I was busy gardening when my neighbor Chico walked up to me pointing a gun. Give me all your cantaloupe, he said. I was stunned. I have to do this, he explained. I owe the syndicate money from a gambling debt, but they're willing to take melon.
Take the watermelon, I pleaded. He shook his head. Nunzio hates the pits. Honey Dew, I insisted. Chico cocked the hammer. I gave him my beautiful cantaloupe. I'm going to need your trowel too, he said. I flushed with anger. That trowel was handed down over generations. Take the rake.
No rakes. He was adamant. I didn't want to die in my own garden. I gave him the tool. He wasn't satisfied. The syndicate wants all your Maurice Sendek books, your Mario Lanza records, and every bit of dental floss.
Please, not Lanza, I sobbed. Take my Josh Groban.
I'd never known him to be violent, but he was cornered and desperate. I caved in and got him everything he asked. At least I got to keep my cummerbund, I thought. No, that was wrong. Chico wanted that too. I was sick watching him stroll off, cummerbund hanging off his shoulder. I felt completely emasculated.
My petunias got the worst of my upchucking. I swore I'd make it up to them.
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