Bananas Aren’t For Everyone
“…and you, Chris? What topping do you want?” I shouted over to Chris while holding the phone to my chest so I didn’t yell into the ear of the person on the other side. Chris was outside chatting to a few other friends that my wife and I had invited over.
Chris scratched his chin. “I’ll have bacon…”
I repeated his order to the pizza person on the other side of the phone.
“… and mushroom…”
I passed this on as well.
“… and… banana.” he ended with a nod of satisfaction.
Banana?
No. Surely not, I thought to myself. He wouldn’t. He’s a good, decent person. I must have misheard.
I apologised to the pizza person for the delay and then placed the phone back against my chest.
“Did you say ban — ” my voice cracked. I couldn’t say the word out loud.
“Did you say ba… ba…” Now I was dry heaving just at the thought.
“…banahanha?” I forced the word out. And almost the packet of chips I had eaten 10 minutes earlier.
“What?” Chris poked his head in through the open back door, beer in hand. “What did you ask?”
Oh, no! I was going to have to say it again. I was going to have to name the fruit-that-must-not-be-named! I took a deep breath, braced myself, and opened my mouth.
Nothing came out.
I pictured my brain shaking its imaginary head, refusing to say ‘banana,’ grimacing in agony, a single tear running down its imaginary cheek.
I tried again. “Did you order bannn… banaaaa… bahaaaa…” My eyes now tightly shut as I attempted to retch the word out.
“Banana? Are you saying banana?” he asked nonchalantly, as if it were something he said all the time — like some kind of psychopath.
My eyes still tightly shut, and now with sweat dripping from my brow, I nodded. I nodded a hopeful nod. A nod that wanted nothing more than to hear Chris say, “No! Goodness, NO! Of all that is good and right in this world… NOOOOOO!” as he fell to his knees tearing at his t-shirt.
My nod was sorely disappointed.
“Yup,” Chris replied cheerfully.
I hung up the phone and slammed it onto the kitchen counter. Chris stood erect, eyes widened. Erect — as in he stood upright because he was startled. There was nothing seductive about my phone slamming against the granite of my countertop.
I began stalking towards him, fists clenched — unseductively. He backed out of the house tripping up a little and spilling some of his beer onto my wooden floor.
I stalked back towards the kitchen counter, eyes locked with his, and grabbed a serviette. I then stalked back towards Chris and his puddle of beer.
Filled with indignation, I got right up to Chris, my unblinking eyes boring into his own, my nose now pressed against his.
“H..hi,” Chris muttered nervously.
“Banana! You ordered BANANA! Why would you do this?” I blared, causing Chris to shift his head awkwardly and my wife and friends to turn around.
“Oh. Right.” Chris said as he wiped my spittle from his face. “I forgot. You’re a picky eater — you don’t like banana.”
“‘Picky eater’? I don’t ‘like banana’?” I hissed, replacing the wiped-away spittle on Chris’ face with a fresh spray. “I hate bananas. And not because I’m a ‘picky eater,’” I said, doing a terrible impression of Chris, but a terrific impression of an ailing, elderly Scooby-Doo. “I hate bananas because they’re an evil fruit spawned from the loins of Satan himself.”
“Are you saying bananas are Satan’s offspring?” sniggered my wife’s friend, Natalie. I ignored stupid Natalie.
“But they’re delicious!” Chris insisted. I looked away from him to spit onto the ground in disgust, but my full reserve of saliva was on and around Chris’ face so I kind of just pursed my lips in disgust.
“And they’re healthy. They’re a great source of potassium,” he added, looking to the group for support. They all nodded affirmatively.
“Healthy?” I scoffed. “Is radiation healthy? Because all of your precious potassium makes bananas deathly radioactive!”
“They’re definitely not deathl — ” I shoved my finger onto stupid Natalie’s stupid lips before she could finish.
“Did you know that they float? Do you know what else floats?” I snarled rhetorically. “Witches! Witches float, Chris. Are witches ‘delicious’?” ailing, elderly Scooby-Doo asked.
“I don’t think that’s how that — ” I placed my whole hand this time on stupid Natalie’s stupid face to silence her.
“Is that what you want to bring into my house, Chris?! A demonic, radioactive fruit that floats and chases little children around ice-rinks?” I pushed my face back up against his.
“What?” Chris whimpered. “Children around ice-rinks? What?”
“Do you?” I barked.
“Sheesh! Okay, fine. I’ll just order something else,” Chris said, clearly shaken.
“Good.” I said as I turned around to head back into the house. My wife followed me.
“You can be so dramatic,” she said shaking her head. “You’ve developed this ridiculous narrative against bananas because why? It’s embarrassing. Why won’t you just admit that you don’t like bananas because you’re just a picky eater?”
“I’m not a picky eater. I eat everything except banana — it’s heinous. It’s a principle thing,” I insisted, annoyed.
I picked up my phone and redialed the pizza place. “Let’s try this again,” I said to myself.
“What toppings do you want, Chris?” I shouted out to him.
“I’ll have bacon…”
I repeated his order to the pizza person on the other side of the phone.
“… and mushroom…”
I passed this on as well.
“… and… avo — ”
I hung up the phone and slammed it onto my kitchen counter. “Everybody, GET OUT!”
