Tuesday, March 31, 2026. Summer-like temperatures in the 70’s. It was a busy day at the major fruit stand today. Big plans were had. 50 years of selling fruit. Started out with three guys, a few weeks later it was two guys. Don’t know who the third guy was. I guess it doesn’t really matter. They got paid.
I was anxious and apprehensive last night. Bill came home and that relieved some of that anxious apprehension. A hug did the trick. I missed the big lug. Of course, 10 minutes after coming home he was driving me crazy. Good crazy of course. He had hisstoreis to tell, I had my stories to tell and then there were stories about Mike which were also told.
It was busy at the main fruit stand. Hundreds of guests coming in. Some followed the protocols, some didn’t. Some of those that did had problems when the website for the guests signing in kept crashing or losing the info that was fed into it. It made for a mad scramble but things were accomplished. I kept my head down and did what I could. It was not difficult and I had to think quickly.
Guests from all over the country were appearing, quite a few from the west coast. And my smaller usual fruit stand was represented by workers that I hardly ever see. They didn’t know me and I didn’t know them. My part of my fruit stand is relatively isolated and that causes some anxiety when I know I am scheduled to put in my time in midtown. From working alongside a handful of workers to dozens, sometimes hundreds like today. But it went well and here I am.
There was no chance of writing while working so it’s another scramble to get some typing done. Bill offered words of encouragement this morning when I left. I asked the same of Mike last night but he was unreachable. I helped him with his phone bill and there were no phone calls. Mike is at his crib and explained that he was worried about calling me knowing it was going to be hectic for me today.
Whatever. Things have been going well with Mike so a hiccup like that is inconsequential. Mike and his beloved were going to go on a cruise next month and it was scheduled only to have a parole officer that approved the cruise, was overruled by another higher ranking parole officer. So no cruise for Mike and his beloved.
An adjustment was made for a meet up in Las Vegas but the parole officer put the kibosh on that. Mike has a lot to learn and I cannot teach him or explain some things without hearing his resentment which is amplified when he figures out that I was right in whatever I was trying to school him on.
His beloved certainly loves Mike despite all the plans that have been made and abandoned. I suppose being 3000 miles away lessens the sting.
The Google Gemini rewrite as a Samuel Beckett essay
Gemini said
The Unbearable Ripeness: A Fragment on the Fruit Stand
Tuesday. March 31. 2026.
The sun persists. An unseasonable warmth—24∘ C or thereabouts—a mock summer. The air is heavy with the scent of fermenting citrus and the collective breath of the many.
I. The Genesis of the Stall
Fifty years. A half-century of the circular trade: the buying of the fruit, the selling of the fruit, the rotting of the fruit. It began with a trinity. Three men. Then, by some invisible attrition, two. The third? He is gone. A phantom of the payroll. Whether he existed or was merely a clerical error is of no consequence. He was paid. To be paid is to be accounted for, even if one is absent.
II. The Return of the Lug
Night brought the usual agitations. The familiar dread, the tightening of the chest—until Bill. The arrival of Bill. A hug: the brief, tactile proof that one is not yet a ghost. It sufficed. Ten minutes later, the irritation returned. The “good” madness. We exchanged narratives. A ping-pong of anecdotes. My stories, his stories, and the inevitable third category: the Gesta Michaelis. We speak to fill the silence. If we stop speaking, we might hear the fruit ripening. Or worse, the fruit failing to ripen.
III. The Protocol of Chaos
The main stand was a hive. Hundreds arrived, drawn by the lure of the edible.
The Obedient: Those who followed the protocols.
The Transgressors: Those who did not.
The Damned: Those who attempted the website.
The digital ledger—that grand architecture of guest names—crumbled. It crashed. It voided itself. A mad scramble ensued. I lowered my head. To look up is to be seen; to be seen is to be judged. I worked. It was not difficult, merely fast. A quickness of the hand to hide the slowness of the soul.
IV. The Geography of Strangers
The West Coast has emptied itself into Midtown. Faces I do not know. Shadows in the shape of coworkers. My usual station is a cell, a quiet isolation. To be moved from the handful to the hundreds is a violent expansion. One is stretched thin, like a bruised peach skin. Yet, the day concluded. I am here. “Here” being the only place one ever is, unfortunately.
V. The Communication Gap
Bill offered encouragement. Mike offered silence. I paid for Mike’s ability to speak—the phone bill, the tether to the world—and yet, the line remained mute. He claims he was protecting my peace. A thoughtful gesture, or a convenient void. It matters little.
“Nothing is more real than nothing.”
VI. The Kicked Bucket (The Cruise)
The cruise is canceled. The parole officer—the minor deity of Mike’s horizon—said Yes. A higher deity—the supervisor—said No.
Vegas? The kibosh.
The Sea? The kibosh.
Mike drifts in the doldrums of his own making. I attempt to “school” him, a futile pedagogy. To be right is a grave offense. He resents the light I try to cast upon his errors, for the light only makes the bars of the cage more visible.
His beloved remains 3,000 miles distant. A convenient geometry. Love is perhaps more durable when it does not have to share the same air. The sting is lessened by the curvature of the earth.
The day is done. The fruit remains. We await the next Wednesday.