It is officially one year that I have been assigned to the fruit stand. Instead of surety, I have a feeling of dread. Yancy makes his biweekly appearance tomorrow at my tiny fruit stand and yesterday he found a mistake that I had made on March 31, and I corrected it on April 20.
And it was a mistake that had me scratching my head, wondering how could I have messed up so badly. Today I resolved to be more aware, more cautious but even that fell under the gaze of Yancy.
Asking an employee when their guest (another employee) is due to arrive. Yancy passively aggressively mentions that the guest is an employee and should be granted access from 8 AM. If it was an error, it was made from my being cautious.
The first anniversary goes on and I am not the only one who feels the way I feel. A surprise coworker has been here longer and is tired of the way the fruit stand is run. Or at least tired of the way the job makes them feel.
I am writing this on the phone. Not dictating, just thumbing along. My paranoia has me not doing anything personal on the fruit stand computer. And forget about the fruit stand tablet. I was going to use that but decided against it because it required downloading apps that could be scrutinized by my higher ups.
It has been 10 years since Prince moved on. I remember getting ready for work and hearing news on the Today show that a body was found at Paisley Park. I immediately sprang into denial mode and headed off to work for the Algerians, thinking it was the gardener or someone. I could not fathom thinking that it might be Prince. But it was.
I suppose I was numb and in shock. David Bowie had passed away a few months earlier, and this was just as bad. I worked with Bowie; I had never worked with Prince. The closest I had gotten to Prince was one summer in the early eighties. I was doing my weekend record buying on St. Mark’s Place.
Walking past Trash & Vaudeville, I spied a limo outside and joked to myself that I was more than likely a wannabe rock star. I was in St. Mark’s Sounds buying whatever had come out that week, and upon leaving, I saw Prince with Big Chick, his bodyguard and the limo trailing behind. This was before Purple Rain and after 1999 so some people knew who he was and they were hanging out their windows shouting how much they loved him.
I scurried over to Gem Spa on the corner of St Marks and Second Ave and called Rita on the payphone. She was the only person in Manhattan that I could think of, and I only had a quarter or two. And she was a former teenybopper so she knew where I was coming from.
Alas, Prince hopped into the limo before I could say anything to him. I did see Prince live five times. The first time was an Easter matinee at the Nassau Coliseum. Then Madison Square Garden for LoveSexy. That night a 2 AM show at Roseland and I was so enthralled I had to go back to the Garden and see him again. And I scored one ticket which was all the way on top in the nose bleeds where the previous night I was a few feet above the floor.
There was no way I could tolerate being so high up so I wound my way down, walking around the arena, checking the show as I would stop and see a song before I was shooed away by the ushers. The show had two halves so during the intermission, I was outside the floor level.
Surprising to me, I ran into a friend who had floor seats. He was surprised to see me and asked where I was seated. I pointed to the ceiling and told him I was right below it. He mentioned that he could do better and went back to his seat and as his girlfriend for her ticket stub which he gave me when he returned.
Five rows away from the stage. I was persistent then.
23 years later, I get a phone call from RoDa. He asks if I want to see Prince and I explain it’s out of my price range. He says it’s free. I could not resist. It was the Welcome to America tour, Prince was in top form. It did not seem he was wearing heels. I had somehow forgotten a number of his hits and he was reminding me.
A brilliant night with the wonderful RoDa.
The Google Gemini Rewrite as a humorous Spy magazine type essay
## THE FRUIT STAND CHRONICLES: ONE YEAR IN THE TRENCHES
**By Our Man in the Satsuma Sect**
—
### THE ANNIVERSARY OF LIVING DANGEROUSLY
It has been exactly twelve months since I was deep-covered into the **Fruit Stand**, a tactical assignment that has yielded less in terms of “surety” and more in terms of “existential gastrointestinal distress.” I am currently marking the occasion by hiding behind a crate of under-ripe Bosc pears.
Tomorrow, the inevitable occurs: **Yancy** arrives for his biweekly inspection of the citrus and the souls. Yancy, a man whose primary hobby appears to be forensic accounting for mistakes made in the previous fiscal quarter, recently unearthed a “clerical error” I committed on March 31. I corrected it on April 20. In Yancy’s world, those twenty days represent a moral failing akin to selling government secrets to a rival banana republic.
### THE GUEST WHO CAME IN FROM THE COLD
In an effort to be “cautious”—a trait usually prized in the intelligence community but treated as a felony at the Stand—I made the mistake of asking an employee when their “guest” (read: another employee) was arriving.
Yancy, practicing the kind of passive-aggression that could be weaponized by the UN, reminded me that “The Guest” is actually “The Staff” and should have 0800 hours clearance. My paranoia is not unfounded; even the local veterans are cracking. I recently discovered a “Surprise Coworker” who has been stationed here longer than I. They are weary. Not just of the logistics of artisanal fruit, but of the way the Fruit Stand makes one *feel*—which is to say, like a discarded rind in a Midtown gutter.
—
### TECH-NO-LOGICAL WARFARE
I am “thumbing” this dispatch into a personal mobile device. I refuse to touch the Fruit Stand Computer. I certainly won’t touch the Fruit Stand Tablet, which requires “downloading apps”—a transparent ploy by High Command to monitor my heart rate and my affinity for Candy Crush. If they want my data, they’ll have to pry it from my cold, berry-stained thumbs.
—
### REQUIEM FOR A PURPLE REIGN
It has been a decade since the Artist Formerly Known as Prince—and Currently Known as Much Missed—left the building. I remember the morning clearly: the *Today* show reporting a body at Paisley Park. I immediately entered a state of Deep Cover Denial. *It’s the gardener,* I told myself as I headed off to work for the **Algerians**. *It’s anyone but the Purple One.*
I was already reeling from the loss of **Bowie**—a man I actually worked with, unlike Prince, whom I merely stalked through the East Village in the early eighties.
> **SPY HISTORICAL NOTE:** In the pre-*Purple Rain* era, a sighting of the 5’2” genius was the ultimate Manhattan currency.
I remember walking past **Trash & Vaudeville** on St. Mark’s. I saw the limo. I made the standard “wannabe rock star” quip to myself. Then, exiting **St. Mark’s Sounds** with a fresh stack of vinyl, there he was: Prince, flanked by the legendary **Big Chick**, his bodyguard.
I scrambled to the **Gem Spa** payphone—back when a quarter bought you a direct line to sanity—to call Rita. She was a former teenybopper; she understood the operational urgency of a Prince sighting. By the time I hung up, the limo was a purple blur heading toward Second Avenue.
### THE MISSION: FRONT ROW OR BUST
I saw him five times in total. The highlight? **The LoveSexy Tour** at the Garden. I started in the nosebleeds—literally touching the rafters—and decided that “staying in my place” was for civilians.
I descended through the arena like a ghost, dodging ushers during the intermission. By a stroke of divine intervention (or perhaps just high-level asset coordination), I ran into a friend with floor seats. He swiped his girlfriend’s stub, handed it to me, and suddenly, I was five rows from the stage.
**The Assessment:**
* **1988:** Prince was a god in high heels.
* **2011:** 23 years later, via a tip-off from a contact named **RoDa**, I saw the *Welcome to America* tour for free. He wasn’t wearing heels then, but he didn’t need them. He spent the night reminding me of every hit I’d foolishly forgotten.
Now, back at the Fruit Stand, the music has stopped, and Yancy is due in eighteen hours. Send reinforcements. Or at least more pears.