How Yellow They Already Are

Right before she began filming, the director said, “Remember, you love those bananas. You love them so much.”

“OK,” I said.

I readied the banana, peeling first one side, then the other.

“Action,” she said.

I took a bite of the banana.

“Mmmm,” I said.

“You don’t like them,” said the director. “You love them.”

I took another bite.

“Mmmmmmmmmmm,” I said.

“Love,” said the director.

Bite.

“Mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm,” I said.

I paused, chewing.

“Mmmmmmmmm,” I continued.

“No, no, no,” said the director.

I put down the banana. The director sighed and put her head in her hands.

“I’m sorry,” I said. “I’ll get there. I promise. I’ll give you what you need.”

“What I need is to sell these bananas,” said the director. “Look at this. We have so many bananas.”

The director gestured toward all the bananas, the dozens of mounds of them, nearly filling the rumpus room.

“They won’t be good for much longer,” she said. “Look how yellow they already are.”

“But they were green just yesterday,” I said.

“That is the way of the banana,” said the director. “That is how they work. Know you nothing of bananas?”

I shook my head. She had me pegged: I knew nothing of bananas. Apricots and plums were also beyond my ken, as was the nectarine.

“I don’t know why I bought them all,” she said. “Five grand’s worth. Jesus.”

“You thought you could move them,” I said, sitting on the other bean bag chair. “You saw an opportunity and you seized it. I respect the hell out of you for that. You’re creating your own luck, your own opportunities.”

“Thank you,” said the director.

“That being said, that’s a lot of fucking bananas,” I said.

I looked out the window. Across the street, two teenagers played basketball. Mrs. Griffith placed a pie on her windowsill. In one of the upstairs windows of the Anderson place, Mr. Anderson was acting out scenes from Top Gun again.

“Your ego is writing checks your body can’t cash,” Mr. Anderson said loudly, jabbing an index finger toward the open window. I wondered if he knew we could hear him. Or maybe the performance was for us.

“Let’s try again,” said the director.

I picked up the banana.

“What about Mr. Anderson?” I said. “He’s really going for it today.”

“I’ll fix it in post,” said the director. “You ready?”

“Ready.”

“Action.”

I took a bit of the banana.

“Mmmmmmm,” I said.

“Goddamn it,” said the director, throwing down her headset.

Mr. Anderson said, “As for you, asshole, you’re lucky to be here.”