Of Fruit and Fetish

 

 

     “Here you go, mama,” I say loud enough for her to hear. I hand her the mug of juice from boiled ingredients she had specified, her own concoction of medicine for her aching joints.

     “Thank you, child,” she answers in her loving raspy voice and smiles at me. Her eyes crease at the sides into deep crow’s feet that say she is about eighty.

     I wait for her to finish her medicine before I tuck her into the couch with her favorite moth- eaten comforter, kiss her on the forehead, and leave. She sleeps in the living room now, finding it hard to go up to her room and climb her own bed. 

     I go up the stairs alone into my own chamber, and sit on the edge of the bed, facing the mirror I set up on the wall above the little writing desk.

     I look around me, at the walls covered with cabinets filled with all sorts of mementos from the past, my childhood and early adulthood preserved in a pair of old in- line skates, a bike handle, and a myriad other things.

     My mother does not know I keep what “normal” people would have considered as garbage. And that everyone considers me a “freak”, with a loose screw in the head.

     Which is just as well. I do not wish for anyone to know me and my secrets. As a “lunatic”, I am able to do what those hypocritical “normal” people dare not do. I follow my own principles; I go after what I need with little inhibition or none at all. I let loose my fetishes. I am free. 

      I look at my reflection in the mirror, at the hair I carefully part each morning at the middle; the bow tie I so carefully put around my fastidiously pressed collar; and the pale, oval, pointy- chinned face that I got from my late father. And I am reminded of the movie I had once seen, what was it, it was about this freak who could commune with rats, and set out to kill his boss with his secret ratty minions.

     “Heck, I am probably him,” I think as I remove my clothing gingerly and place them on my bed. “I have my own dark secret, and I am the Dark Man.” 

     I chuckle.

     Dark Man. I really must be nuts.

     Once I have completed my fashion ensemble, I again look at my reflection. I have on black clothing: black turtleneck sweater, black pants, black gloves, and on top of it all, a black mask. I also have with me a large, black backpack, a steel rope and other gadgets for traversing.

     I have on the costume of a wrongdoer, of one who wishes to hide his identity to desecrate what is held sacred. The get- up of an assassin, a hostage- taker. 

     That’s because I am a stealer.

     I am not a thief in my opinion. It’s more of a fetish, not a hobby, not a need, the usual motivation for ordinary thieves. Stealing is an obsession, a desire, a passion if you may.

     And I don’t steal just about anything.

     I steal only ripe mangoes.

     Every night, even without the aid of the moon and its light, I scale the three- meter wall which separates our backyard from the neighbor’s fruit orchard. In it are all sorts of fruit trees: apple trees, orange trees, lemon trees, and trees whose names I no longer know. 

     And in the heart of such a treasure cove lies what my entire body, my whole gastro- intestinal system longs for every single minute of the day— one gigantic mango tree filled with mangoes so ripe and yellow they shine like gold amid the darkness of the night.

     I throw the brass tooth- ended steel wire with towards the nearest tree and pull at it to make sure the tooth caught. From there I repeat the same procedure, traversing about five trees before I reach my final destination. My muscles ache, my joints feel like they are being pulled apart. Still, I continue.

     At long last, I reach my mango tree. I give the bark a sweet little kiss, caress the golden mangoes and start freeing them from their captor- branches. I reach into my pack and extricate two pounds of Hungarian sausages, then throw them at the bloodthirsty hounds barking their vocal cords raw below me.  

     I climb higher and, sitting on the highest branch far, far away from the ground and the hounds I have placated with Hungarian sausages, I eat my mangoes, my beloved golden mangoes. 

     I bite, I suck, I lick. I feel the juices slipping through my fingers, cascading down my throat, the pulp spreading throughout my lustful body. The smells surround me as a lover’s embrace would, and I am in heaven; no need to wait for death just to feel how it is to float amongst the best of leisure.

     I am in ecstasy.

     Alas, just as I take the first bite from the nth mango, I notice that the hounds are almost done with the sausages. There are only two of them, and yet, no amount of sausages seems to satiate them or seem enough for them to excuse my own desire to eat. 

     But I understand them on some level. We are alike. We are simply never satisfied with the things we obsess about.

     I henceforth gather up my remaining mangoes and place them carefully in my backpack. I check all the gears, the steel wire if it is taut, and begin my traversing towards our backyard wall. I hold onto the rope and let gravity pull me towards the epilogue of yet another one- night stand. Along the way I snatch some apples and add them to my collection of mangoes.

     The hounds are barking like mad now, howling for their master to come out and divulge my presence, their snouts raised upward, pointing traitorously at me. Turncoats, eager to get yet another helping of meat if I were found out. But I do not mind them; resist the urge to throw mangoes at them. Ah, my precious mangoes. 

      I stand with both feet planted firmly on the high wall, and look up at my beloved, so magnificent, standing there amid lesser trees. It beckons to me, begging for one last tryst. And I say, “No, goodbye for now. But I shall be back, my love, my dear, my life. I will steal you, ripe mangoes, away from those branches, from your captivity. I shall steal away into the night, for now… await my return”.

      It is morning-light when I finally peel myself from the sight of the golden mangoes, and the hounds had long since burned themselves to exhaustion. The tenant, it seems, is out of town, but still I dare not risk going back. Tonight, though, I would.

      I return to the safety of my chamber and remove the black skin of my other self, hide them underneath the bed in a little portmanteau, and put on my sleeping robes.

But I do not go to sleep. I knew that even as I closed my eyes, the mangoes would haunt me, and I would wake up with a longing more severe than ever.

      So, like every single day prior, I get a towel, tiptoe down the stairs and look into the living room. I find the couch empty. But I knew where my mother was.

I head towards the kitchen and take note of the things I have to put back into the refrigerator: peanut butter, apple jam, apple juice, orange juice, orange jelly…gifts from our fruit- orchard neighbor. I place spoonfuls of each into a pot, and heat it up in the stove. 

     While waiting for the concoction to boil, I open the refrigerator. 

     And there, holding a half- eaten apple sits my mother in frozen slumber.

     I take her out of the refrigerator and set her upon the kitchen table among the jellies. The frost had gathered on her crow’s feet and her eyebrows; her hair, which was white as snow, is even more so now. She is fixed in a sort of fetal position, rigid and utterly frozen. I sit on a stool and watch as some of the ice turned into moisture, watch my mother make like a clay statue melting under the sun. 

     The kettle whistles and I see her open her eyes. She looks around the kitchen as though she were a newborn before setting her eyes on me. I take the kettle, pour its contents into a mug and bring it to her. I wipe the moisture off of her with the towel while holding the mug near her nose. Slowly, she lifts her arms and takes the mug from me. She sips and I stop wiping; with every gulp the frost around her eyes and on her eyebrows fall off or melt. 

     “Have you been outside again?,” she asks me, her voice clear as crystal, as though she had not just been defrosted.

     “Yes, mama. And I brought you apples.”

     We look at each other and simply smile. She looks like Mona Lisa, beautiful and enigmatic, only with wrinkles and crow’s feet. 

     I carry her towards the living room and turn on the television. We watch Oprah and all the other shows from day until night without really seeing the people, the animals and the advertisements. We stay away from the light of day and the neighbors, surveying everything with predatory eyes.  

     We live in our own world; bask in the comforts of our customized reality, the queen and the prince of a secret kingdom.

     And we eat our fruits to our hearts’ content.