In an elementary school gymnasium
outside of Pomona, I am drunk, dressed as a beanstalk and exchanging lines with Joan, my business partner and wife, who as
usual is playing the tomato. With her foot, she gives me the signal and we start juggling apples and bananas while singing
the lyrics to our closing number, Unhealthy Eating Is For Fruits. Before we can take a bow, an Asian boy in the front
row stands on his chair, lowers his pants and farts into a slinky. The kids go wild. We’ve been doing this show for
twelve years.
I’m out in the parking lot while Joan is inside, changing out of her tomato suit and taking off her red face paint.
The principal writes out a check on the hood of my Cutlass and without looking up asks if I’ve been drinking. I say
of course not. He shakes his head and smiles, then pulls a splif from his breast pocket and says let’s hurry recess
starts soon. We get lifted in my car and listen to a little Billy Squire. He tells me that six years ago, after one of our
shows and over in the library stacks, he banged the tomato. I tell him the tomato is my wife. He shrugs, then says that just
like regular time zones there are emotional ones and he could tell that the tomato wasn’t living in the same one as
me. Through clenched teeth I ask him what he means. He says don’t worry, it was just sex and he didn’t even see
her face. Then the recess bell rings and he walks over towards the monkey bars where some bullies are yelling piñata
and taunting a fat boy with braids.
Joan jumps in the Cutlass, throws her tomato suit in back and asks if I got the check. I point
to the dashboard and start the engine, still thinking about that principal. She pulls directions from her purse and says we’ve
got twenty minutes to get to a special school in Downey. I turn the car off and recline. She says what the fuck are you doing,
we’ve got to get to Downey in twenty. I say nothing; just stare across the playground at a kid who’s burying himself
in sand and soil. Do you want to play the tomato? Is that what this is about, she asks. Again, I say nothing, just keep watching
the kid, who screams something in Spanish and disappears into a shallow grave. She slaps my leg and says she negotiated one-twenty
from the special school.
I turn to her and ask if she’s faithful to me. She starts rummaging through her purse and says I’m
a drunk. I say I’ve always been a drunk; I like being a drunk and have never hid that from her. She says it’s
ten o’clock in the morning and I’m fucking drunk. I tell her about the principal, how we smoked a joint and he
let me know that a few years back he fucked the tomato. I ask if it’s true. She keeps looking through her purse, says
I’m stoned and talking like a drunk. I gently take her chin, turn her face and ask again if she screwed the principal.
She pauses, starts to tear up, then whispers we’ve got to get to Downey. I tell her to get the fuck out of my Cutlass.
It was one six-minute mistake weighed against twelve years of fidelity, she says. Get the fuck out of my Cutlass, I say. She
says I can play the tomato anytime I want. Get the fuck out of my Cutlass. I can feel her looking at me. But this time I don’t
look back.
