Mom and Dad never grew or bought a watermelon. My first taste was when I was about 11. A friend and I had ridden our bicycles to Cambridge on a sweltering summer day. The ride down Grouse Crick Hill was fast and fun, but the short grade from Grouse Crick to Cambridge was a killer. We hadn't thought of the longer grade, going west, to return home. We arrived in Cambridge exhausted and dehydrated. A group of men had just bought a watermelon and offered us a slice. It made me throw up.
An old salt named Johnny Geebers took me under his wing to break me in as a fry cook at King's-X restaurant. He'd been a cook in the Navy from 1929 until his retirement after the war. He even looked like Popeye. I bought a watermelon to share with Johnny and his wife, who I'd met, at their apartment. They had invited me to stop in any time, so Sunday at 10:00 A.M. I embarrassed everyone by arriving with a huge melon under my arm. The place smelled of whisky, she was badly hung over, and Johnny was still passed out, unconscious from a recently terminated binge. I stammered an apology, placed the melon on a chair, and executed a retreat.
I have another anecdote from a time that Jack and I were living at the YMCA in Wichita : Bill bought a watermelon to share with Jack (who doesn't give a damn for watermelon). Jack wasn't in his room. The next morning, Bill gave his brother plenty of time to sleep in and carried the big green thing down the hall. Darn, missed him again. Jack was already out, and Bill figured he had gone to meet with his friend Maggie. Jack had made the mistake of introducing his girl to Bill, who cleverly looked up Maggie's address in the phone book and toted the 40 pound vegetable in that direction. Do you see where I'm going with this story? Maggie opened the door in her negligee but was cool and invited me in. Jack was observed pulling on his shorts by a great big fruit.
Allow me to finish the watermelon thing for all time. On the way into Alamogordo from work, I wanted to do something nice for Rita and the kids and stopped at the highway junction to pick up a watermelon from a vegetable stand. Judging by all the cars parked around our house, the Benítez, next door, were having a family reunion. Instead of just marching in, I pretended to be a door-to-door peddler and rang the doorbell. I looked the part in soiled jeans, distressed tennies, and stinky shirt with its elbows worn out. A strange man, wearing a neat blazer and tie, answered the door.
"Uh, you want to buy a melon?" I saw the house was swarming with strangers and tried to enter. The man was alarmed and resisted me forcibly. Rod Swafford, who knew me, came to my rescue and invited me into the real-estate party of brokers, sales people, clients, and building contractors. The quiche was good, but the white wine was too sweet for my taste. My wife cursed me later for embarrassing us both. This was another nail in our marital coffin.
I guess this parable is about how a melon is like a telephone — I don't care for either.
Bill