Fruitless Love

“How dare you insult me like this?” Thomas St. Clair yelled in the middle of the busy restaurant.

He was perched on a velvet-upholstered chair. His towering red pompadour was beautiful and intimidating like a peacock spreading its feathers. Gin and tonic dripped from his chin after he involuntarily spat out the drink, showering the Pan-Seared Sea Bass and Truffle Risotto.

A woman sat directly across the table. She leaned forward and cupped her hands to her mouth, trying to screen her words from curious onlookers. “What is wrong with you?” she demanded. “I just want the banana cream pie.”

Thomas brought his fist down on the table. The crash of dinnerware was akin to a car accident; everyone in the vicinity turned to view the wreckage.

“Bananas be damned,” Thomas hollered. “Those yellow sacks of garbage need to go back to whatever country they came from. They’re all the same, soft and juiceless.”

The growing murmurs from restaurant patrons were like applause to Thomas. He stood up, reveling in the spotlight, and continued, “Apples are the far superior fruit. As heir to the St. Clair Cider Company, you’ve proven unworthy with these banana shenanigans. We’re through.”

A black, gloopy mixture of salt water and mascara streamed down the woman’s cheeks as she sprinted towards the front door. Thomas stopped short of bowing to his audience but smiled and returned to his Sea Bass.

An older gentleman with slicked-back hair and a perfectly tailored suit took the empty seat. He spoke in a solemn tone, “Do my ears deceive me? Did you break up with someone over pie?”  

Thomas’s smile stretched wider. “Chauncey, this is one hell of a fish you make here.”

“Every week you bring a new woman to my restaurant,” Chauncey continued. “Every week they leave here crying. It’s not good for business, what’s the matter with you?”

Thomas laughed and arrogance radiated off him like heat waves from a barbecue. “I’m a very wealthy man Chauncey, and highly respected in the beverage industry. I demand nothing less than perfection from any lady I date.”

“I don’t appreciate you disrupting my customers.”

“Relax. For the trouble, add a ‘K’ to my bill.”

“A ‘kay’?” Chauncey asked.

“Yeah! One K. One grand. One thousand bucks, whatever you want to call it. I'm good for it."

Chauncey made a come-here motion with his finger and began to whisper, “I'll admit you have spent a lot of money in my restaurant, so I’ll let you in on a little secret. I’m currently in possession of a magic genie. You may talk to him… BUT ONLY if you promise to wish for a woman who satisfies all your needs.”

Without hesitation, Thomas pushed his plate away, wiped his mouth, and nodded in acceptance.

Chauncey pointed to a dimly lit hallway lined with silk plants. “Goes past the washrooms, third door on the left. The passcode is 3909.”

Thomas punched the numbers onto the electronic keypad. Beeps were followed by the low drone of a motor retracting a deadbolt. The door was solid metal and heavy, like an old bank vault. It opened to a bright, windowless room. White floor tiles. White walls. White ceiling panels. Thomas felt like he was inside a marshmallow.

In the back corner was a baby lamb nestled on a small pile of hay. The animal shook off bits of straw from its fleece and trotted towards Thomas, its tail wagging like a dog’s.

Having never been around barnyard animals, Thomas took a defensive stance, “Are you the magic genie?”

The lamb began to brush up against Thomas’s leg. He tried to shoo away the fluffball by shaking it, but the lamb became agitated and emitted a horrific maaaaa sound before bending over and sticking its rear end in the air. Thomas was knocked backward by an explosion of blue light and a hurricane-like wind.

Through a cloud of smoke emerged a floating cross-legged man. He wore tight jean shorts and a beer belly spilled out of a Led Zeppelin t-shirt. The figure brushed long greasy black hair from his eyes and boomed, “I am the genie of the lamb.”

“The lamb?” Thomas questioned. “Shouldn’t it be lamp?”

After a brief pause, the genie lowered its head and talked in a laid-back stoner voice, “I kinda cheated my way through Genie School. You pretty much have to when ya got Visual Dyslexia. Lamp. Lamb. They both look the same on paper. But a big difference when it comes to smell. I may have accidentally picked an untraditional genie dwelling, but I’m still authorized to grant you one wish.”

