A Smack in the Head

Marty was not overly passionate about produce. He did not think that produce ought to be organized. He did not care much for the positioning of oranges or the balancing of melons. And he certainly did not have much concern for the safety of a bunch of grapes.

And so, when life dealt him lemons, he decided to juggle them. And when life dropped an apple on his head, his only revelation was to eat it. And when life gave him the shortest carrot of the lot, he hid it behind the cucumbers. To say it quite simply, he did not last long at Jim's Grocer.

And besides, being unemployed was far more exciting.

Marty felt bad for the trees that had the undeserved pleasure of hosting his resume, but he knew the ink wouldn't last long. All that useless paper was but a fire starter. And just now it was beginning to smoke a little.

Striding through the park, Marty stopped. It was quite sudden. In fact, the frisbee that had hit him in the back of the head could not have stopped faster. Marty turned.

"Dude," slurred the athlete. "Totally didn't mean to hit you."

"Of course not. That would've been a decent shot."

The guy did not seem to understand, but  the frisbee was in his hand again, and it didn't take long before his attention was gone. Marty still did not move. He watched the frisbee soar through the air. His eyes narrowed. It was a smack in the back of the head. Didn't that normally mean something?

He sat down on a bench and kept his eyes on the frisbee. The last time he'd been given a smack on the back of the head, it had been for a very good reason. It had made him look up, scowl, and then make eye contact with a very special someone.

The piece of cauliflower had come from an overly excited girl in the midst of a heated argument who he had then shared a relationship with for six months. Marty found himself watching the shirtless sandy colored guy with the frisbee. His eyes blinked suddenly and a look of mortal disgust crossed his face. Right. This time he'd been hit for a different reason.

But just as he was about to leave, he blinked in disbelief as the sandy man flicked the frisbee behind his back with as much accuracy as a peeing chimpanzee. The frisbee sailed into the sky, eclipsed the sun, and began a lofty descent toward the walking path.

Marty let his jaw drop as he spotted the frisbee's destination. And then, smack! The frisbee collided with the back of a girl's head who jogged the trail. Marty was on his feet in an instant, and sprinting toward the scene with superstition trailing behind him.

But he arrived too late. The girl had laughed, thrown the frisbee into a pond, apologized, and then continued jogging. Marty came to a halt beside the pond. The sandy man was attempting to fish the frisbee out with a stick, and his friends stood with their hands on their arched backs and their sandled feet tapping in the grass.

"Did you see the girl you hit with the frisbee?" asked Marty in a breathless slur.

Sandy man turned around. "Yeah," he said. "She threw it in the pond." He turned around again.

"I see," Marty said. "But did you see what the girl looked like?"

"No. But she threw the frisbee in the pond."

"So you said." Marty bit his lip. Sandy man wouldn't be of much help. Unless the girl had been smoking hot, he wouldn't have a single detail to offer. Marty sighed. A smack in the head gone to waste. This couldn't be happening.

And then he spotted a scrap of paper on the path. His eyes widened. He approached the paper as if it would burst into flames at any moment just to spite him. He picked it up and unrolled it with shaking fingers.

To his utter surprise, there was a single phone number scribbled in red pen. He put it in his pocket, gazed back at the sandy man who was now fishing his own sandals out of the pond, and then looked back down the path. What did it mean?

He began to walk.

The End

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