Eyeheart Everything (14 page)

“Listen,” he said, running his long, thin fingers through his long, thin beard. “I know this lovely sack of oranges.”

“A sack of oranges?” I asked.

“Yes,” he said, “a five-pound bag. Maybe we should introduce them.”

“Fix them up, you mean?”

“Well yes, to put it crudely. Acquaint them with one another.”

“But ... what would they have to talk about?”

“They wouldn’t have to,” said Phil with a gleam in his glass eye. “You say your friend was born to eat things, yes? And a sack of oranges wants to be eaten.”

I told him that struck me as an unrealistic priority.

“Not at all, it makes sense. It’s part of the evolutionary strategy of a tree. The tree can’t walk, but it knows how to make these delicious oranges. An animal eats an orange, and then it walks on. The seeds of the orange pass through the tubes of the animal, and are deposited miles away in a fresh mound of fertilizer. There another tree grows. In this way, trees see the world.”

“That sounds very unromantic,” I said. “And I don’t know if Mr. Shark is looking for that kind of a commitment just yet. And orchards don’t thrive in salt water, et cetera.”

“Don’t worry,” said Phil. “She’s seedless.”

I didn’t see either Phil or Mr. Shark for about a month because I became unexpectedly rolled up in a romance of my own, a brief fling with this amazing pack of Dutch cigarettes I met at a party in the waffle house district. It was a fun, sexy, shallow, cheap and expensive affair, which ended happily but finally when she boarded a plane for Omsk, there to narrate a trilingual documentary about poststructuralism in dikes. When next I sauntered down to the seaside café, I was still bubbling over with silly romantic notions. Mr. Shark, resplendent in a white tuxedo, sat at the piano and picked at a lonesome tune with an adroit, melancholy fin. The piano top was lined with a row of empty cat heads, a candelabra and a mostly-eaten tray of celery and hummus.

“Ciao, Señor Shark,” I greeted him. “How are you this fine evening, when the sky is so full of luxurious stars?”

“I am as blue as the sky is dark,” he sighed, “and as dark as it is blue. Listen, here is my new song:

Oh, the shark has
pretty teeth, dear,
And he keeps them
to himself,

If you meet him,
always greet him,
And inquire
about his health.

He is lonely,
he is gentle,
He admires
the sea and sky.

If you date him,
he’ll devour you,
Otherwise, he’s
a swimmin’ guy.

An appreciative old man sitting nearby clapped politely, and my friend gave one of his distinctive little bows of thanks.

“I think I can turn your frown around, Mr. Shark. I know of a certain young lady with whom you really ought to spend some time.”

“No, no, thank you but no. I had another fiasco two nights ago, and it’s given me a lot to think about. I’m through with the singles scene.”

“A fiasco? Another bad date?”

“Indeed. A lovely girl, Martha, a harp seal I met in Monterrey while I was exercising with some surfer friends. She was beautiful, smart, possessed of delicate and sensual fur and deep, haunting eyes. Involved in a number of progressive community programs. Played the sitar. I rescued her from a furrier and she insisted on making me dinner.”

“So, what happened?”

The shark gazed aside in shame, and then he slowly rolled back his vast rubbery lips. Between rows of glinting teeth I spied a few reddened flecks of fur. His breath stank unmistakably of hats. I shuddered.

“Well ...” I remarked, “hmm.”

“So you see — here, have a carrot stick. You see what always happens? I feel terrible about the whole thing. And I’ve given it a lot of thought ... and I’ve decided to become a vegetarian.”

“A vegetarian — you? Will you still eat fish?”

“Oh yes, of course, and probably a little chicken. But that’s it. I am resigned to a life of platonic solitude, comforted by the knowledge that I am easing the suffering of others.” And although he was too poised and noble a character to show it, I knew his sadness was a deep and painful one.

“Listen ... hear me out. I think I know just the inauguration for your new life. I really think you should meet this sack of oranges I know.”

“Oh no, please, don’t let me ruin this as well.”

