by Sachs, Zané
I find fruit and vegetables suggestive. Some are downright pornographic. If you’re in the market for a phallus, never mind bananas (our most popular item), you should see the butternut squash I put out today—talk about a schlong. Actually, butternut can go either way, male or female; if the neck isn’t distended to match the size of your favorite dildo, the shape is often reminiscent of a woman. No ambiguity regarding the sex of cucumbers, zucchini, carrots, yams—need I mention corn? When it comes to balls, nothing outdoes coconuts. In the Produce Department female erotica favors fruit, including the much debated (fruit or vegetable?) tomato. Some people select the obvious persimmon—fiery red, sensuously slippery, and juicy. Practical types choose apples, oranges, and, if feeling adventurous, grapes. Those striving for elegance often prefer berries. Then there are sexy tropicals: papaya, guava, passion fruit. Peaches are popular, not as lusty or seedy as tropicals. Like southern belles, I find peaches virginal and dangerous—the flesh soft and sweet, the core a tough nut laced with cyanide. For the more mature taste we have eggplant, figs, and a variety of pears. For the immature, kiwi and cherries. If you’re kinky, you may venture into exotics like the brilliant yellow/orange blowfish fruit, also known as the African horned cucumber. And don’t forget the Queen of Fertility: pomegranate.
After spending a couple of hours on the floor arranging genitalia, I’m back in the sense-deprived dungeon. (That’s what Liam calls the basement.) No windows. No fresh air. Cold and damp. The bowels of the supermarket. As usual, I’m chopping fruit and vegetables (slicing, slashing, dicing reproductive organs)—and my daily dose of corn.
The truth is Terri wanted to get rid of me, because she knows I should have been appointed Assistant Manager. Consequently, I’ve been banished to the basement, but she won’t find me easy to escape.
Thanks to the new intercom system, they’ve changed the rules here in Produce. Used to be, when a customer needed something you’d hop to it, jump onto the elevator and rush downstairs to find watercress, arugula, ginger root, whatever. Now, since we have the intercom, instead of hurrying downstairs, we’re supposed to page someone working in the basement (usually me), and have them hunt for whatever the customer needs. Then the person in the basement sends the item up in the elevator.
This policy has traumatized Liam. The poor guy barely speaks, and now he’s supposed to blast his voice all over the store whenever a customer requests a lemon. Yesterday Terri the Terrible caught him sneaking down to Produce to look for ginger root and she wrote him up. Today, when a customer asked for a case of bananas and Liam came down here to get it, she wrote him up a second time.
That pisses me off.
Three strikes and you’re out.
Using a machete, I whack a cabbage and imagine splitting Terri’s skull.
The reprise of “Life is a Carnival” is interrupted and the intercom goes silent. After a few moments, Liam’s shaking voice comes through the speakers, “S-S-Sadie in P-Produce, p-please dial extension 3-1-2.”
I go to the phone, punch in the number.
“What’s up?”
Liam mumbles something.
“What?”
“RED. ONIONS.”
He clicks off.
I leave the chilly work area, and enter the cellar where we keep stuff that doesn’t need refrigeration. A giant bin of watermelons sits in the middle of the floor, obstructing the fire safety zone. Crates of potatoes and onions are stacked along the walls, balanced so precariously that Doctor Seuss would be impressed. My path to the onions is blocked by overloaded carts and a towering pallet of corn. I shift a U-boat filled with boxes of raisins, creating a small opening which allows me to squeeze past the pallet of corn, so I can shimmy over the bin of watermelons, maneuver past a cart of tomatoes, and reach the wall of onions and potatoes. Several bruises later, having arrived at my destination, I sort through russets, reds, whites, yams, organic fingerlings—and find the red onion crate buried at the bottom. I dig the box of onions out, placing other crates on top of the bin of watermelons. This leaves a void between the potatoes crates and a ten foot stack of black plastic RPCs loaded with peppers. The RPCs teeter. I dive over the bin of watermelons, dodging crates and pepper bombs.
