Monday, September 27, 2010
Saturday, September 4, 2010
fruit on the road
A few days ago, in the morning, I was driving to uni. As I was coming up Cleveland street, crossing Chalmers I saw something going on up ahead a the next intersection. All the cars were stopped and there were people running around in the middle of the road.
At first I thought it was road works. But there was no one in reflector jackets or people holding Stop-lolli-pop signs. Then I thought it was a performance, maybe a student film.
Pulling up behind a car I saw the fruit. And the vegetables. Most were sitting in the middle of the road, but some were rolling down the hill towards the traffic. There was a delivery truck pulled over near the pub on the corner and the people were passers by, who jumped to action to help the fruit man collect his lost goods.
The traffic started to edge toward the people on the road and cars bullied them out of the way. The intersection was covered mostly with crushed Kiwi-fruit that didn’t make it.
A pumpkin rolled into the gutter and down towards my car. A boy, dressed in kitchen whites, ran after it. I’d seen him pick up armfuls of potatoes and apples already, and run them back to the fruit man. Now he chased the pumpkin, scooped it up and dived through an open door into the courtyard of the café where he worked. I watched him, bent over double, catching his breath. Looking at his pumpkin. Waiting for the commotion to pass. And dreaming probably of pumpkin soups, or ravioli, or risotto.
At first I thought it was road works. But there was no one in reflector jackets or people holding Stop-lolli-pop signs. Then I thought it was a performance, maybe a student film.
Pulling up behind a car I saw the fruit. And the vegetables. Most were sitting in the middle of the road, but some were rolling down the hill towards the traffic. There was a delivery truck pulled over near the pub on the corner and the people were passers by, who jumped to action to help the fruit man collect his lost goods.
The traffic started to edge toward the people on the road and cars bullied them out of the way. The intersection was covered mostly with crushed Kiwi-fruit that didn’t make it.
A pumpkin rolled into the gutter and down towards my car. A boy, dressed in kitchen whites, ran after it. I’d seen him pick up armfuls of potatoes and apples already, and run them back to the fruit man. Now he chased the pumpkin, scooped it up and dived through an open door into the courtyard of the café where he worked. I watched him, bent over double, catching his breath. Looking at his pumpkin. Waiting for the commotion to pass. And dreaming probably of pumpkin soups, or ravioli, or risotto.
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