I work at a fruit stand in the Bronx and I’m used to strange requests. But nothing, nothing, prepared me for the ants. I mean there aren’t a lot of ants in NYC, I’m told if we had more they kill the roaches... but, I don’t know if I’m ready to see an ant again. Not yet.
It was a slow night (despite the game at the stadium.) It was the first warm night of the year and this woman approaches me. She’s small and old with frizzy white hair and she said
“I know you have ants, don’t you?”
Of course, I said
“no way! our stand is clean!”
but she was shaking her head
“That’s not what I meant, honey. I mean you find ants, from time to time, in your shipping crates, yes?”
It was a strange thing to ask, but she was right. I had found ants in the mangos or under the melons.
“Excellent!” she squealed. “then you, young lady, can help me!”
I looked around hoping that people would be staring or that there was a way out... but then she gave me a $50 bill.
“look for ants. And, if you see them call me, and I will give you another. “
Then she got close, confidential.
“don’t talk about this, Ok? you might even see ants that have replaced every fruit in your crate. Stay calm. Call me not an—“ and she spit on the ground with disgust “-an exterminator!”
So, the summer began... and I looked for ants.
---
Benny is my boss. He's run a fruit stand for as long as anyone can remember. I'm the only employee, and I'm really mostly there for the days when Benny can't work because his leg is acting up. And of course his leg had to be giving him trouble today, when crate trucks were coming by.
All NYC fruit stands buy from a variety of sources. And most of them come to us. Sometimes it's seconds from the fancy supermarkets (and that means combing over the fruits removing the rottens to get them ready to sell) Other times it's upstate farmers or drivers taking unsold goods from the Hunt's Point market. The Hunt's Point market stuff is the best since you never know what they will have.
"cocoa pods" The driver said. She was a wiry woman who never stopped smoking. I think her name was Greta or maybe Gertie? She didn't get out of the driver's seat of the small truck but gave me the nod to come over and negotiate.
"cocoa pods? You mean like for chocolate?" I asked. I'd never heard of people eating fresh cocoa pods. I didn't even really know what one would look like.
"Some of your Columbian customers might like them." Said Gretta, "and I think white people, like you know hipster types eat them too, like it's a fad, like those icky berries everyone wanted a few years back."
"açaí berries" I corrected. (For a person who sold exotic fruit for a living Gretta was not all that interested in her products. Or she liked to give that impression I suppose.)
"whatever" She said, and took a drag on her cigarette.
I was going to tell her I didn't want the cocoa pods. We don't have may "hipster types" in this part of the Bronx. And no one I know from Columbia has ever talked about just munching on raw cocoa. But, then I remembered my mysterious ant-coveting benefactor.
"Well, I don't know if I can sell many here... but just for kicks how much do you want for just one crate?" I asked with feigned disinterest.
"Sixteen. And that's a steal too. I've seen them at Whole Foods and they wanted sixteen for just a pod." Gretta nodded sagely.
"I ain't Whole Foods." I said with a laugh, "How about I give you ten?"
Gretta took out her phone and dramatically pretended to dial. "911? Help. Some fruit stand kid is trying to rob me!" She said.
"Come on. I know you have more than you'll sell. Listen. If I sell them all (as if) I'll give you four bucks next week." I said.
"Okay, fair enough, kid." She said putting the phone away. "It's unlocked, take one of the ones in the back, they are less pawed over, and I suspect if you do have buyers around here they will know a good one from a bad."
I carefully peeled out a ten dollar bill from my cash for Grettie and went around to the back of her small truck. It had been a white truck... once. But, over the years of plying the NYC streets it had collected so many layers of graffiti that you could hardly tell the model, let alone the original color. The graffiti was a kind of theft prevention many drivers had said. But, I think some of them just secretly like how it looks. I pushed up the door and peered into the darkness.
I've never been scared of getting fruit out of dark trucks in the past... but somehow, with ants on my mind, the task seem more ominious.
"Hurry up!" Called Greta "I don't have all day!"
I steeled myself and climbed deep into the back of the truck. It was cool and dark and the sounds of 161st street faded. All I could hear was the leaky inefficient compressor that tried to keep the truck from becoming an oven and faint noises of traffic. I selected the smallest wooden crate, one that was well-sealed with tufts of coco fiber packing peeking out from between the slats. On it was a bright colorful label with images of busty island women and perfect tropical fruits.
And it might have been my imagination but when I picked it up I swear I heard something rustle... deep within.
To be continued.
