February 5, 2007
By Nichole Rogers

 

            The doorbell rang as I watched episode 144 of The Andy Griffith Show marathon.  The Bluebell dripped from my chin, and I pried myself off the couch to open the door.  No one was there.  Before I closed the door, a yellow spot caught my attention.  Someone had left a box of Lemonheads on my doorstep.  The cardboard stuck to my fingers, keeping me from opening it immediately.  A red ribbon connected the box to a note that read, “Happy Valentine’s.  I am yours. Take me away.”  I didn’t know if that meant for me to take the box or the person who left it.  I set the box on my desk and sat back down. 

            “Anna Banana?”

            “Hey, Jude.  Come in.  Can you believe this guy?  He’s actually trying to fit a car in the courthouse.”

            “I have great news.”

            “And what kind of a name is Goober anyway?”

            “John just proposed.”  She stuck her ring right over my bucket of ice cream.

            “Wow.  That’s nice.  Did you ever see the one where Aunt Bee makes those terrible pickles?”

            “Too bad I’m going to have to tell him no.”

            “What?  You’ve been dating him since you were two.”

            “He just talks too much.  It kind of gets on my nerves.”

            “Nobody’s perfect.”

            “Good point.  I guess I’ll say yes.”

            “Andy looks pretty upset about that car in the courthouse.”

            “He really is a keeper.  To be perfectly honest, we were made for each other.”

            “I never noticed that he talks a lot.  He always seems like he’s really into video games.”

            “He does, doesn’t he?  I don’t know if I’ll be able to handle that.  You know what?  I’m not going to do it.”

            “Wow, I didn’t think he’d be able to get that car out that fast.”

            “Of course, he is cute.  We’d have pretty babies.”  She ran out of the house giggling.”

            “Jude?” I called out, never removing my eyes from the television.

           

            I crawled out of bed and walked to the fridge.  I wonder why my alarm clock didn’t go off?  As I poured the milk over my Fruit Loops, a large chunk made its way through the mouth of the container.  The faux window above the sink reflected the last night’s newly acquired zits.  It’s Saturday, April 15^th.  I made my way back to the bedroom and saw my W2 forms lying on my desk.  I had forgotten to file my income taxes.  Maybe I could file them online.  I sat in my large swivel chair and wiggled the mouse. 

            All of the forms confused me.  I picked up my W2 to get a closer look, and the box of Lemonheads stuck to the back of the sheet.  When I peeled it off, some of the numbers became illegible.  I think there was a four or a six in that little square somewhere.  I keyed in the information in the appropriate slot. 

            The yellow smile of the little bald guy on the box worried me.  I wondered where he came from.  Did he have a family?  What kind of car did he drive?  How did he get his face on the box?  I instantly clicked on  File Now .   I didn’t want to think about my box.  I had thought about it a couple of times since Valentine’s, but I began to think about it at this point more that ever.  His little grin was intruding.  I couldn’t help but think that he watched me as I slept.  That single sprig of hair could have been gelled by a wife, a secretary, or maybe even by him.  I could not let him stare at me that way.  I turned the box over and waited for my refund amount to calculate.  I turned the box back over.  He probably can’t breathe.  Why did I care?  I had no emotional attachments to this man.  Besides, he was yellow.  Yellow and bald. 

 

            I waddled through the doors of Happy Land Daycare and sat in the rocking chair.  “Good morning, Helga.” 

“It’s too early to know just how good it’s going to be.”

It was 6:50, so none of the kids had made it there.  I picked up my purse and took out my box.  His little smirk was growing on me.  I mirrored his expression just as some of the parents began to filter in with their kids one by one.  Helga sat at the front desk and greeted all the parents and their children with a forced smile. 

            “What you doing, Miss Anna?”  Kelsey walked right past Helga and gasped at the sight of the Lemonheads.  “Can I have a Lemonhead?”

            “Go away.  They’re mine.”  I cuddled them closely.  Kelsey reached out her hand to touch the box, and I slapped her hand.  She yelped a shrill scream.  “They’re not for children.”  Kelsey went to the corner and sucked on her first two fingers.  She seemed so pitiful, so I decided to walk over there to comfort her. 

As I got up, the rest of the kids formed a circle around me and chanted in unison:  “Let us touch the box.”  I spun around, but there was no outlet.  They were holding hands as though imitating an overly aggressive game of Red Rover.  “What now, Miss Humpty Dumpty?” 

I looked at little Albert straight in the eyes: “I’ll sit on you.”  He broke from the circle, and I was able to escape the trap.  I tripped over a diaper, and out spilled every one of the Lemonheads.  They rolled around as though they had their own private destinations.  I scurried around the room and was finally able to return them to their happy box.  I put the box under my arm to keep them warm.  Without the proper incubation, they would not have remained sticky.  That was the important part because their stickiness proved that I was doing my job.  Helga glared at me.  Does she think I’m acting like a child, or does she want my box too? 