“Can you use those genie powers to find me a gentle, caring wife?” Thomas asked.

“One metal pairing knife coming up.”

“WHAT,” Thomas yelled. “I said caring wife.”

“Busted! I’m also a tad deaf, so you’re gonna have to speak up and please be specific.”

Thomas began to formulate the perfect woman in his mind, cycling through the annoying flaws that caused previous break-ups. One woman was taller than him, one walked too fast, one ate like the Cookie Monster, one put mustard on French fries, one smelled like the pine tree air freshener from his car, and there was the one named Isabella. The Hispanic beauty was nearly perfect, but sharing the same name as his mother, Thomas found it difficult to dirty talk or scream her name in bed.

Thomas locked eyes with the genie and proclaimed in a loud, clear voice. “I wish for the perfect woman who will love and adore me. I want her to be from South America. I want her to be petite and slim with smooth skin and delicious curves. I want her to be rich, loaded with K. And she must be sweet on the inside and have appeal on the outside.”

The genie’s fingers moved to his temples, and his eyes shut tight in deep concentration. His head began to shake violently. Then a ding, reminiscent of a toaster oven bell, echoed through the room.

“Your wish has been granted,” the genie said and opened his eyes. “She’s waiting for you at the restaurant table.”

The genie turned transparent, shrunk, and returned to his home inside the lambs' rear end.

From across the dining room, Thomas saw two empty chairs at the table. He twisted and strained his neck as he navigated the busy restaurant floor looking for a woman that matched his description. Nothing. He plopped into his chair disappointed.

“Is that you Thomas?” said a woman’s voice with a Spanish accent. “I’ve missed you so much.”

Thomas perked up and scanned his surroundings, but there was no sign of a woman. However, movement on the other side of the table caught his eye. Sitting on a velvet seat cushion was a banana. A banana with oversized cartoonish eyes that were smoky and supported lashes that reached for the ceiling. Pouty lips of ruby red. Stubby human-like arms and legs protruded from its yellow skin. The chest area was slightly peeled, showing off lumps of soft white flesh like some Red-Light district whore.  

“Let’s get out of here,” the banana purred. “I want to be inside you.”

“What the hell is this?” Thomas said. “Where’s my curvy South American sweetie?”

The banana licked a finger and ran it down the yellow curve of its skin, then pointed to a sticker that clearly said Ecuador. “My name is Chiquita.”

Violent thoughts began to invade Thomas’s mind. A blender whirling the banana to a creamy death. A frying pan slammed down on its yellow jacket and pulp oozing out like a popped zit.

Instead of implicating himself in a bizarre mash and dash, Thomas excused himself from the table, headed for the third door on the left, and furiously shook the lamb. Its tail lifted into the air, and like steam from a kettle, a bulky figure began to materialize.

“Sorry dude, one wish per person,” the genie said. “For further assistance, may I direct you to a shooting star, birthday candle, or that fountain in the middle of the mall.”

Thomas leaned into the genie's face, like a baseball manager arguing with an umpire. “A banana! I wish for the perfect woman, and you give me a talking banana?”

The genie wiped specks of saliva off his face, then put on a pair of half-rim reading glasses and removed a two-foot-long till receipt from his jean shorts. He began to read, “One wish issued to St. Clair, Thomas. A woman with the following qualities. Loves and adores him. Petite, slim, delicious, curves, from South America, and rich in K—which, we all know is the periodic table symbol for potassium. Sweet on the inside and has a peel.”

“Not a peel you idiot. Appeal, as in sex appeal. How am I supposed to love and take care of a banana?”

With a puff of smoke, a laptop appeared in the genie’s hand and his fingers rapidly tapped the keys. “Says here you can wrap her up in aluminum foil. Also, keep her away from ethylene gas. And, if you’re into some freaky bedroom stuff, you can hang her from a hook.”

******

Inside Thomas's apartment, he sat on the couch in silence, the banana beside him. Thomas counted 382 ticks from the grandfather clock before he swiveled toward the window at the distant wailing of an ambulance.

Chiquita spoke, “I saw the way you looked at the chocolate cake on that dessert cart. You’re in love with her, aren’t you? Is it because that hussy-bitch has a cream-filled centre?”