“Hear me out! She’s a sack of oranges, she’s from Florida. A wonderful, warm personality, very sweet and caring. She’s just moved here, and wants to meet people.”

“Ah,” my friend said. “I don’t date unsightly women.”

“No, really, she’s drop-dead gorgeous! Voluptuous, loaded with curves! And I have a feeling she’d be very understanding about your, um, your condition.”

Mr. Shark was quiet and thoughtful for a few moments. Then a nearby waiter tripped over his pantaloons and spilled a tray of glasses. After general applause, our conversation turned to other subjects and regained its usual levity. An hour later I knew I had him hooked.

By that time, Phil had worked a similar line of salesmanship on the sack of oranges. Mr. Shark called her one evening, they chatted for a while and agreed to let us broker them a date. But on the scheduled evening of the introduction Phil developed a sudden previous engagement, so I became saddled with the job of picking up Ms. Oranges at her apartment in town and dropping her off with Mr. Shark at the café. As I rode through the park on my bicycle, I grew less and less comfortable with the whole project. Why do I always try to intervene in the lives of people I hardly know? If things turn out badly, will they both hold it against me?

I arrived at the apartment and knocked on the door. “Come on in,” a soft voice called, “I’m just getting dressed.” I crept in. A moment later she appeared in the hallway, lit from above by a fluorescent plant light.

She was drop-dead gorgeous. And voluptuous. And loaded with curves. She was wearing one of those orange plastic fish-net stretch bags, and it left nothing to the imagination.

Yes, she sure was a sack of oranges.

“How do I look?” she asked.

“Wow,” I half-stammered, “you look great! Really ... great!”

“Oh, you’re sweet,” she said. For a sack of oranges she sure had a beautiful voice. I felt a small, not uncomfortable grumble in my colon.

“Can I get you something to eat?” she asked. “You look hungry.”

She smiled in a way I’ve never before been smiled at by a sack of oranges.

“We should go,” I said. And I tucked her in my backpack.

“Hee hee,” she said, “that tickles!”

“Mr. Shark, this is Ms. Oranges. Ms. Oranges, this is Mr. Shark.” He was dressed to the nines, looking even more dapper and sophisticated that I had ever seen him before. He immediately charmed her with a mildly risque joke concerning relatives of his living in the Florida Keys. Laughing together, they skipped away on a wave almost before I could wish them a pleasant evening. I sat down, ordered a biscotti, congratulated myself and imagined the happy pair and the fabulous time they would have together. Then I pictured them at the conclusion of their date, and suddenly I lost my appetite.

I didn’t go back to the café for a few weeks. I suppose I was avoiding Mr. Shark. I did however run into Phil at the laundromat-pizzeria near my apartment. He mentioned in an offhand way that he hadn’t heard from his friend the sack of oranges recently.

I was incredulous. “Were you really expecting to?”

“Well, I haven’t called her. I suppose she’s been occupied with your friend the great white shark.”

“Phil, think about it ...”

Phil thought about it. “You think he’s eaten her?”

“Of course! Probably on the first date!”

“I really don’t think she’s that kind of girl.”

“Does it matter? I mean ... I feel terrible. This was all your idea.”

“Don’t be hard on yourself,” he said, taking a bite of pizza, “like I said, it’s the way of things. A brief moment of ecstasy in this world is better than ending up as orange concentrate or something.”

Frustrated, I left Phil with his pizza and his dirty laundry and I walked all the way to the café. I didn’t really expect to see Mr. Shark there so early in the day, and had no idea what I would say if I did. I just wanted to face the situation somehow.

As it turned out he was there, seated at a corner table, wearing sunglasses and sipping a glass of water. And he wasn’t alone — he had a short, dumpy-looking and rather poorly dressed lamprey attached to his dorsal area.

“Meet Esmerelda,” he said with a tired-sounding grimace, “my special one.” Esmerelda stood up, smiled awkwardly and curtseyed as well as she could, and then returned to his side, where she made small sucking noises.