APPs🍎

“A HUNDRED DOLLARS?!! Jesus fucking Christ, Treesha where’d all the money go?” Drake demands, rudely interrupting my idyllic slumber.

“I wass onnnn the beach innn Caboooh,” I moan, wiping the crust off my eyes and notice for the first time how sallow he appears.

“A hundred BILLION dollars,” he’s repeating like a mantra, while pacing around our cavernous dwelling like a caged lion. Now it’s much closer to London’s Christchurch Greyfriars after the Blitz with only it’s tower and outer walls left standing. Our once opulent Great Gatsby style sprawling Southampton mansion is shamefully a shambles.

Seeking comfort and safety, I roll onto my stomach and burrow under my favorite, velvety soft, faux-fur blanket. “Ahhhhhhhh,” I purr, enjoying my moment of comfort, safety and nothingness.

For Dr. David Banner, it’s anger that triggers and transforms him into the monstrous Incredible Hulk. Similarly, for my Drake, stress and/or too much cocaine bring out his alter-ego I call Drako, after the Athenian scribe, memorialized in a word describing his excessively harsh penal code for petty crimes.

“I’m not being draconian, Treesha, it’s the only way we’ll survive,” Drake insists.

“How are you reading my thoughts,” I implore, watching with horror as he pockets my wallet and keys off the nightstand, then slinks, stalker-like, around the bed eyeing my phone, my precious lifeline to, well, … life. The fear must have sharpened my reflexes, because I was faster, protecting my device by rolling my body over it; a human-shield in a near hostage situation. His lunge, a fraction of a second too late, got him a fistful of my bony elbow.

“I didn’t spend it all, you dipshit,” I spit venemously, while wresting my elbow out of his surprisingly strong grasp. “Nice try,” I smirk tauntingly. cradling my phone close to my chest.

Desperation really brings out the worst in people, myself included. I said and did so many things I wish I could take back, including, “Yo shitforbrains , why don’cha look at your face in the mirror; better yet, look ON the mirror.”

“Don’t you dare play victim with me, bitch. You and I both know how this went down.”

“Baby, come’ere,” I try my best to sound soothing, massaging the empty space on the bed beside me.

“The fuck’s the matter with you? I can’t sit down. I, WE’ve gotta DO something.”

“Drake, how many times have we lost EVERYTHING, only to get it ALL back?”

“Yeah, but that doesn’t count. We always had your inheritance as an emotional safety net.”

“It was never the inheritance that got us off the streets. WE DID THAT; well, us and the Divine,” I aver, pointing my copy of The Midnight Labyrinth at him, as proof.

“Cut the religious mumbo-jumbo, will ya’ please.”

“NOT religious, spiritual; how do you explain the MULTIPLE ‘series of coincidences’ that have reliably kept us safe, met our needs and provided relief beyond measure?”

“True that, babe; but you also taught me that this divine loving force doesn’t move on our behalf unless we go first.”

“OhhhhhKay,” I exhale, releasing my warm sweaty body from it’s blanket sarcophagus, rising like a long sleeping vampire. I swing open the dilapidated French doors, their flapping hinges conjure bat’s in flight. Looking heavenward and reaching for the sky, I deeply inhale the crisp autumn air, allowing it to fill my lungs until I’m a fully expanded balloon. Bending at the waist, I forcefully exhale, “hAAAAAA,” while sweeping my arms down and behind me. I repeat this breathing exercise a few more times, clearing the cobwebs from my brain.

“Ok,” I say cheerfully, coming back inside.

“Ok, what? None of this is okay. We have ONE single hundred dollar bill. PERIOD. The end; NO ‘happily ever after.’”

“Why are you discounting our last hundred? Now it’s worth less and with your cynical attitude, it’s worthLESS”

“Treesha, you are the one in this relationship that thinks a budget is a rental car company; most OTHER people understand it means money runs out and spending frugally is essential.”

“A budget for a hundred dollars?! WHAAAAt?” I elide.

“What do you propose, Miss Fortune?”

“Thats : MZ. Fortune, watch your pronunciation,” I quip. “And, I suggest : a cookie crumb of wisdom.” I answer sweetly, trying to further lighten the mood. I make a ceremonious show of prying the two week old fortune cookie out of the sticky food-goo, that has fused the crinkly cellophane packaging to our irreplaceable Baroque Era coffee table. I clear my throat and officiously read, “When life gives you lemons, make lemonade.”

“And then add vodka.”

“The cookies never lie. Switch the lemons to apples and the -ade to pie.”

“Huh?”

“Since you’re so insistent on DOing something, take all that pent up energy and bring me back as many apples as you can from Great-Grandma Fiona’s orchard. I know all her recipes and just like she did, I’m gonna make us some DOUGH! You sure I never told you it was HER apple pie income that gave my great-grandfather, Christian, the start up capital to build our family’s empire?”

“Christian? Aren’t y’all Jewish?”

“Yeah. His mom deliberately named him that, eschewing religion for spirituality and oneness.”

“Phish,” Drake snorts, shaking his head, as he meanders toward the shed for a rusty wheelbarrow and I watch his gangly frame disappear into the trees.

With my phone in hand, I scoop up some empty shopping bags and make my way to the root cellar. The flashlight on my phone gives me just enough light to stuff my bags with eggs and butter. Returning to the unused professional style kitchen, I’m not surprised to find the pantry fully stocked.

We become a two-man pie factory, calling ourselves APPs, churning out Fiona’s Apple Pies, and consistently selling out every local farmers market until we are able to hire help. Our pies are so cathartic and connecting everyone from Paris Hilton and Martha Stewart to Vladimir Putin and Pope Francis sign-up for our Pie-of-the-Month Club. As soon as the millennials get a taste of our APPs, they go viral.

Oprah features them on her show, opening with, “How do I get these APPs for my phone?” and concludes by characteristically leaving every audience member a Fiona’s Apple Pie under their seat. Furthermore, a New York Post front page broadcasts Hillary and Melania sitting in Central Park, laughing, sharing a slice of our pie, and trumpets, “HOW ‘BOUT THEM APPLES?”

“HUNDRED BILLION DOLLAR apples,” Drake recounts smiling; pointing out The Post’s front page as we pass a newsstand while walking home... a newly renovated penthouse on Park Ave.

Playfully elbowing him in the side and greeting his smile with mine, I snigger, “How ‘bout them APPs?”