“I’m not in love with any food,” Thomas snapped. “Especially dirt-cheap fruit that wasn’t grown in this country. Bananas are evil.”

Thomas froze and his eyes wandered off as he began to unlock a memory buried deep in his mind. Thomas was seven years old exploring the family apple orchard one evening. The sputtering of a small engine wasn’t out of the ordinary, it was the subsequent aggressive buzzing that fanned the flames of terror. A rhythmic roaring danced off the trees, forcing robins and sparrows to flee the area.

In the distance, Thomas could see his father, dressed in a banana costume, wine bottle in one hand and a running chainsaw in the other. He chanted, “See my peel, feel the fright, this banana will get you tonight.” His father chased Thomas yelling anti-banana propaganda, stopping only to take swigs out of the bottle. The red wine ran down his mouth and across the costume, giving the appearance of a wild animal feasting on a fresh kill. Thomas hid underneath a rusted Ford pickup truck until the chainsaw ran out of gas sometime after midnight.

“What are you thinking about?” Chiquita asked.

“I’ve never been this close to a banana before,” Thomas replied. “I don’t understand, you’re not some bloodthirsty monster hellbent on killing me. In fact, you’re not so different from an apple. You might be different colors on the outside, but on the inside, white flesh and fructose run through your veins.” Thomas shook his head in shame and lowered his defensive wall. “How could I be so blind? Those silly stories about horrible yellow creatures stealing our money and our jobs. It was all my family talked about. Did you come from a large family, Chiquita?”

“Yes, there was a bunch. But I recently lost my grandpa to crown rot.”

Thomas slowly replied, “My grandpa recently died of a blood clot.” Their eyes connected and an electric charge filled the room.

Chiquita’s breath quickened and in a husky voice declared, “I may be green around the edges but want you to manhandle me like a starving monkey.”

Her peel began to moisten, like a mirror after a hot shower. She didn’t have time to wipe away the mist before Thomas wrapped his fingers around her and smooth yellow skin slid in and out of his mouth like a popsicle. The steady rhythm caused Chiquita to moan in ecstasy and a warm tropical aroma filled the air. Thomas ripped off his shirt exposing his gorilla-like chest hair. Chiquita’s pull tab quivered at the sight. Thomas began to explore every inch of her peel. His fingers glided down the shaft, then he laid her on the couch and turned her into a banana split.

******

The next several days were the most joyous in Thomas’s life. Dinners, movies, and cuddling in a large bowl with various other fruits. He didn’t care about being seen with a banana, Thomas didn’t notice red or green or yellow or orange, he saw what was on the inside, a sweet sugary pulp.

It was a Friday morning; Chiquita had felt unwell the night before and went to bed early. Thomas, not wanting to disturb her, slept on the couch a left the apartment early to get coffee. When he returned and pushed open the bedroom door, a pungent odor struck his nostrils. A sweet fermentation hung in the air. It was the smell of overripe fruit.

Chiquita laid on top of the covers, her bright yellow skin had darkened and now looked like a school bus that drove through a puddle of ink. The sickly black spots made it difficult to know if she was firm or mush. Thomas dropped his coffee and ran to her side.

“I don’t have much time,” Chiquita said weakly.

“Don’t leave me,” Thomas cried. “I love you. I’m a better person with you.”

“Promise you’ll cremate me. Can you do that Thomas? Mix me with some flour and sugar and butter and eggs. Bake at 350 degrees for an hour.”

Hot tears rolled down Thomas’s face as the last word escaped her mouth, followed by her final breath.

He fulfilled the request and baked a fantastic banana bread. Thomas scattered the crumbs around the park at sunrise. Then, feeling lost, he aimlessly roamed the city until he found himself on a busy downtown street, near the restaurant he had first met Chiquita. A familiar sound pulled Thomas from his somber state.

“Bananas,” said a woman with a Spanish accent. “Who wants to get bananas?”

Outside of a smoothie shop stood a petite, slim woman wearing a curvy banana costume. Thomas immediately approached her and introduced himself.

“Wonderful to meet you,” she said. “My name is Bonita. I just moved here from Ecuador.”