The Box Banana

~ Article by Bryan Fantana

There it was. Everything I knew about science and the world we live in told me it could not exist. Yet, there it was, in mocking defiance of my former sense of reality. My denial kept me from believing my eyes. I rubbed them hoping maybe a piece of dust had wondered onto my cornea and was playing tricks with my vision. Sadly the only thing playing tricks on me was this thing sitting on the counter. Before me in my very kitchen was an arrogant middle finger to God. It spit on the foundation of my reason and made me question my own existence. Before me was a box banana.

My therapist would later tell me that it was the middle of the night and I was “gelling” on Dr. Scholl’s massaging gel insoles. When you are high on Scholl’s, your mind can make you see all kinds of crazy things. But I have been getting prescriptions from the good doctor for awhile and my hallucinations had never brought me anything like this.

After a few minutes of pacing back and forth across the kitchen tiles, I reached out to touch it. My fingertips slowly skimmed over its skin. This banana, if I can even call it that, was as real as I was. It felt like a regular banana. It was the same yellow color as a classic banana. It had a stem and a little brown thing on the other end like any other banana. But it had no curvature or roundness. It had six distinct faces all at right angles to their neighbors. In geometry this would be called a rectangular prism. In my kitchen I called it terror.



My adrenaline and my curiosity were building. I had to determine if this banana was really as level as it appeared. I ran to the hall closet. In the dim lighting I found a bubble level. To my dismay the four sides of the banana were level. I could not measure the two ends as the banana’s stem prevented me from laying the yellow fruit on its ends. I rotated the banana to a new side and placed my level ever so carefully on top. The bubble of air fell perfectly between the two guidelines. It seemed as if the little air bubble was conspiring against me as well. I flipped the banana around and measured it over and over for what had to have been fifteen minutes. I finally gave in to defeat. This banana was as square as anything I had ever seen.

My mind started to wonder for a few moments. I knew a guy who might have access to a laboratory with an ultra-precise digital level. Then my thoughts crashed. I realized something I should have immediately asked myself upon seeing the banana. How did it get in my apartment? My eyes dart around the room. I did not know what I was expecting to see. Maybe I would find a hidden camera filming my reaction as part of some new TV prank show titled “Fuck with Fantana”. Or maybe in the corner of the room I would find the devil himself, here to bait me into some elaborate scheme to win over my soul. Unless the Dark Prince would accept a plastic recorder dual over that of a fiddle, I would be damned for sure. My search of the apartment revealed nothing. The only ones here were me and this accursed banana.

What does one do in this situation? I called my former minister. A man of God should know what to do with such a demon. But after that incident with the communion wafers, he may still be angry with me. I figured I would pretend to be a new attendant in desperate need of some late night guidance. After about seven rings he answered his phone. In a groggy and hesitant tone, he said hello. I pictured in my head Walter Cronkite as I tried to disguise my voice the best I could.

“Hello Reverend Michaels,” I began to speak.

“Bryan, why in the good Lord’s name would you be calling me at three o’clock in the morning?” Shit. I forgot about caller ID. I dropped the voice.

“Sir, I need your help. There is a demon in my apartment.”

“A demon? Are you high on Dr. Scholl’s again?”

“Sir, I may have had some Scholl’s earlier in the evening, but I can assure you I am fairly sober. There is an aberration in my kitchen.”

“What are you talking about?”

“There is a demon banana in my kitchen. It’s yellow like a regular banana, it’s about the size of a regular banana, and it feels like a regular banana, but it isn’t a regular banana. It’s not round. It is shaped like a box. Four long sides, all flat and at right angles to each other. There is a stem and a nipple thing on the ends like normal bananas.”

“Son, is this another one of your jokes?”

“No sir, I-”

“Do you think I forgot about the little stunt with the communion wafers?”

“I was hoping you would have by now.”

“We had to replace nineteen pews because of you.”

“I was foolish and I am sorry.”

“Bryan, do not ever call me again.”

He hung up. I turned back to the banana. It was still there on the counter where I left it. I grabbed a chair and sat with the box banana for another hour. Then I made another revelation. What if this abomination was profitable? I could sell this mysterious fruit to a university or possibly DARPA. This banana could hold some powerful secrets. It could be the cure for leukemia or the answer to some ancient Aztec puzzle. Perhaps between its eight corners lies a weapon more powerful than anything ever described in the pages of science fiction.

Then I realized a better way to make money from this gift. With this banana I could single-handedly resurrect the lost art of the carnival freak show. Dwarfs and the absurdly tall, women with facial hair and the thousand pound men who love them, the sword swallowers and the citizens of New Jersey. All would be able to once again show themselves in the light of day and have paying customers gawk at them for five minutes at a time. All thanks to the star of the show, this little pioneering rectangular fruit. This was my yellow ticket out of this town.

Maybe I was growing attached to the banana. I was becoming less and less afraid of it. I decided to name it Cindy. In Cindy I had a future. I scrambled together a nest for her out of a pizza box and some plastic bags. I sat her and her new nest on top of the refrigerator. She may have been my money maker, but she still creeped me the fuck out. Up high she would be safe and out of my sight until morning when I could drive to city hall and get the permits to start my own freak show in my backyard. A grin crossed my face as I laid my head on the pillow and thought about my bed with piles of cash instead of bed sheets.

Then she was gone. The next morning I frantically tried to find her. The nest was empty. The box was still closed and the bags looked undisturbed. She simply vanished. I combed every inch of my apartment. All I found was disappointment. I pounded on my neighbors’ doors. The ones who were home looked at me with confusion, partly because they did not know what I was talking about and partly because I was still dressed in the boxers and the Kenny Rogers t-shirt I had worn to bed the night before. But in reality I knew they had not taken her. She left on her own. She had exited my life just as abruptly and strangely as she came in.

I got dressed before the couple next door could call the police. With my dreams of being a freak show organizer dashed upon the rocks, I walked onto my patio. I lit a cigarette and slid some gel insoles into my tennis shoes. The nirvana started to set in and my thoughts of the night before faded away.