Wednesday, March 15, 2017 // The Statement
4B
Wednesday, March 15, 2017 // The Statement 
5B

A Peculiar Love for Nuts

a short ficton story

b y B e n R a p p o p o r t, LSA Freshman
J

ames Jameson? Yeah, I know him. He 

works with me at the office. Gotta feel 

bad for a guy with a name like that; his 

parents must have hated him. I think 

he runs numbers for the guys upstairs. I guess 

management thinks he’s hot shit or something. A 

while ago he threatened to quit unless he got a 

promotion. They gave him an intern who gets his 

coffee once a week, and that shut him right up.

Yeah, I’d say James has always been a little bit 

nutty. No pun intended. A real nut case, ha. You 

can sorta pick up on that just from talking to him. 

He had these … mannerisms. One is this twitch 

in his eye. He’ll be talking to you and then he 

just starts winking at you. First time it happened 

to me I thought he was coming on to me. I said 

nuh-uh, sir. There’s nothing wrong with that way 

of life, but that’s just not the book I’m reading if 

you get what I mean. Later I found out about his 

twitch from someone at the watercooler, and I 

felt kinda bad about the way I acted. I came by 

his cubicle to be polite and to welcome him to 

the office and did a sort of half-assed knock on 

the wall with my third and fourth knuckles. He 

looked up from his computer, and that’s when 

I discovered his second mannerism. He had a 

mouthful of nuts — I mean full to the brim. He 

looked like a goddamn squirrel stocking up for a 

long-ass winter, “Day After Tomorrow” shit, you 

know what I’m saying? He had another fistful of 

nuts ready to pop in as soon as he was done with 

the current set. Pistachios, cashews, almonds, 

peanuts, Brazil nuts, macadamia nuts, walnuts 

overflowing out of his lanky, crooked fingers — 

I could tell this man loved his nuts, but I didn’t 

realize just how much he loved nuts. How could 

I? You see a man with a face and fist full of nuts 

you just think, damn, this guy really likes nuts, 

then you move on with your life; that’s just what 

you do.

My office had a window. I thought I made it 

big: my own office, my own window, my own 

door with my own name on it. Then one day, 

this GODdamn bird flies into my office through 

my open window — it was such a nice day, I had 

to open the window — and it trashes my whole 

office. This two-pound ball of shit and feathers 

slammed into all of the family pictures that I had 

just hung on the walls — shattered the glass. It 

knocked over my computer monitor, scratched 

my nice leather office chair that I bought with 

my own money, and took a fat-fucking shit on my 

desk. Then it flew back outside like nothing even 

happened — like it coulda popped out any time it 

wanted to — like it just flew into my room to shit 

on my desk and ruin my day. Management made 

me move out of my office for two weeks so some 

fed dipshits in hazmat suits could kick it in there 

for a few hours and come out each day claiming 

that my office is “uninhabitable due to the pos-

sibility of the excrement contaminating the air 

with a viral disease” or some shit. I don’t know 

why they couldn’t just spray some Lysol up in 

there and call it — probably too tantalized by the 

fat government check cushioning their wallets.

As it turns out, I later found out from Biff (he’s 

got the office next to mine) that Jameson had been 

by my office earlier that day looking for me — that 

he’d come by with his fistful of nuts and poked his 

head in my door, and when he hadn’t found me he 

stuck his head in Biff’s door and asked where I 

was. Don’t know what he needed me for. Biff said 

the guy just wanted to see me. Anyway, Biff told 

me he suspects that James dropped a few nuts 

in my room when he did poke in, cos that’s what 

he did in Biff’s office, and a bird musta seen the 

nuts through my open window or something and 

decide to come and get a snack. Well sure enough 

I found a few cashews lying by my door when I 

was finally let back into my own office.

Till then though, I had to work in a cubicle 

that shared a wall with Jameson’s. That was just 

great. Obviously I was still bitter about the nuts 

he left in my office, but what am I gonna do, bully 

the new guy? During those two weeks, I saw 

James every single day. Every day when I’d get 

up from my cubicle to go to the watercooler I’d 

peek at him when I walk by, not in a spying sorta 

way, but a curious sorta way, and every time he’d 

have his mouth full of nuts and a fistful waiting 

its turn. When I’d get up to go to the bathroom, 

mouthful and fistful. When I’d go to lunch, fist-

ful and mouthful. He must have gone through at 

least a pound a day.

