Pits

I stopped just as the red stained cherry pit flew past my knees, through the legs of other shoppers and then struck the pavement rolling away out of sight. It was a close call, but nothing to be upset about. A rogue cherry pit or two is simply one of the risks you take at a mid-Spring Farmer's Market.

I looked over to see a woman and her friend sitting on the curb cheerfully punishing a bag of very ripe and nearly black cherries. I could smell the fruit from where I was standing, but had decided to buy a small flat of blueberries and enough plums to last through the apocalypse and still have enough left over for sorbet. There's only so much fruit a single person can go through after all.

Next to the pit spitters was one of my favorite Hmong stands which I frequent every week. As I moved over to the side, avoiding the bitter melons I began to peruse over a new type of chili I had never seen before. They were medium length, verdant and gnarled like the fingers of some fairytale crone.

I was encouraged to bite into one and found it sweet and palatable, something that would do well in a stir-fry with shallots and thai peppers. I would tell you the name but I am unaware how to type the phonemes necessary - not that I know them or the spelling - and even then I'm not sure Blogger can even type them.

I grabbed a handful and popped them in the bag. The lady behind the counter weighed it and told me the price. I began to get out my money when suddenly I felt a something small and wet strike the back of my neck with the tiniest thud that only I could hear. The object then tumbeled into my shirt collar and I could feel the tiny missile roll down my back leaving a small juicy trail until it fell out at the bottom. I looked and between my feet was a small cherry pit coming to a rolling stop.

A small look of horror and disgust crossed my face. I turned towards my attackers. The woman with the bag of cherries looked at me horrified for only a split second then turned her head, shying away from eye contact. If I did not see her face, I could not possibly blame her, I suppose was her theory. Her friend was blushing out of embarrassment that comes with association.

"Augh, god! You nasty bitch!"

It was then my turn to be horrified as it dawned on me that I had apparently yelled that loud enough to stop everyone near me dead in their tracks. Given, I'm not one to yell such things at total strangers. In fact, it's just damn right out of character for me - but when someone spits on you, well, all bets are off. I blame the show True Blood where I heard the phrase and now had started using it with gusto. I quickly followed up on my outburst to convince the surrounding populous that it was, indeed, appropriate.

"You spit a cherry pit at my head and it rolled down my shirt! That's just vile! Spit them at the ground or back into your bag!" I smacked the back of my neck with my hand and slowly pulled it across feeling the slime streak across my palm. I looked at it and saw the inky red juice had made a short smear. I could feel my lip curl with complete revulsion. I then showed it to the woman who looked at it, cringed, and apologized.

As I slowly wiped off my back and apologized myself for the "nasty bitch" comment and I told her that I understood it was an accident but to watch where she spat her pits.

I walked back to the car pissed that I had just done my laundry the other day. Cherry juice stains like hell on a good cotton shirt. A shudder went through my body. "Ugh... gross," as I wiped my neck again.