“Helga, I’m going to have to leave early today.”

“You’re acting funny.  Maybe you should leave.  Are you on drugs?”  It seemed as though she dragged out the u sound for a little too long.  Unrealistically long.  Druuuugs? 

“I need to go.”  I walked out the door and decided it was time.  Things were getting out of control.  It was getting to where I couldn’t walk on the streets without some stranger eagerly gazing at my box.  Everything was weird.  I took out my cell phone and text messaged Jude:  “I need your help.  Meet me at my house.”

 

“I’ve got to get rid of this box.  It’s taking control of my life.”

“Can’t you just throw it away?”

I opened the box and let her look at the moist Lemonheads.  “Don’t you understand?  I can’t just throw them away.  I have to properly dispose of them.”

“What are you doing with them in the first place?”

“I have a secret admirer.”

“Do you know who he is?”

“No, but here is his picture.”  I showed her the box.

“Wow.  He’s exactly your type.”

“He’s more than my type.  He’s yellow.”  Jude put her hand over her mouth and sparkled her ring in my eye.  “I didn’t even like him at first.”

“John says that love is like body hair.  It grows on you.”

“John says a lot of things.”

“I thought you said you didn’t notice.”  Tears welled up in her eyes.  “He does talk a lot.  And he plays video games.”

“That’s not what I meant.  Anyway, the point is I have to get rid of this box.”

 

Jude led me through an unfamiliar doorway.  “Now keep your eyes closed.”  I could smell thousands of interestingly distinct smells.  There were strawberry, cherry, licorice, lemon, coconut, citrus, and many other smells—of which I was too excited to identify.  “Now open.”  It was a fat person’s paradise.  There were conveyer belts moving in thousands of different directions.  They contained sour belts, jawbreakers, Jolly Ranchers, jellybeans, Sour Straws, Jordan Almonds, Big Chew, licorice whips, bubble gum, and infinite varieties of chocolate.  One of the machines dropped a giant jaw breaker every second and a half.  The shark tank of chocolate swirled and spun my eyes into a hypnotic trance.

“What on earth are we doing here?”  Suddenly, everything shut down, with the exception of one conveyor belt.  All of the candies made their way to it.  Each variety of candy ended up in a common vat at the end of the belt.  An old man named Fred walked over to a red button and pressed.  A large whisk-like object descended into the vat.  In a matter of seconds, all of the candy was completely destroyed.  I firmly grasped my box.  Not this way.  Not here.  Not now. 

“Anna, it’s time.”  She took my box and poured the Lemonheads down the speedy demolition chute.  I watched them proceed to the miniature vat.  It is over.  Jude took my hand, but she quickly released.  A sticky yellow substance had transferred to her hand and clouded the engagement ring. 

“It’s lemon,” I explained.

“It’s over,” she retorted while she grabbed my wrist and raised my hand to eye-level.  “I’m taking you home so you can get cleaned up.”

A big-eyed man with a nametag that read Antonio stood near the exit with his hands on his hips, almost concealing a hand-washing sink; but I could see it clearly through the space created by the bend of his arm. 

“Hey, Jude, there’s a—”

“What?”

“Never mind.”  The man offered me an intruding glance that suggested that he intentionally concealed the sink from Jude.  “Jude, you go on ahead.  I’ll meet you in the car.”

 

I sat on the couch and waited for the phone to ring.  I knew that it would.

“Hello?”

“Hi, this is Antonio, Candy Demolitionist Extraordinaire from Candy Crushers Incorporated.  Are you ready?”

“Go ahead.”  He placed the phone next to the miniature vat that I had asked him to save.  I could hear the gurgling quite clearly from the phone.  It sounded as though they had liquefied and begun to move in a circular direction.  Antonio had done exactly as I requested.  He knew my kind.  He had told me that he would let it remain a liquid until I was really ready, and then he would initiate its disposal.  But I didn’t know if I really believed that he would ever dispose of them.  Discarding my doubt, I stared at my unwashed hand and listened to the soothing sound of the swirling candy as I mimicked the smirk of my lost love. 

 

 

ninetyandnine.com

 

© 2007, By Nichole Rogers

 

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An English instructor at Grambling State University, Nichole Rogers serves as a staff member for the college and career ministry of the Pentecostals of the Twin Cities in West Monroe, Louisiana. Her love for creative writing first burgeoned at the not-so-tender age of 12 when English teacher Mrs. Lutes told her that she had an active imagination.  Since then, she’s never stopped writing. She is most eager to see how you will interpret this piece.