Liam’s voice comes over the intercom.
“S-S-Sadie in P-Produce, p-please dial extension 3-1-2.”
Picking my way through smashed peppers and potatoes, I squeeze past the pallet of corn, shift the U-boat filled with raisins, open the door leading into Produce, pick up the phone’s receiver, and punch in 3-1-2.
“What’s up?”
“Forget the onions.”
The phone clicks off.
Returning to the pepper disaster, I scramble after yellow, orange, red Bells, little Jalapenos, dark green Poblanos, pale green Anaheims, and bright orange Habaneros. Nothing as potent as a Ghost or Scorpion. I asked the Produce Manager if we could order Trinidad Moruga Scorpions, and he said definitely not. So I found them online.
I’m not tall enough to restack the pepper crates, so I leave them in several piles. Then I go back to chopping cabbage. I use red (purple really) for its magnificent color. Speaking of flamboyant, I wonder what effect it would have to add a Trinidad Scorpion to the Ranch dressing. The pepper is brilliant, orangey-red; I’d have to use the juice, rather than the pulp, so it’s not detected. I watched a guy eat a Scorpion on YouTube. He popped the entire pepper into his mouth and chewed. The intensity kept building, until he could barely talk and started coughing, sweat pouring down his face, his eyes red and watering. Between spasms, he described torturous hot-cold sensations in the back of his throat. When he finally swallowed, his intestinal track went into convulsions. But the pepper didn’t kill him. You’d have to eat three pounds of those things to die. I decide against lacing the Ranch dressing, because chances are they’d trace it back to me.
Before processing, I pull on fresh latex gloves. We’ve been extra careful since the salmonella outbreak. They think the bacteria originated in Produce. Probably the sprouts. (The Salad Bar no longer offers them.) Or it may have been passed by contaminated cantaloupe. (Always wash the rind.) At first they feared listeria—there was an outbreak a couple of years ago before I worked here. Listeria is more serious than salmonella.
Anyway, about twenty people in this town reported food poisoning. Chances are more people got sick, but the cases were unreported because people thought they had the flu or something else. Diarrhea, stomach cramps, fever, puking. Nothing too terrible. Salmonella’s pretty mild. Listeriosis, on the other hand, can spread to the nervous system causing loss of balance, confusion, convulsions, even death. Much more exciting.
I need to look into that.
I need to look into a lot of things. My mind, for example.
I don’t feel guilty about Justus. Don’t feel guilty about Ranger, or the college kid. Don’t feel an ounce of guilt about that old lady I butchered with the chainsaw, or the tourist who drowned in the river, or the neighbor’s stupid dog. And I don’t feel guilty about Janet who got run over in the parking lot last night, when she was collecting carts.
Really, I don’t give a damn.
But sometimes I think I should.
Sometimes I think a normal person would feel guilty.
And that stresses me out.
Stress is a silent killer.
Physical activity helps. According to the experts, physical activity releases endorphins, creating a natural high. So, when I feel stressed, I go to the gym, try a new recipe, or hack someone to pieces.
But the Justus thing nags me. In my mind’s eye, I see him crashing on his bike, see blood gushing from his head, hear the screech of sirens as the ambulance rushes him to the hospital. But I can’t remember if I threw that stone with my right hand or my left. I’m not even sure I hit him.
I intend to sort it out when I see Doctor A tomorrow. I’ve decided to call him Doctor A to keep our relationship friendly yet professional. I know Marcus wants to hook up with me. I can always tell.
And I want to hook up with him, but you’re not supposed to fuck your psychiatrist, are you? I guess some shrinks fuck their patients though. You read about those cases, see them on TV. Some psychiatrists specialize in sex therapy. I wonder if Marcus does, because I think sex is what I need.
I’m done with shredding cabbage and on the verge of slicing cucumbers.
Thinking about my appointment with Marcus, I grab a nice long cuke, pull down my pants, and shove it in.
Damn.
The thing is cold.
Liam slinks into Produce, and I quickly pull up my pants. He’s too preoccupied to notice the bulge under my apron.
