P is for Pineapple

• Lori Palminteri
• Uncategorized
• May 20, 2024

Pineapples take two to three years to grow. Which is crazy because you could plant a pineapple, have sex, get pregnant, have a kid and by the time the kid is old enough to say “pineapple,” the pineapple you planted the day you had sex to make life is ready to eat.

Let me tell you something crazier. My parents eat canned pineapples for dessert. No, that’s not the weird part. They count how many chunks of pineapple are in every can. It’s 44, usually.

Every night before bed, my parents discuss what’s for breakfast in the morning. My dad makes a definite decision, what meal he will start a new day with. I’m used to skipping breakfast. I’m used to skipping meals in general. I’ve gotten used to no schedule. I eat when I remember I’m hungry.

Although I’m unsure I’d consider myself a “foodie,” I’m proudly a food snob. I think if there’s anything you should be snobby about, it should be what you put in your body. I’m well aware I spend far too much money on food (and even more on drink) but food is such a justifiable expense. And I live in the mecca of dining. So while I may not dine three meals a day, when I do dine, it breaks my already broken bank account.

Sometimes, I wonder how much other people think about death. Be it their own or others. And I wonder why it’s such a prominent  topic for my brain to pick apart. Unsure if it’s something I fear or desire. A pineapple takes a couple years to grow and just a couple minutes to devour.

Even though I’m objectively okay, I felt especially dour about my 35th birthday. Perhaps because I was so sure 30s would be my decade. The decade I would thrive. And I feel as though I’m being tossed in the white water of the ocean. I tell myself I’ve been here before. That I’ll surface and get back on the surfboard. Other times I’m sure this is the time I drown. I’m down.

However luck and love decide to hop from one human to another, I’ll never figure out. One of my best friends says, “the trick is to not want it, like when you’re driving around Brooklyn looking for a parking space.”

Eloped in my loneliness, I ponder how much I’m the problem. I think this is one of the most distinguishable things between men and women. Men are quicker to blame the world. Women look inward. All men are creeps, the best a girl can hope for is a gentlemanly creep. But women are creeps too, just in an entirely different way. Take me, for example. I like to look into people’s homes when I walk the city at night. I like to peek into their lives and watch them. And yes, if they’re naked or fucking, or doing something odd or sexual, there’s more likely a chance I’ll linger and watch. A real peeping Taylor. But the difference, me thinks, is women are concerned for well being. It’s not just about my strange lust for pulling the curtain. I want the people beyond the screen to be hydrated, feel safe, and be happy. My perversion, which it certainly is, has some sort of goodness to it, as I watch, an unknown owl— a predator, calculating a certain come off.

Let’s take this scenario. The one where I’m drunk, I’m drunk and probably on something else, and I stumble upon a younger woman with torn stockings, further gone than I am. Alone and half passing out on the street. I shake her, I say, “hey, can you open your phone. Can you call an Uber and go home or somewhere safe.” Her eyes are all over the place. She hands me her purse. I could rob her. I could take everything. I am poor. But I am not of poor quality. “You need to go home, do you understand.” She would be pretty if she wasn’t a mess. She seems conscious enough to get to a second location. I don’t fancy myself a hero. Just human. This city is full of people who aren’t. I don’t want anything to do with her. I just want her to be safe. I don’t want to be a witness to something terrible. I don’t care to be a witness to true horror.

Perhaps I thrive on the fact that there are enough people in the city who aren’t trying to take advantage that I feel some sort of safety. Guardians may be the minority but we’re here, in the shadows, watching along with the creeps.

Memory lends me to the time I almost drowned. Tossed in the white water. Dragged by the rip tide. Pulled under by waves. Over and over. Drifting fast, I tried to yell to someone, anyone. I was drowning. I was close to dying. I could feel it. I could feel the terror. And each time I’m held underwater, less oxygen than last time, my life doesn’t flash before my eyes. It’s only fear. It’s only, “oh god, this is how I die?” Was it luck that saved me that day. A wave I threw myself into, in hopes to bring to shore. One final breath. Or was it will. Or was it divine. I was so sure I was going to die. But luck was with me. Or love. Love to continue. To not die. I was so young. So small. Pulled in the undertow.

Even though I tried to scream, to throw my hands in the air, I was too far gone in the ocean. But by some impossibility, I made it out. I made it out and puked up sea water on the sand. Dizzy with a desire for living. And I’m reminded that perhaps in the most dire of situations, when inside you’re screaming, “please help me,” you’re only talking to yourself. Pineapples take so long to grow, and so quickly they are devoured.