Mangoes

Chapter 7

A week has passed since I saw Aunt Dee in the hospital. She hasn’t woken up, but she’s stable. She’s been extubated and moved into a separate ward for coma patients. I haven’t been back to the hospital. I’ve learned all this during my near daily visits with Mason. I brought them soup Mom made. We ate it together while watching Mystery Science Theater 3000.

Mason and I meet up at a bar—The Muzzled Monarch, a punk dive just up river from the park. The building’s exterior is plastered with political posters supporting Palestine, queer liberation, black empowerment. One advertises a live music event later tonight. This is Mason’s favorite spot in town. They’ve tried to get me to accompany them here, but I’ve always declined. I can’t stand live music and I’ve always imagined the crowd here is intimidating. I often feel safer with people who dress in alternative styles, but a part of me remains afraid. Outside the door is a sign that says “CASH ONLY” in large print.

“I don’t have any cash on me,” I say as Mason pushes open the tattered wooden door. A part of me hopes they’ll offer to pay.

“There’s an ATM inside,” Mason says. Their tone is terse, forceful.

Mason finds a table in the far corner and settles in, skimming the drink menu while I queue for the ATM. There’s a short guy in front of me sporting a band shirt with tour dates across the back. A baseball cap covers his dull brown hair. His ears sag with piercings. I read the tour dates, scanning for dates I recognize—birthdays, holidays, dates of historical events. He’s just finished punching his PIN into the machine when I see his eyes in the ATM’s mirror. He spins around, face twisted into a look of disgust.

“Why are you staring at me, bro?” He slips his card back into his wallet and shoves the wallet into his pocket. “Fat fucking faggot,” he says under his breath, just audible enough for me to hear. My face flushes red and I turn around, speedwalking back to the table. I slide into the booth seat and pick up a menu, glancing up to see where the guy is. He’s talking to a server and gesturing madly in my direction. Mason hasn’t noticed this. They’re still reading the drinks menu. I try to read the dinner menu but my eyes tears blur my vision. It’s like all I do these days is cry. The server makes his way to our table.

“Hey, I’m sorry but you guys need to go,” he says.

Mason looks up. “What the fuck? Why?”

“We got a complaint from another patron. You need to leave.”

Mason scoffs. “What, some transphobic prick wants us gone? Who is it?”

I point to the guy in the band shirt, now laughing with someone at the bar. Mason gets up and storms over to him and taps him roughly on the shoulder.

“What’s your fucking problem man?” Mason says, loud enough that people look over in surprise, eager to see some action. The guy stands up. He’s an inch or two taller than Mason, definitely bulkier.

“C’mon, we really should go,” I say. Mason doesn’t react. Instead they push the guy back into the bar, knocking over a beer bottle and spilling it onto his jeans. He punches Mason square in the nose, hard. People shout. A couple of bigger guys get out of their seats and pull the two apart. Mason spits blood at the guy. They thrash in the grip of the other patron and I get a better look at their—now clearly broken—nose. “Oh my God,” I say. I get up and walk over to the scene. Mason wrenches themself free and stomps toward the door. I follow.

“We should go to the hospital. Or the police,” I say.

Mason spits into a bush. “Fuck that. I’m sick of the hospital. I’ll be fine. I’m getting fucking drunk tonight.”

We walk down the street. Mason tilts their head back but blood continues flowing down their shirt, dripping onto the sidewalk. They make a turn in the opposite direction of their house. We enter a corner store. The cashier eyes Mason and mumbles something about having to mop the floor. Mason ducks through the aisles into the liquor section and picks up the largest bottle of whiskey I’ve ever seen. They pick a few shooters of vodka off the shelf and drop them into their jacket pocket. They pay at the counter with a fifty and we’re out the door.

***

Mason’s passed out drunk on the couch. I don’t know what to do with myself. I decide to stay for the night. Mom complains when I call her, saying she needs me at home. I tell her I need to keep an eye on Mason, make sure they don’t have alcohol poisoning. And besides, there’s no way I’m making the drive at this hour. I stretch out on the floor with my laptop and open my email. There’s an email from an address I don’t recognize. The subject line reads, “ACCEPTED – SCHEDULE VIRTUAL INTERVIEW.” It doesn’t make sense. This is my personal email. I don’t give it out to anyone. I open the message and read:

The HeadScratcher team is thrilled to invite you for a virtual interview! Please give two or thee times this week that work for you.

They could have easily found my work email through my publication. Searching my name yields my personal website, a cobbled together graphical mess that lists my papers and personal projects. But that only displays my old school email. I haven’t updated it since I got into my master’s program.

I shut my laptop. I’m not doing this. I don’t know what I was thinking, sending in that application. I’m not the kind of person that goes on TV. Trans people don’t make it onto TV unless they’re axe murderers or dead sex workers. I don’t want to be on a game show anyways. I want to curl into a ball and shrink and shrink until I’m gone.

Mason turns over onto their back. I get up off the floor with some difficulty. I move over to the couch and turn Mason onto their side. I don’t want them to choke on their own vomit. They mumble something, then go back to snoring. Once I’m confident that Mason won’t roll back over, I make my way downstairs, into the basement. Mango seeds take between seven and twenty-eight days to sprout under ideal conditions. I flick on the light and squint through the brightness. Mason’s microgreen hydroponics hum along with the faint buzz of the light bulb. I walk to the radiator where I last saw the seed. I realize that the makeshift greenhouse has been disassembled and is lying scattered across the floor. The ochre pot lies shattered on the concrete floor. The seed is nowhere to be found. I turn off the light and walk up the stairs, careful not to make too much noise.

“Bee?” Mason slurs from the living room.

“Yeah, I’m here,” I respond. I turn the corner to see them upright, pouring another shot. I pick up the glass and put my hand on Mason’s. I guide the bottle back down to the table. “What happened to the mango tree?”

“Threw out the seed. Who cares?” They flop back onto the couch and shut their eyes with a sigh. “I love you, you know that?” they say. I don’t respond.

Once Mason is asleep again, I begin digging through garbage cans. First, the kitchen garbage, then the waste basket in their bedroom. I go outside, shivering without my jacket. The street lights illuminate the lawn, a collection of native grasses and colorful lawn ornaments. I find the seed at the top of the garbage can, the corner of the ziplock bag peeking out from the can’s lid. If I had waited for morning, the garbage truck would have picked it up. I don’t know how long it’s been out here. Surely the cold isn’t good for it. I pick it up, turning it over in my hands. A sliver of green is just barely visible in a crack on the side. A small tendril pokes it way out of the base, about the length of my pinkie nail. I don’t know if Mason saw it sprout. I don’t know if it matters. I put the bag in my pocket. I can feel the seed cold against my thigh. I go back into the house and curl up next to the couch. I keep my hand in my pocket, warming the seed in my palm. I fall asleep that way.

I dream of a desiccated brown rainforest, emaciated monkeys picking at shriveled fruit, falling from fragile branches to the forest floor. It’s quiet, devoid of the usual jungle chatter. A silent inferno rips its way through the canopy, birds fleeing from its wrath, feathers catching fire, spreading the flames further. When I wake, I don’t remember the carnage, only a muddy color and a feeling I have no hope of putting into words.