Farmer's Market

What the fuck even is a Farmer’s Market? I mean I understand the general concept, being that it’s quite literally in the name; but how is it different, really, than a regular grocery store? Don’t grocery stores buy their produce from farmers? I’d understand if the prices at the market were cheaper than at the grocery store—being that they are presumably coming directly from the farmers themselves—but I’m staring at a $2 Gala apple and wondering why I wouldn’t just walk across the street to the Whole Foods and get one for 73 cents. ‘But the local economy’, you might say. And then you go back to your apartment with your bag of locally bought produce—I’m so proud of you for making a difference!—and have to set it down to pick up the box of paper towels you saved 50 cents on because you have them on a bi-monthly auto-ship on Amazon. I buy the apple anyway because I’ve been lingering too long and feel awkward walking away without purchasing anything. I bite into it and say a curse under my breath because it really is delicious. Whole Foods could never. Damnit.

Of course the apple and my internal dialogue on the purpose of Farmer’s Markets are not the main reasons I’m lingering by the Galas. I’m lingering by the Galas because over by the even pricier Honeycrisps there’s a woman. There’s always a woman, isn’t there? Or a man? It’s never just an apple or a rutabaga or a yoga class or a funeral. There’s always someone somewhere and this someone just happened to be sniffing Honeycrisps at the apple stand at the Farmer’s Market. I’m not sure what purpose sniffing apples serves, but then again I know less about how to choose a good apple than I do about the reasons that Farmer's Markets exist.

I shouldn’t be here in the first place. It’s 10am on a Saturday morning, I should be in my apartment playing video games in my underwear. I shouldn’t even know how sunny or how hot or how busy it is outside because my blackout curtains should be so completely drawn. I should be hearing some of the most horrific racial and homophobic slurs from the teenagers I am absolutely fucking up in my game. And here, staring at this woman sniffing her third Honeycrisp, I think strongly about getting on the bus and going home to do just that. But I know I can’t. Or I could, but I shouldn’t. I promised I’d try.

I don’t even remember why it was I really started going to therapy. I mean I knew I needed to go, I just don’t remember which things I went in for originally and which ones I had developed over the past three and a half years of attending said therapy. I like to think of the first years as my discovery years. Why this, why that, why the other thing. And now we're onto the actionable years. Last month I went swimming without a t-shirt on for the first time since I was a kid. The month before that I ate eggs—eggs!!—can you even believe that? Now I promised my therapist I would go out in public and talk to a stranger. My first thought was to do it at a bar. A few drinks might help ease my anxiety, after all. But then there was the other thing I’m supposed to be working on which is drinking less. It is incredibly hard to drink less and start tackling all of my biggest fears.

For some reason this woman at the apple stand was the one I felt I needed to talk to. I’d imagined myself starting with a man, thinking that someone I wasn’t sexually attracted to might be a bit easier of a step. But then there she stood sniffing expensive apples and I felt like I was going to throw up, an obvious sign she was the one. She moves toward me and the Galas. I don’t know if she spotted me staring yet but I know if I don’t pull my eyes away said noticing would be inevitable. And you can’t start a conversation with someone who has noticed you staring. Or can you? I’m certainly no expert in these things. I find out she moved in my direction only to get the attention of the shop keeper, who quickly rings her up and puts her Honeycrisps into her New Yorker tote bag.

What was it my therapist said? Something about starting a conversation being as simple as complementing someone? I scan her person as quickly as I can before she walks away. She’s dressed quite plainly, a blue t-shirt and jean shorts combo that would be strange for a man to compliment. Her hair is very pretty, in a Lord Farquad-ish kind of way, but again it seems an odd compliment to give her. She turns toward me, presumably to pass by, but as she moves to do so I blurt out, “I like your apples.”

I... I’m...

“What?” she says. I’m relieved to see she is merely confused, not angry, not annoyed; not yet.

“Honeycrisps. Fancy.”

I’m not much of a history buff, but I would guess that in the history of the world no conversation has ever started out this poorly. Honeycrisps? Fancy? I look toward the bread booth across the street and briefly consider grabbing their knife, ending it all right there between various types of bread and overpriced apples.

“I got a Gala myself.” My hand holds up the apple while my brain catches fire. “Or is it Gala? I can never remember.”

She laughs.

She laughs??

“I can never remember either,” she says. “That’s why I go for the Honeycrisps, there’s really only the one way to pronounce them.”

The crowd has somehow picked up in only the few seconds since this conversation started. People brush by my shoulder as I stand talking to the woman, still holding the sticky Gala apple out to her as if she’s a horse I’m trying to feed. I put the apple down by my side. “How do they smell today?”

She looks embarrassed. “Oh. You saw that?” Then she smiles. “My mom used to do that. I never knew what she was smelling for, still don’t know what I’m smelling for, but somehow neither of us have ever picked out a bad apple.”

In this moment I hate my therapist. Not because he forced me to have this conversation, but because he was right about how easy it really is to start one. “Intuition, I guess. Sort of like how I just knew out of everyone here you were the person I should talk to.” I can’t believe that is what I chose to say. I might as well have shit in my hand and shown it to her.

“So you came here for Gala apples and mediocre banter?”

Who the hell is this woman? Why do all of the stupid things I say seem not-so-stupid to her? Wait—did she say banter? My only task was to have a conversation; banter was supposed to be next month!

“My ther—”, I pause. Am I really about to tell her that she is basically an experiment to try to make me just a little less crazy? Fuck it. “My therapist wanted me to have a conversation with a stranger. I guess I’m not normally so... normal... around people. And I’m supposed to avoid alcohol so this was the next best place I could think of.”

She stands there silently for what seems to be a long time. I can’t get a read on her facial expressions because 1. they keep changing and 2. I’m absolutely horrible at reading people’s facial expressions. “Coffee,” she says, finally.

“Oh. Yeah. I guess a coffee shop would have been a better idea.”

“No. I mean would you like to grab a coffee?”

“Grab a coffee?” I say, as if I’ve literally never heard of coffee or the verb ‘grab’.

“With me.”

“With you.” My brain is still catching up. Before she can add another awkward answer or scream and run away, I finally manage, “yes. That would be great.”

“Great,” she smiles, “I’m Vanessa, by the way.”

“Graham.”

“Nice to meet you, Graham,” she says.

And then we walk away. Together.