Magikito of the Produce Aisle
Walter had been working the produce section for twenty years, and he could tell you exactly what kind of person you were just from the way you picked up a peach. Some folks grabbed it with the whole hand like a tennis ball. Some smelled it first and got a look on their face like they were sitting in church. Some turned it over and over, hunting for the bruise, and those ones don’t trust anybody, but they never hurt a thing. And then there was a lady who came in on Tuesdays and talked to the pears. Walter loved her to pieces. Walter was a Magikito, and he lived in the pineapple crate, because in there he could tuck himself away good and keep his pointy little ears out of sight. He always had a brush in his pocket, because that was his real job when you get down to it: sweeping. There’s always a little dust at the bottom of a fruit crate: sawdust, dirt, dry leaves crushed to bits, a little of everything that went bad on the way over. Walter swept it out every night and left all of them spotless.
Thursday morning, a man came into the section with a face like a slice of American cheese, one hand on the cart and the other one digging a booger out of his nose. He started with the avocados, picked them up one at a time and pressed them with his thumb hard like he was taking their pulse. Eight avocados. He left his print in all eight, and all eight went back in the bin. Then the nectarines. He dug a fingernail into one to see if it would leak. The tomatoes were worse. He squeezed until one of them split open and spit a stream up his sleeve, and he left it right where it was, split and face down, so somebody else would get stuck with it. Then he licked his finger. And that’s when Doris came around the corner with her cart.
“Excuse me, you don’t squeeze fruit like that, and especially not with dirty hands.”
“If I don’t squeeze it, I don’t know if it’s any good.”
“You look at it.”
“Oh, sure. I look at it, and I taste it with my eyes too.”
He dropped a pear. It bounced, rolled, and came to a stop under the eggplant display. The man crouched down, fished it out, gave it a wipe with his sleeve, and set it back on the pile, right on top of all the others.
Danny, the kid stocking the shelves, couldn’t help himself. “Sir, that ‘do not squeeze’ sign is there for a reason.”
“And I’ve got a mortgage.”
“You mind your business, and I’ll mind mine, knucklehead.”
And after that, nobody said another word, because there’s no talking to a man like that.
Last came the apple pyramid. He took the whole thing apart, layer by layer, digging around at the bottom, and the ones on top went rolling off down the aisle. He didn’t pick up a single one. And he walked out with the best of every section: the melon Walter had been keeping an eye on since Monday, the one that was ripe right on the money that very day; the four peaches from the back row, the ones nobody had touched; the strawberries from the bottom crate; and one shiny mango that was no question about it, the prettiest piece of fruit in the whole store. Perfect, not a scratch on it, like something out of a commercial.
Walter climbed down off the display, steaming. He didn’t say a word. He just hopped into the man’s cart and stayed in there a little while. He was up to something. “Enjoy,” he said with a sneaky little grin, and out he came.
The man got home at half past twelve. He set the bag on the kitchen table and started unloading. The melon came out first. He took hold of it on both sides, and both sides gave, soft with a squish that is not the squish of a good melon. He set it down on the table, and it just sat there, wide and low, like a loyal little dog waiting on its owner. The peaches were gray, not overripe, gray and fuzzy all over. He cut open an avocado, and the inside of it was an old photograph. He reached for the perfect mango, the one out of the commercial, and got a good grip on it to have a proper look. Or he tried to, because the mango gave the way a wet sponge gives, and out of the hole his thumb made, a worm poked its head up and looked at him with absolutely no shame whatsoever. It looked at him for three long seconds, decided he wasn’t all that interesting, and went back inside. The strawberries, with nobody laying a finger on them, had turned into a little puddle, and the whole kitchen smelled like the bottom of a dumpster in August. The man picked up the phone and called the store to complain. He was on there 11 minutes. He asked for the manager, then for the manager’s manager, and he said the word unacceptable four times. And the whole time he was talking, over on the table things kept right on going. The melon lost its shape in a hurry. Now it looked like a piece of abstract art. The peaches all ran together into each other. The worm came out again, had a good look around, and strolled off nice and easy toward the bowl of mandarins. The man’s jaw dropped when the guy on the phone changed voices. What came through now was a teeny little voice and a funny one. “Next time you respect the produce section and you keep those hands to yourself, smart guy, you big smart guy. Bye.”
The next Thursday, the man came back to the store, and it was a sight, because it’s one of the greatest things that section has ever seen. Now he picks up fruit like he’s wearing silk gloves, two fingertips from the top, no squeezing, like he’s defusing a bomb, and every few seconds he lifts his head and looks around, checking to see who’s watching him. It’s not that he learned how to treat fruit right. It’s that a fear got into him that is never leaving him as long as he lives. Walter watches from his hiding spot, tickled pink, and Doris still talks to the pears like they’re friends she’s known her whole life. And now you know something you didn’t know before. There’s a Magikito in the produce section of your supermarket too. There’s one in every single one of them. There always has been. And he is always watching.
