”
All of a sudden it was clear! The woman’s gentle touches, her longing gazes, her almost unbearable sweet and tender whispers! They all made sense. She was clinically insane!
She was dressed like Miss Daisy, but without the gloves and Morgan Freeman. Sun dresses they call them. But any man could obviously see that she stole the outfit along with the crate of Clementines.
“All of this, for an orange really? Your holding those things like rubies woman! You can get your Citus Andronicus or what ever you call it anywhere. You proabably can even find a juice made by Snapple or Jones Soda. It’s really not that serious. Your acting like I interrupted your golf swing!”
I felt dumb for playing the game, drowning in the her fluid strokes, and ultimately misinterpreting a beautiful moment for a twisted and misguided dream of a mentally ill young lady. My resignation from the parlor game didn’t sit will with the woman. Her piercing green eyes stirred fear within my soul. I looked around, almost instinctively for help, hoping that someone was noticing the beast inside her powering up. Her quivering lips filled with salinity and foul words. Her limbs now shook then tightened. I wanted to avoid the climax and eruptive culmination of her displeasure she had toward me. But before I could react, she stood up with two orange-tanger-clem-things clutched between her fingers and said:
“Your arms will lay in the ashes and your eyes will burn with fire!”
I had no idea what that meant or where it was from or if I was in danger. But a bunch of thoughts and counter-measures rushed in my head for a mili-second, right before she crushed the fruits like She-Ra and proceeded to douse my eyes and exposed forearms with the remaining juices.
She was right on both accounts. The fire that burned from my eyes was unbearable and my skin, my poor skin crusted up like saltines. She stood over me for a second as the other bystanders ignored my womanly shrieking. I half expected her to spit or even piss on me or whatever they did to loud mouths like myself in her country, but instead she poured something else over my eyes and laid the bottle next to my head. Then she said something I thought I’d never forget.
“Maybe you should find something to love too. Life’s to short to be a sarcastic asshole.”
When my eyes cleared and I was able to see again, the woman and her box of fruit, was already off the train. I wondered what she poured over me if not piss or spit. So I turned over to get up and saw that the liquid she dispensed over my aching irises was Fiji water! You know the expensive shit people’s moms buy and their kids just keep filling it up with regular water so they can continue to show off how much money their family has. While I was on the ground, burning from the outside in I was preparing some really great things to say when I stood up. Some honorable things about minding your own business and tact. About love and interests and pride for your home country. I was even planning on putting her final words on a bumper sticker or FB status. But after I saw the bottle there was only one thing I could say…
“I can’t believe that crazy ass rich girl, posing as a crazy Islamic bag lady actually took me down with two oranges and the wrath of Allah. I need to do more push-ups and start wearing sunglasses.”