Choosing Fruit

He hadn't decided suddenly to do it. He imagined things suddenly but very rarely did he decide anything suddenly. It was even more rare for him to do anything suddenly. Of course, Scott reflected, when it was all over, the whole thing had begun long ago like everything.

Perhaps it began in his old man's garden. His old man, he later discovered by reading books, had never been a "real" father to him. His old man should never have become a scientist. He should have remained a farmer. He loved to work the soil and watch things grow. Scott himself didn't care much for the soil, not to work in it anyway. He was scientifically inclined. But since his father was a scientist, he couldn't accept this inclination either. He felt science was pushed on him. So he had done nothing except sit in his father's garden and read. Scott couldn't remember for sure if pumpkins grew in his father's garden. But the garden at least suggested Pumpkins and, it followed, melon breasted cinderellas. Which perhaps is not too important as Scott quickly pointed out to himself. He did love big breasts, to the point of obsession, but we are an oral culture, he pointed out to himself. The point of what happened is the pumpkin.

Mirna didn't say anything when he brought the little plant into their apartment that summer. She just looked him in his twinkling eyes and let him know that she wasn't about to ask why he brought home a potted plant. He placed it on the window sill and gave it a little water. Each afternoon when he came home form work, he watered the plant. Toward the end of August, he removed the plant from the pot and put it in a wash tub. A week later Mirna said,

"It's a pumpkin, Scott."

"A beautiful baby pumpkin, Mirna."


Scott was, by then, visiting a businessman named Nathan once or twice a week regularly. He had met Nathan in late August, in a bar. At that period in his life, Scott was telling everybody the Truth. Eloquently. He was making an effort to quit feeling embarrassed by his intellect, overcome his shyness, and to really help humanity. So when Nathan offered to buy him a beer, Scott smiled brightly and said,


"I'm not queer, you know," Nathan said. "I just want to talk."

"Fine. We're all a little queer anyway I myself am a flaming vicarious queer. It's the best I can do."

Nathan was aglow. He had just recently decided to get out in the streets and mix with "real" humanity. Right off the bat he gets an honest, seemingly intelligent, vicarious queer. He respected Scott.

"Judging from you hands, I'd say you change tires," said Nathan.

"Judging from your deportment, I'd say you're a wheel," answered Scott.

Nathan lost his heart and found something to live for in one moment. He had someone he could count on being honest with him. He began to talk. Scott liked to listen and talk. Though he could not initiate things, he loved to put up with them. Pain, pleasure or, in this case, boredom. He might be able to help the guy too, he thought.

"So I've done a lot of thinking," Nathan said," "when I wasn't Working. This peaceful center the movement talks about as Nirvana, love, egolessness and ecetera is possibly more than just a pipe dream. In fact I'm sure it is."

"So am I," said Scoot. "Not that the movement will bring it about."