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