He works in produce under a cloud of vegetable matter,
avoiding shopping carts filled with all the things you can get at Super
Wal-Mart. He is an island unto himself,
never making eye contact with shoppers, never speaking to co-workers except
through the subtle arch of an eyebrow or the barely perceptible lift of one
shoulder. Screaming children do not faze
him. Obese women on cabbage diets do not
deter him from his goal…restocking the bananas.


Wheeled carts stacked to the toppling point with boxes bearing
the DOLE BANANAS logo make their way from the back room, propelled past the
nuts, garlic, potatoes, and onion bins to the enormous banana island that holds
the place of honor in the center of the produce section.

One can feel the envy of the other produce workers as Banana
Man maneuvers his load through throngs of customers ready to start their
Memorial Day drinking early…tapping their toes as they await the latest
shipment of non-organic bananas from Cuba…or somewhere. “If only I could be Banana Man for a day,”
the other workers, shelving pre-packaged spinach and field greens say to
themselves.

But Banana Man doesn’t hear this. He pushes back the top of the first box, his
eyes focused on a point on the horizon somewhere over behind the seafood counter,
and pulls bunches, two at a time, from the box.
He moves quickly, nothing but a torso and legs in his dark blue shirt
and khaki trousers…his hands are nothing but a blur. He turns on his heel and is gone, already on
his way to fetch the next cart as the banana crowd sighs, “Oh my. Look at this, thirty-three cents a pound.”

I didn’t realize I noticed him or the ritual “unpacking of
the bananas” until he was gone. And I
didn’t realize I missed him until I saw him last week, back in produce, handling
a tomato. “What,” I wondered,
“debauche ry is this? Where has he been and what is he doing with a tomato?”

I don’t know what he was doing handling that tomato. Chances are I’ll never know. But he is a character I’ve come to rely on
here in the great state of Virginia. He helps to define my new home and he gives me
something to wonder about. I’ve made up his
whole story… where he came from and what he does after he goes home, where he was raised and why he likes produce
so much.

Banana Man, what I know of him in the real world, appears to
be anti-social. He does not smile. I’ve smiled at him a few times, desiring to
know more about this bearer of produce.
But he shuns me as he shuns all other shoppers, preferring instead to do
his work…and only his work.

So why am I telling you about Banana Man? Because he is fascinating…like so many other
people who carry out their jobs day after day…unnoticed and
underappreciate d. And because he inspires
me. He reminds me to look to my
environment for inspiration. Amazing
people are everywhere…and it is imperative that a writer remember that.