Though on the fourth day — maybe it was the 

fifth — I walked by his cubicle and this time he 

wasn’t munching his nuts. This time he only had 

one nut in his hand (an almond I’m pretty sure) 

and he was holding it up like so, like he’s trying 

to suffocate the tiny thing with his thumb; and 

he was holding it up to his ear and squinting his 

eyes like he was dead-ass focused on something. 

I thought what a weirdo and got on with my life; 

that’s just what you do. Some people are into 

weird-ass shit; you just gotta carry on.

He wasn’t holding it anymore when I got back 

to my desk. He wasn’t munching his nuts either.

Here’s where this shit started turning into 

a real chin-scratcher. The first time I actually 

wondered if Jameson had fallen off his rocker 

was when I heard him murmuring through the 

cubicle wall — those things ain’t soundproof 

for shit. Now that in and of itself wasn’t that 

weird. You know, I get it. Some people talk to 

themselves when they’re working — helps their 

train of thought or whatever. My wife, she does 

it when she’s especially stressed; that’s how I 

know when to order pizza for dinner. Anyway, 

I hear him murmur and mumble and it starts to 

grind my gears after a while. I’m about to put on 

my headphones just to block it out but not with-

out walking past his cubicle and shooting him a 

dirty look so he knows what’s up — I’m petty like 

that. I walk up to his cubicle and set the nastiest 

look on my face — my mom used to tell me not 

to make faces or they’ll get stuck; if my face had 

gotten stuck right then I’d have been screwed — 

then when I come around the corner, I see James 

holding the almond in the palm of his hand right 

up close to his face. He doesn’t seem to notice 

me standing there staring at him — he’s too busy 

whispering sweet-fucking-nothings to this nut. I 

swear to God, I’m telling you, this is some weird-

ass shit. I didn’t know what to say; I didn’t say 

anything. I walked back to my cubicle and sat 

my ass down, put my headphones in and went on 

with my life. Cos that’s what you do, right? None 

of my business.

I shoulda kept thinking about it like that: 

“none of my business.” Curiosity killed the cat, 

they say. I wish I’d forgotten all about it and 

never looked into his cubicle again. The very next 

day, I walked by his cubicle, and I just glanced 

over my shoulder and James — I swear, you can’t 

make this shit up, I swear to fucking God you 

can’t — James is holding this exact same almond 

to his lips, puckered like a fish. Now if I didn’t 

know any better, I’d think he was just kissing this 

nut. Crazy, right? Batshit! He caught me looking 

though. He dropped the nut like it just burnt him 

or something and he turned hot red. He didn’t say 

anything though. I didn’t say nothing either; just 

walked on by. But tell me, how the hell am I sup-

posed to just move on from that shit? I couldn’t 

help myself from thinking: was Jameson just 

kissing a fucking nut?

You can’t tell me that I needed to get over it — 

just don’t think about it, right? How could I not 

think about that? I kept thinking about it after I 

went home. My wife was talking to herself that 

night, but I didn’t order pizza. I just couldn’t stop 

thinking about what the hell happened in the 

office that day. Sherry got mad at me — that’s my 

wife — guess she wanted me to order pizza or ask 

her about her day or whatever it is women want; I 

don’t know. I wasn’t really listening.

I spent a lot of time at the watercooler the 

next day, mostly because I couldn’t focus on my 

work, but also because I wanted to avoid see-

ing James do any weirder shit. A few of my co-

workers stopped by to take a break, and I chatted 

with them. I asked the usual shit like, “How’s the 

wife,” even though I didn’t care and what’s the 

weather look like for tomorrow even though I 

already knew. What I really wanted to know was 

if anyone else picked up on James acting strange 

lately, but nobody seemed to notice anything dif-

ferent about him. I didn’t bring up the nut thing; 

I didn’t want them to think I was the crazy one.

I had half a week left in this cruddy cubicle 

next to James, and dammit I needed to figure out 

just what the hell it was that he was up to. Last 

few days, I remember, he’d starting eating lunch 

in his cubicle, but he stopped eating nuts. I saw 

him eating salads, sandwiches, spaghetti — nor-

mal shit. Maybe he pulled himself together, I 

thought at one point. Maybe it was just a phase — 

an adjustment period. I invited him out to lunch 

one of those days, told him I knew this great deli 

that had just opened down the block; they’ve got 

this apple-brie melt that’ll make your heart melt. I was hoping that 

we’d talk over lunch and that he’d say normal shit, and I’d be like 

damn I was wrong, he’s no weirdo after all.

Turns out, I was wrong about being wrong. I asked him to 

lunch, but he politely declined, saying he already had made plans 

for a lunch date today, and maybe we could go some other time. 

