How do you like this apple
“I have an apple for you,” a coworker named Gary told me a few days ago. Gary, an eccentric Russian in his late fifties, is known for his oftentimes unconventional behavior. He’s one of those people who can be fathomlessly entertaining if you’re in the mood for him, but just as annoying if you’re not. He told me, “I picked it.”
“Huh… you say you picked it?” I asked, my spirits lifting. Nothing like a fresh-picked autumnal apple, is there?
“Oh yes! Yes, apple picking,” Gary said, kissing the tips of his fingers the way Italian chefs do when detailing a particularly succulent dish. “Crisp and delicioso.”
“Cool. I actually could go for one.”
“You want it now?” he asked, around a mouthful of his own apple.
“Sure. What kind of apple?”
“From a tree,” Gary said, as if that explained everything.
“You don’t say? I think they usually-”
“In Massachusetts!”
“Massachusetts? You mean like Western Mass?” I asked, puzzled. I’m not sure why I pressed him on it; on the surface everything seemed legit. A picked apple: nothing more, nothing less. And yet I had the vaguely unsettling impression that something was awry. Maybe it stemmed from the brand of apple I was about to enjoy being the kind that came from a tree.
“Here in the city,” Gary cheerfully clarified, reaching into his backpack and producing my apple – a fairly undersized specimen. He added, “Near the bus stop.”
I frowned. “The… bus stop?”
“Yes, yes, where the crazy people live. Try it.”
“Crazy people?”
“Try your delicious apple.”
Examining my delicious apple, I noticed what closely resembled bite marks imprinted upon its skin… most likely left by the mouth of a nutcase: either from the insane asylum or the one standing before me.
Gary looked at me hopefully. “Aren’t you going to eat it?”
“I think I’ll save it for later.”
Do You Remember the Time…
“Guess what’s four weeks from today?” I said to Carolina the other day.
“I don’t know. Thanksgiving?”
“No,” I said with a frustrated sigh, making her count the weeks on our kitchen calendar. “Look!”
She ticked off the weeks while I stood there, brimming with excitement. Eventually she arrived at the day I was indicating. “November ninth,” she said, unimpressed. “Okay… What’s November ninth?”
I looked at her.
I am so not getting Carolina a wedding anniversary present this year.
(Sorry Wife, but you had to know this was going public.)
The Staring Contest
Today someone was staring at me on the subway. A skinny, middle-aged bald guy. It really irritated me. Outwardly, he looked respectable – well-dressed and groomed – not the kind of person you would associate with abnormal social behavior. What was his problem? I hate when people on the T stare.
At first I pretended not to notice, but eventually couldn’t take it anymore and looked back at him. When we made eye contact, rather than glance away, his line of vision continued to bore into mine. It did not waver. I offered an expression of vaguely confused annoyance and averted my gaze. After a minute I glanced back, and this screwball was still staring at me.
What are you doing you unimaginable jackass? Determined to win this brazen challenge, I stared back in what I hoped was a severe, threatening manner. Like maybe I was crazy, or a hoodlum. Not somebody to be messed with. I couldn’t be the one to look away. He was breeching etiquette! Breeching is too soft a word; it was a categorical abomination of etiquette.
Unfortunately, after a while my eyes started to water as our awkward staring contest continued unfettered, and I had to avert them. I felt deeply embarrassed and violated. I stared at my feet for a long while, burning with shame.
When he eventually got up, I noticed he employed one of those walking sticks for blind people.
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