Meanwhile, the cucumber is warming up.
Glancing over his shoulder, to see if he’s been followed, Liam says, “Lady wants a box of peaches.”
I squeeze my thighs together, sucking in the cucumber. A moan escapes my mouth, and Liam glances at me.
“You okay?”
I nod, gripping the cucumber tighter, enjoying the pressure against my G-spot, the rush of heat.
Liam heads for the cooler.
Reaching my hand inside my pants, I slide the cuke in and out, in and out, rubbing the tip against my clit, tension building in my pelvis. I shove the cuke in deeper, pump faster, and bring myself to climax. Hot spasms shake my body. I collapse into the counter, staring at the colander of cucumbers, slip my big boy out—its green skin bruised and glistening—and toss the half-cooked cuke into the colander.
Liam appears carrying a crate of Palisade peaches.
“Find what you need?” I ask.
“Yeah.”
Terri’s voice comes over the intercom. “Liam, please dial 3-1-2.”
Liam sets down the crate of peaches. Picks up the phone. Listens. Hangs up.
“What?” I ask.
“I’m getting written up.”
“Again?”
“Strike three.”
He grabs the peaches, kicks open the door.
In my book, Terri has too many strikes to count.
I give her the finger through the ceiling.
Returning to the cucumbers, I splash water over the colander. Thinking of Terri, I cut off the ends of each cucumber and run them through the processor, creating perfect slices. I wonder how efficiently the food processor would slice a finger. It might work well, if the finger were frozen—neat, little slivers. (I need to get a freezer, bad.) But slicing Terri’s digits would be too simple. She deserves something more intense, something more exciting.
Something to get her juices flowing.
The cage.
I place the sliced cucumbers into a container, label it with the date. Then I wash the colander, the food processor, the machete and the chef’s knife.
Time to chop more corn.
Therapy
“Tell me about your childhood.”
I’m sitting in the corner of a cushy couch across from Doctor A. He’s ensconced behind his desk in a leather swivel chair, pen in hand, ready to take notes on a yellow pad of paper. (I didn’t know they still make those.) Framed degrees and certificates are plastered on the gray wall behind him. Another wall holds shelves of books, not paperbacks—hardcovers. The guy must be a brainiac. He looks like he stepped out of a PBS miniseries, wearing tailored trousers instead of jeans, leather shoes that hold a shine rather than sneakers, a tie. (I bet it’s silk.) Quaint. In this town, even businessmen wear spandex.
My legs are crossed and slanted to one side, displaying my calves to their best advantage, like I practiced in the mirror. I traded athletic shoes for fuck-me pumps, cherry red stilettos. A new skirt creeps up my thighs and I shift my position, encouraging its progress. I’m wearing no underpants.
Marcus—I mean, Doctor A—watches me intently, listening to every word I say. He seems to sincerely care. Poor man. He has no idea of who’s sitting across from him. No idea how vulnerable he is right now. It’s 5:30. I’m his last appointment of the day. The receptionist was gone when I arrived, so there are no witnesses. His office is in a small complex at the end of town and contains only a few occupants: an architect, a design consultant, a chiropractor who works three days a week (not today). At this hour, the other businesses have closed. The only car in the parking lot is his. I rode my bike and locked it up out back, so it can’t be seen from the street.
“You said you felt powerless growing up, is that right, Sadie?”
My shoe slips from my foot and dangles from my toes. I swing it back and forth, hypnotizing Marcus.
“I don’t want to talk about my childhood.”
“What do you want to talk about?”
“Sex.”
Marcus sets down his pen, leans back in his chair, loosens his tie, and then retightens it.
“You want to talk about the rape?”
I’m guessing he hasn’t got any lately, maybe not since his wife croaked.
“Fuck me, Marcus.”
“What did you say?” he leans toward me.
“I’m fucked up, Doctor A.”
“In what way?”
“I want to kill people.”
“We all feel that way sometimes.”
“Really?”
“You need to take your power back.”
I let my shoe drop from my foot and study Marcus through my lashes.
