Literary

Nachos are the Best Invention: Fructiferous

Imagine, if you will, a man and a woman whose love for each other illuminates them from the inside. Their skin is effervescent, their mannerisms exaggerated and sporadic. They are timid in each others’ presence, almost. She still flushes softly at his gentle touch in public.

Imagine that you are a part of this couple, and you have come upon a milestone, not only in your relationship, but in your life. Imagine that this time, it’s you. Your body contorted and your face twisted in agony. Sweat everywhere. An organized panic flies through the room. Adrenaline vibrates in your blood. This will help you to sympathize with her situation.

The process of childbirth is comparable to the simple barebones plot of a story: context, rise of action, climax, resolution. Conception, rise of abdomen, labor, and finally, the child’s complete entrance into the world. Lets skip right to the climax, because that’s how I do things.

Here’s what should have happened:
Baby’s arrival is signaled by
harsh, guttural wailing. Nurse
wraps baby in sterile blue hospital
paper, meant for soaking up various
baby birthing fluids. Several
nurses rush about. Vaccines, baby
cleaning, cord cutting. They gaze
at each other through the chaos.
And back to it. Smiles.

And here’s what happened:
The room buzzes with silence.
There is not one pair of
eyes that is not staring, with
rapt attention, at the space
between her legs. Nurses’ face
masks cover open mouths.

One second has passed.
When her groans suddenly but briefly interrupt their reveries, there is no reaction, except for a further gaping of the mouth and a slight tilt of their heads as they watch the show. For a minute the room is wholly static, illuminating her screams, louder now, and more frantic. Tears join the sheen of sweat. They maintain their gaze. Arms laid helplessly at their sides.

And this time when the pain subsides, the lead nurse, the man seated front and center for the show, lifts a small…no…no not a…a small banana to his face. The first thing she sees is his disgust and then the banana and then the reflection of the banana in his glasses and the glare from the florescent hospital lights.

And-and-was that an apple? An apple whose green skin seems covered by a thick layer of amniotic fluid and blood, it could have been a caramel apple in your peripheral vision.

The shooting pains—the fear—begin again. The attention of the room as a whole has shifted—only slightly—to the father (we will call him this for practical purposes) who has begun to spit up vomit meekly onto the linoleum at his feet.

This was good (that he was not looking) for the time being. For, the young and blushing love of his goddamn life began to push out a large bunch of deep purple, almost black grapes. Grape, by grape, by grape.

So, by the end of the seemingly infinite cycle of physical agony and embarrassment and disgust and unacknowledged amusement, the loving husband had left the harvesting—I mean delivery—room. The fruit of his loins refrigerated while his glowing, heartbroken wife lay asleep.

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