Bananas Fluster

What a glorious day for an astral flight. I’m tucked inside a cup of wind watching motorists taffy-stretched down Sarasota’s Tamiami Trail. Say it with me: T-a-m-m-y A-m-m-y. A young driver below is waiting on red. She’s singing along with Lady Gaga and flicking her bleached, hot-ironed hair. Left. Right. Left, right, left. Her oily Revo sunglasses sparkle in the side mirror. The banana she’s tapping against the steering wheel almost looks plastic until she peels it down and chews. Her eyes focus on the tall palm trees. Their feather-shaped fronds are so much prettier than Tennessee kudzu. She wishes she had Florida license plates so she could pretend she’s a local. Mmmm. The banana hits the spot. The peel is biodegradable, right? She rolls down her window and tosses it out with nonchalant flair – the same practiced technique smokers use flicking their cigarette butts onto the beach and hoping no one will notice. Is the light ever going to change? She bites her nails and reminds herself to buy new iridescent polish.

Almost in sync with the music, a 40-ish woman in the next lane puts her truck in park and climbs out. She smoothes back her sun-kissed hair, adjusts the sandy shells in her pockets, and walks over to the banana peel. Looking both ways, she scoops it up, marches over to Gaga Girl and taps on the puckered gray window tint. She waggles the banana peel for her to see. Gaga Girl freezes, sweating the light change. Shell Woman turns away and walks back to her truck. She drops the freckled peel into a bag to dispose of later.

Gaga Girl exhales. She decides it’s a day for a Key Lime martini rimmed with graham-cracker crumbs and speeds over the Ringling Bridge to Tommy Bahama’s in St. Armands.

Shell Woman decides it’s a day for selective mutism. She drives home to rinse her shells.

And I decide I better hold on. My cup of wind is swirling northward.