Banana

“This is fiction, except for the parts that aren’t.”

Michael Crichton. Next.

(Introduction Creative Writing Course – Day One: Write about an experience you had at a gas station or convenience store.)

“A pack of ciggies, please!”

“And a banana.”

Awkward silence at the cash. The faint noise of late night traffic outside the servo. A lone customer filling up his car. A quiet Friday night.

“A banana – please.”

Two pairs of eyes staring at me in bewilderment. 

“A banana?” the guy behind the counter asks.

“A banana? my slightly drunk friend stammers.

“Yes, a banana!” I insist, my voice equally slurred, irritation growing. 

A beautiful balmy spring night in the suburbs. It’s the weekend. Carb loading before the race next day. The reason I run. After a lovely evening spent with my favourite person in our favourite restaurant with some of our favourite food and too much of our favourite wine, we are trying to make our way home. Just a short walk through the quiet nighttime neighborhood, which, given our state of alcohol induced slow motion, might take a little longer. 

Decide to duck into the servo at the corner to grab a pack of ciggies. Durries. Darts. Because that’s what drinking does to us – my favourite person I. Runners or not, it makes us want to smoke. And eat bananas, apparently.

“Why a banana?” my friend stutters with slight irritation in her not-so-clear voice. 

Ya, why? The salesman’s eyes are asking, though way too polite to say it out loud. I’m sure he has seen it all, being the clerk at a servo in the night. Until the banana!

“‘Cause we have a race tomorrow. A run. Remember?” My turn to get annoyed and irritated. Could we just get that darn banana and go home. What did it matter what I needed the banana for? I just wanted it. My intoxicated self wanted it. Also, my head was beginning to hurt. Must be the lack of banana!

“But what do you need the banana for?” my friend patronizes, obviously even more confused than myself. I’m too tired to argue.

“For fuck’s sake, just get me that banana and let’s go!” I swear when I’m drunk. Or angry. Or any other time really.

“Ok ok. Too easy!” My friend surrenders. You pick your battles. And your bananas.

Fifty dollars for the ciggies. Five for the banana. Way beyond reason, we pay. The guy behind the counter remains silent, quietly counting his money and his blessings to finally get rid of us. We leave. Stumble home.

I can’t really remember what happened to the banana. Maybe I ate it. Or forgot it at the servo. Who cares? Too tired to do a ‘nana, we laugh all the way home.

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