Honeydew Gooder

Now that my new job affords me a better quality of living, I figure I should start purchasing the pre-sliced fruit containers at Whole Foods. “She works hard for the money…so hard for the money,” sends my hips a-sway in the produce section (not aisles) of aforementioned over-priced grocery establishment.

“What’ll it be today, big spender?” I think to myself. I eye the honeydew and consider it a fiscally responsible choice. Change moves slowly for me. The 3-berry mixture? I’m doing well, but not that kind of well. That’s downright extravagant.

I put the honeydew in my cart and roll onward, leaving residual feelings of “I’ve arrived” behind me, along with the woman weighing her organic grapes – a creature caught between the haves and the have-nots. Suckerrrrr.

The next day, the day following my purchase ridden with affluence, I came home to my apartment building where someone mans the front desk 24 hours a day. When you’ve got it, you’ve got it.

Front-desk-person o’ the moment, LaShawna, is a sweet woman who always holds my keys behind the desk when I go for a run. I’ve been told they’re not supposed to do this. Perhaps this is a marker of my expanding VIP status. Yeah.

LaShawna tells me she’s not feeling well and has had a headache for two days. I wanted to help her, and my gut inquiry was whether her braids might be too tight. I caught myself before asking (phew) and more appropriately questioned if she eats during her 4:00 – 11:00 pm shift?

“No, not really.”

By golly, I’ve got it; she’s got a hunger headache. Before I even realize what I’m saying, I offer LaShawna the contents of my refrigerator, namely yogurt and honeydew.

She nods when I say “honeydew,” as if there is nothing on Earth she wants more. I walk toward my apartment, carrying the heavy thought of, “what have I done?”

I can afford to better nourish myself, but charity was not something I had prepared myself for. Did I mention that I hadn’t even sampled the honeydew yet? Story of my life.

I eyed the clear plastic container and decided to eat a few pieces before making my non-tax-deductible donation.

She’ll need a utensil, it occurred to me. I don’t have plasticware. All I’ve got is my great-grandmother’s silverware. At this moment, I decided that honeydew could be classified as “finger food.”

I brought the honeydew to LaShawna and on the walk back to my melon-less apartment, I eyed myself in the lobby mirror and thought, “you done good, kid.”

The next night, LaShawna told me that she was feeling better and really liked the “melondew.”

Oh, honey.