THEY'LL STEAL YOUR SKIN AND OTHER LESSONS FROM THE WORLD'S FAIR — ERIN VACHON
/The produce section was a bio-dome of beige and brown food. Eye-holed potatoes bagged like corpses and Italian cheese wrapped in plastic like ivory. Dead flesh and soap. I was trying to blend in with the yellow onions and the unpeeled garlic, there among the husks (trash bins of corn silk). The leftovers meant for compost. I pushed my rickety mini-cart in slow loops, aimless, earbuds blasting Riot Grrrl snarls against conversation. Why had I uprooted myself from bed that day (gnarled parsnip, my least favorite)? Depression had sucked my days dry of flavor (room temperature water, nothing at all).
A hand on my forearm, (dehydrated-apple) index finger pressed to my sleeve tattoo. A man in his 80's, bent like a fruit tree. Tilted felt trilby over (tomatillo) eyes. I yanked out one earbud, impatient with his engagement, yet when he asked, Can I tell you a story? It's important, I said yes. I said yes when he whipped his (dehydrated-apple) finger away because he moved like the sweep of the quill pen curling down my arm, the ink drawn on my skin because of how I loved stories so (half-remembered buffets). I thought, this fucker's got style.
He said, In the 60's, I lived in New York. I worked at the World's Fair and got bored on the weekends (dirt-beaten potato pile), so I went to see a film in the city, a documentary (cheese sliced with executive precision), and do you know what it was about? No, I smiled, and he smiled, and I was caught (salmon shining on ice). Ah! The wrinkled (apple) finger poised ready. The filmmakers went to see a woman, up a dark stairwell (a papaya split in two, black seeds spilling), and they said, Madam, we've heard tales of your legendary collection. May we see it (mangos, a sunset of red, green, yellow)? And there she was sitting among her volumes (a crowning watermelon stacked atop a pile). Do you know what was inside? No, I smiled, and one last touch, his finger to my arm (plucked fruit giving way). Skin! Tattoos! Pages (heirloom carrots) upon pages (vine-fresh tomatoes) of tattoos (basil, mint, lemongrass)! So if someone asks to see your tattoo, (all zest, orange and lime and lemon) just know, they might be trying to steal your skin (jalapeños torn open and waking the tongue)!
Another trilby tilt and a tap of the (apple) finger to the side of his nose before prancing away past the plantains. I was doubled over laughing from deep in the hollows of my belly, there among all those ripening fruits, suddenly realizing how very hungry I was.
Erin Vachon has words forthcoming in Brevity in 2020. She reads CNF/fiction for Longleaf Review and novels for Split/Lip Press. She holds an MA in English Literature from the University of Rhode Island and writes in southern New England. She is on Twitter @erinjvachon.
