Daily writing exercise, 750words.com
fiction by Jason Edwards
Hello everyone, my name is Bananas Sunday. Thank you all for coming out tonight. I think there are still some chairs in the front, for those of you standing in the back. Don’t be shy! I don’t bite, not at these rates, anyway. My little joke.
Let’s go ahead and get this out of the way: yes, that’s my name. Bananas, as the fruit, although technically it’s an herb, and Sunday as in the day of the week, not the ice cream dessert. So no jokes or nicknames like Parfait, or Split. If you must know, it is a family name. We think it might have been Bananas on Sunday, once, but we know for certain that it was never Bananas on a Sunday, or for that matter, on a Sundae. Alright?
Oh, and my last name is Smith-Wopington. Bananas Sunday Smith-Wopington. When I was in infants we used to joke about how difficult it would be to put my name on the back of a football jersey. Not to mention the color commentator on the radio fumbling over my name every time I put one through to Brainless, our striker.
Which might as well act as a segue, since we’re all here to talk about the Zombie situation. I’m sure we could spend the entire evening on my name, but let’s not let ourselves be distracted any further. It’s just a name, and I do appreciate your using the whole name when addressing me. I’ve chose not to answer to “Bananas” or “Bans” or even “Smith-Wopington.” Reminds me of Army.
Now of course if I was loitering on a street corner smoking a dog-end and pawing through an American stroke book and you were to shout “Bananas! Zombie!” and one of them was behind me, I’d have no choice but to respond, wouldn’t I? But, for example, when we dined at Chez Egal, they always said “Mr. and Mrs. Bananas Sunday Smith-Wopington, right this way please.” Or at least they used to before, well, the incident.
That’s why I’m here, you see. The zombies. They’ve touched me personally. My wife, Elephant in the Room, was taken from me. And that large sigh from me was as much sadness as it is frustration that I have to explain her name as well. I mean really, we have zombies to talk about. But if that’s what you want.
When my late wife’s mother was with child with her, no one would talk about it, except that when they did it was always after using the phrase The Elephant in the Room. And so when she was born, her mother, in her delivery delirium, named her that, leaving off the word The, of course. That we both have and had unique names is entirely coincidental. It has nothing to do with how we met. I’m telling you because people always ask.
I met Elephant in the Room Smith-Dentist at a Catholic mixer. The romantic part about it is that neither of us were Catholic. I’m a God fearing protestant and my sweet Ellie was raised Zoroastrian. We were crashing. We met, lied about our names because we were young and foolish, fell in love, finally revealed our true selves, and the rest, as they say, is history.
A history snuffed out by zombies, which is the point, so if you’d let me get back to the matter at hand, that would be delightful. I mean, it’s what you paid me to discuss, isn’t it?
I mean, really, we usually wait for questions until after, and they’re usually on the topic of zombies. I have no siblings. Neither did my wife. We did not have children. Not that it’s any of your business, but we didn’t believe in the sort of activities that one would do that would eventually lead one to having children. I’m not talking about sex, you filthy perverts. We went at it like rabbits. I’m talking about reading the books, timing one’s copulation with the moon, preparing the house with gates on the steps and little plastic safety covers in the outlets.
Listen to me, I know what I’m talking about. You think fornication creates offspring, but then you thought zombies were a kind of fiction, too. And now here you are, huddled in a small auditorium and paying me to give you some insight and instruction. Is it my fault you can’t get past my name? Do you think I owe you something for my fee, some duty to change my name so it doesn’t distract? Well, I’m sorry, that’s not the contract I signed.
See? You see? There they are, at the doors, all this time wasted on my name and now they’re here, and you all packed in like sardines, an apt metaphor as they’re about to eat you were you stand. And to think some of you had the opportunity to move up here closer to the front. Always the first to go.
If anyone owes anyone anything it’s these damned zombies who owe me thanks because I always seem to be giving these lectures to what amounts to future dinner morsels. I’ve already cashed the cheque, so I’ll leave now.