The Fruit Stand
A flash-fiction piece about the things we leave behind.
The cloying smell of pineapple and mango, of chamoy and papaya left uncovered in the heat, is heavy, insistent, and saccharine. Humidity forces itself under my clothing and fastens to various folds and cracks. The perfect semicircle of a sweating cantaloupe angles with a sort of sorrow at the knife that sliced it.
I pause to look at the plastic bags scattered on the sidewalk underneath the sign hanging from the umbrella meant to block a sun already set. Puzzled, I look up and down the street for signs of life, but all I see are deep violets and plums in between flickering cones of streetlight.
I feel my stomach begin to hollow. This is not my usual route home, so perhaps this stand has been abandoned for days. But the flies are still buzzing around the fruit, vomiting and dropping their eggs all over the exposed produce, so I have my doubts.
My phone rings. The number on the screen doesn’t mean anything to me—I’ve got no contacts saved in it yet.
“Hello?”
I’m greeted with warm, saturated silence. The promise of other life, washed in radio processing. I keep the phone to my ear a few moments longer and quickly check to make sure the call is still connected.
“Hello?” I ask again.
The problem with changing your number is having to answer each call for fear of missing something important. Screening calls is a luxury reserved for those who have loved ones and friends. The squelched frequency has a threatening comfort to it. I start to hang up.
As I do, a tinny hello buzzes from the phone’s inner speaker. I put my ear back to it.
“Yes? Who is this?”
“Ah...” the voice on the other end of the call endeavors. Another pause.
“I’m sorry. I think you have the wrong number.”
“No. I don’t. I know I don’t,” they reply.
I don’t say anything. Instead, I glance back at the metal frutero cart, drinking in more of the stranger’s pleasant indecision. “Who are you looking for?” I ask.
“Uh... I’m not looking for anyone.”
My throat tightens and I consider hanging up.
“Then why did you call this number?”
“Sort of a ritual I suppose,” the other voice says after more hesitation. “I call this number every day to leave a voicemail for my best friend. He passed away nearly eleven years ago.”
I’m not sure what to say. I feel guilty, as if I’ve stolen something from a dead man without either of our consent. I decide to let the silence linger; give the caller room to continue.
“He, uh, was robbed and killed. Eleven years ago. Right next to his fruit stand.”
A small breeze offers a moment of relief from the oppressive night. I watch the scallop on the umbrella wiggle slightly with it. Some of the flies spook from the cart’s cutting board, as if alarmed at the sudden shift in the atmosphere. For a moment, I forget to breathe.
“Hello?” inquires the other voice.
“I’m going to hang up now. Please feel free to call me back and leave a voicemail.”