Whatever, that’s fine. It was just a gesture anyway. Except, when 

I walked by again in an hour, I saw him eating a plate of pasta, 

two forks on the plate. Across the plate, he — I kid you not — he 

put that same almond on this, this chair that he made out of a 

cotton ball and a tissue. He was on a lunch date with an almond. 

Lemme say that again, a lunch date with a fucking almond. I went 

home from work early that day — told my boss I was feeling sick 

and I wasn’t lying. Felt sick in the head for the rest of the day. 

Barely said two words to Sherry that night, even. I think she went 

out and got pizza by herself. Not sure; I went to bed early. When I 

came back to work the next morning, James said “morning” and I 

gave him this half-assed smile ‘cause I had nothing to say to him. 

A little while later though, I’ll admit, I came around the corner 

and asked how his date went. He smiled this toothy smile like 

he’d been with Olivia Wilde and she was all over him. “I think 

I’m in love, Michael.”

I got an invitation in the mail three days later. You wanna 

know what it said?

James Jameson

&

Almonda Nutt

Cordially request the pleasure of your company on the joyous 

occasion of their marriage.

Now picture me going through my mail: bill, catalogue, ad, bill, 

ad, almond wedding invitation. At this point I don’t even know 

what’s going on. This nut is getting married … to an almond. Is 

that legal? How did he even find an officiant who’d agree to do 

that? Is this not concerning to anybody else? Is he planning on 

having kids with this lady? Has he met her parents? How are they 

going to have sex on their honeymoon? If they don’t have sex will 

their marriage be consummated? How are they supposed to have 

sex?

What? Of course I went. How many times in my life am I going 

to have the chance to see a man get married to a nut? Jameson’s 

guests all had this look — some combination of pity and concern 

— not the kind of look you’d want your wedding guests to have. 

Almonda’s guests were all nuts; not sure what I expected there. 

The usher carried a bowl of mixed nuts with him and placed each 

one in a seat. Jameson’s vows were heartfelt; I’ll give it to the 

guy, he honest to God cares very deeply about his bride. He talked 

about how he had always turned to nuts in times of hunger and 

boredom, that is, until he met Almonda. She opened his eyes to 

see that eating nuts is wrong, and she showed him how to love. A 

guest from James’ side was sniveling audibly by the end of it. The 

minister’s invitation for Almonda to share her vows was met with 

silence. Somebody coughed and then they were pronounced 

husband and wife.

I’ll be damned if the couple’s first dance wasn’t the sweetest 

strange thing I’ve ever seen. James was just beaming as he held 

onto his wife and swung her around in the spotlight. After din-

ner, I spied James trying to feed Almonda a piece of cake. He was 

failing of course, but it was kind of cute. And he was happy.

Me and Sherry were sitting at a table with some of my co-work-

ers and their wives. I remember Rob’s wife cooing about how cute 

the newlyweds looked together, then she asked Rob if he remem-

bered their wedding night and how in love they were.

Sherry wasn’t having a good time that night. I asked her when 

we were alone for a second how she felt about the marriage and 

she made some comment about how ridiculous this whole thing 

is and a waste of money and peoples’ time. I don’t see it that way, 

but I guess I know where she’s coming from. I came to this wed-

ding feeling a bit like she did, but James was happy with his wife 

— dammit, happier than I am — and I don’t think it’s my place to 

look down on him for that. It’s a pity that Sherry can’t see it like 

that. After the wedding we went home and went to bed. Then the 

next morning the sun came up and we got on with our lives; that’s 

just what you do.

ILLUSTRATION BY MICHELLE PHILLIPS

ILLUSTRATION BY YOSHIKO IWAI

To the grandmother
in me
who rocks in
her chair
her bones
creak and she
still, frets.
Her knitting needles
scepters, pointers
of the getting
and fetching
and hurry
and less salt
please.
The grandmother in me
always asks
when will I bring
my boyfriend home
for thanksgiving
and when I do
she’ll forget to
set a place for
him because
passive aggression
is just her way.
When I am angry
full of exuberant
rage, the grandmother
in me is just
stern, her mouth in
a tight frown,
dentures cooling in
a bedside jar
because those who
“chomp gum so unladylike
are asking for it,”
she says.
She regards
my reluctance to
sunscreen as the
abominable sin
but refuses to
rub my back in
because she
finds my posture
unsatisfactory.

Ode to the Grandmother in Me

BY MARIA ROBINS-SOMERVILLE, LSA Senior

