You would have thought that there would only be one of me but then I met this other Gabriel Orgrease at the vegetable stand during the annual cantaloupe bowling tournament. It was during half-time and the crowd had settled when we both reached at the same time for the same bunch of red beets and our hands rudely collided around the stalks of the leafy greens like those little bitty one-pilot space ships about to careen off the intergalactic opera movie screen and explode in a loud almost-big bang with a bright white flash of gratified orgasmic annihilation. That was how our eyes first met. Nothing was meant perverse in our meeting ourselves like this; it was just magnetic like with the molten earth iron core a gigantic magnet attracting all of the inevitable in our small neighborhood. He had a decidedly sneaky twitch to his left eyeball, tequila bloodshot through and through.
I thought to myself, “Who the hell is this hairy faced madman and what the hell is he doing grabbing my borscht bound beets?” In a sign of intelligence that relived me entirely he quickly retreated his ruddy hand and placed it on an oriental eggplant. I felt like I was in a garden-globe mirror, golden with the passage of the mid-morning sun.
I did not mind that it was a particularly slender and firm eggplant, with a delicate hue of purple, green and white that I had also been so ardently perusing and pursuing for the last hour, as I had ever so tentatively inched my way along in the dirt and scuffed my work boots and snapped my spenders before Gabriel Orgrease so boldly bumped my beet born fist and then after the abrupt collision in the spark of a nanosecond he diverted his unlicensed thrust to grab his hand on to the other nubile vegetable, that targeted eggplant.
Obviously he held it firmly in his grip as I clutched and shackled my beets, but as with any galactic rogue I really did not give a twiddle if he may subsequently grab then as instantly, as he may then and there quickly quaff a nearby chili pepper and explode here and there like a bulbous gas station on flame without retardant or suppression. Seeing in my mind’s eye, somewhat more discerning than my heads eyes, not the least bit bloodshot or otherwise imperfected, the possibility of such an uncouth action I endeavored with haste to put an ample distance between his us and my us as I pretended a wave to swat flying Juniper bugs and quickly sloughed my arse in a sphere of influence over toward the section of wooden bins littered with oranges, pears and dented MaCoon apples.
I thought nothing further of the incident until a few minutes later at the other end of the stand we collided once again over the fresh dill. By this time I felt like I was being mimicked by one of those primordial inhuman walking animals that pops up out of one’s lizard brain during a bad-trippin’ leaftime. I thought back to what I may have inadvertently ingested in the morning prior to my shave. Though I felt that his semblance was out of character for a beast I did notice that he wore a tie with a dancing jacka-lope on it and that his satchel sprouted a toilet bowl plunger. It was as I remarked later to Etidorpha a very large toilet bowl plunger. It was large, yes, most fully to be described as large... not small by any means, a utilitarian size for a giant ceramic crapper, yes, sort of an outsize device that reminded me of trucks with broad signs on their rear that says Wide Load.
Regrettably there were no flashing lights or signal flares otherwise I would have avoided an approach to the plastic bucket with the bunches of dill stuck in it. I like the way in which the blue rubber bands wet with the tub water hold the stalks together.
And then we struck it with the dandelion greens, and then the carrots, and then the potatoes and then the Vandalia onion. Since then we have been real good friends.