The Big Box of Bananas

When my exboyfriend John was turning five, he was very excited about his birthday.

People would say, "What do you want for your birthday, John?" And he'd dance around the room and think about the toy firetruck he wanted more than anything in the world.

But he never told anyone he wanted it.

John's parents were very young when they had him. And though they loved him very much, he had already learned that they were somewhat irresponsible. (Another story is about how he begged his dad to lock up his bike, but his dad said, "Nobody's going to steal it, son..." And guess what? Somebody did.)

So when the birthday was looming deliciously on the horizon, John knew better than to entrust his wish for the firetruck to his parents. He knew they'd just mess it up. And he knew that the hope of having the firetruck was beyond anything he could dream of. At five, he already knew that the bitterness of disappointment was worse than the bittersweetness of longing.

He told them, when they persisted in asking, that he wanted "a big box of bananas." When he told me this story, many years later, he held his arms aloft to show how very big a box of bananas he wanted. He was such a good story teller that I could see him as a small box, stretching his arms out, the look of excitement on his face.

He figured they couldn't mess that up. There were usually bananas in the house, and he did like bananas.

The parents and other grownups marvelled at what a cute request this was.

"Are you SURE that's all you want?" they kept asking him.

That was all he wanted, he assured them, showing tremendous enthusiasm for the request.

His birthday fell on the same day as another little boy's birthday. The neighborhood was invited to a joint birthday party, where they had two cakes and sang the birthday song twice. And John was presented with a big box of bananas, which he acted really happy about.

The other little boy got the toy firetruck.

"What was that like for you?" I asked him, many years later when I knew him. "That must have sucked."

"Oh, it was okay." he said cooly, not looking me in the eyes. "I did really like bananas, and we didn't run out of them, of course. We had that box til they got brown and mushy. There were fruitflies in the house for months."

"But what about the firetruck? Didn't that piss you off that the other kid had it and you didn't?"

"Nah. I used to go over to his house and play with it. I just pretended it was mine." There was something in his tone that let me know it was time to change the subject.

I think about this story an awful lot. I thought about it at Christmas this year, when making my Christmas list. I'm not a child of five. Things I really want, I can getfor myself. Part of my gift to my parents is to ask for easy things, and to not really care about the presents, anyway.

But there are always those things I want so much I don't ask for them. Not from God, not from anyone.

There's a certain thing that for years I've wondered why no one buys me. It's so damn stupid. I should just buy it for myself, but year after year I wait to see if anyone ever figures out that it's the perfect gift for me. Nobody ever does. Here's what it is: but don't tell my friends in real life, because that would be cheating.

It's that refrigerator poetry kit, the one for dog lovers. How my friends can pass that in shops and not thing, "Wow! Is that Cupcake or what?!" That baffles me.

Yes, yes. I know I could buy it for myself. But I don't. It's sort of like Tiffany's, in a way. I personally feel that if a woman has to buy her own jewelry at Tiffany's-- well, it's just a little sad. Now, I'm a big fan of costume jewelry. I wear it almost every day. But if I ever go to Tiffany's and buy myself a bracelet, it's because I don't think anyone will ever buy me one as a gift. (Mercifully, someone has done so. And when he gave me the robin's egg blue package, I felt the same relief that I felt the minute I'd lost my virginity. "THANK GOD THAT'S OVER. AT LEAST I PASSED THROUGH THAT RITE OF PASSAGE.")

So I wait, wondering who in the future will buy the dog-poetry refridgerator magnet kit for me. Someday, someone will. But I haven't ever asked for it.

And there are so many other things like that. Toy Firetrucks so dreamed of and cherished that I dare not name them. In some cases, I have played with other girls' trucks and pretended they were mine. I understood John's coolness. When you think you can't ever have something, the nearest you can come to it is still pretty good. Or at least better than nothing.

And yet--- what if I asked? What if I said, "This is what I want, destiny be damned! I claim my right to it, even if it's never truly mine!"

Nah. Easier to eat the bananas. And then the fruitflies buzz around, nipping at you like tiny reminders of fear.