“Want some water?” He gets up, goes to a small refrigerator, pulls out two bottles. He opens one, takes a slug, and brings the other bottle around the desk to me. “What, exactly, do you remember about the rape?”
I take the bottle from him, allowing my hand to linger. He draws his hand away. Watching him, I twist off the cap, take a sip of water, and wipe my mouth. There’s a red smear on my hand and, for a moment, I think it’s blood. Then I remember that I’m wearing lipstick. Marcus is back behind his desk as if it offers some protection.
“I wasn’t raped.”
“Tell me what happened.”
“I seduced that guy, drugged him, and fucked him with a cob of corn.”
Marcus lowers the bottle from his mouth and studies me, the furrows on his forehead deepening. He sets the water bottle on his desk, picks up a piece of paper.
“According to the police report, what you’ve described is exactly what the rapist did to you.”
“Blurred lines.”
“What?”
“I like that song. You know it?”
I uncross my legs allowing my knees to part, enough to make sure he gets a good shot.
His gaze flicks to my crotch, then back to my face.
“What are you doing, Sadie?”
I spread my legs wider, my skirt creeping toward my waist.
“Nothing.”
I slip my hand between my thighs.
Standing, he leans into his desk. To support himself or to get a better view? I suspect both.
“I think we’d better end this now, Sadie.”
I withdraw my hand, clap my legs shut, and pull my skirt toward my knees.
“I’ll be a good girl, promise.”
“I can refer you to someone else. Perhaps a woman—”
He glances at his phone, picks up the receiver.
“I want you.”
I’ve come around the desk and stand behind him. I place my hand on his to stop him from dialing. Our touch is electric. Sparks fly, igniting a fire in my gut, so intense it races through my core, spreads through my chest into my arms and hands. My fingers burst into flames. My skin melts, dripping from the bones like wax. I press my breasts against his back, and feel his body tense as I breathe into his ear. Reaching around his chest, I unloosen his tie. Meanwhile, my tongue flicks at his neck. It would be easy to slip his tie off, wrap the silk around his throat, and pull it tight. But the muscles in his back tell me he’s strong, and I don’t think I can overpower him long enough to strangle him.
Besides, for his daughter’s sake, I’ve promised not to kill him.
Even though it’s tempting.
My eyes search his desk. A letter opener migh
t work, but who uses them these days? The stapler could do some damage. My gaze lands on a framed photograph of Marcus and Carmela when she was about five.
I decide against the stapler.
“Must have been tough for Carmela to lose her mother so young,” I say. “How did she die?”
“Who?”
“Your wife.”
Marcus turns around to face me. Beads of sweat have formed along his hairline and he’s breathing heavily.
“She didn’t die. We’re divorced.”
“But the super said—” His face becomes a blur as I process the information. “You divorced Carmela’s mom?”
This changes everything.
I brush my lips against his, feel his response.
He pulls away, but his pupils are dilated and he exudes a musky scent. I know he wants me.
“Sadie, please sit down. We can’t do this.”
“Why not?”
“Have you heard of the Hippocratic Oath?”
“Is that an oath for hypocrites?”
Before he can answer, I grab his hand and jam it in between my thighs, guiding his fingers between my swollen labia. Taking advantage of my newfound ambidexterity, I use my other hand to loosen his belt, undo the button of his pants, and pull down the zipper.
His cock is hard and smooth.
“What’s your diagnosis, doctor?”
His breathing is rapid and shallow.
“B.P.D.”
“What’s that stand for? Big Pulsing Dick?”
“Borderline Personality Disorder.”
His face is flushed, and sweat shimmers on his brow, but his forehead is smooth and unperturbed. I hear the whir of his brain, downloading and calculating—lots of power on his hard drive, definitely a gamer.
My fingers wrap around his joystick.
“Sadie, sit down.”
“You sit down.”
I press him into his leather swivel chair and climb on top of him.
This therapy is working.
His cock slips into me, a perfect fit. I ride him, my back arching as he slides in and out.
