One Friday in July I knock off work early because I’m seeing someone later in the West Village. As a census taker in Harlem, I know where to buy the best bean pie, ginger beer, smothered chicken, pork ribs, and what have you. I also knew all the sidewalk vendors. That Friday, I’m was drawn to one’s classy digs—a tie-died dashiki—and by her odor of fermenting bananas. “What would make someone smile?” I ask myself, out loud. I decide on watermelon, but not just any old watermelon.
“I knew somebody’s gonna buy Big Daddy, but never thought it might be you. Think you’re man enough to tackle Big Daddy?” asks the vendor.
“How much?” I ask.
“For you, only three dollars,” she answers.
“A bargain at any price. Here you go,” I say, handing her two crisp ones and dropping four quarters into her hand, one by one.
“Hey man, thanks for the change. Have fun with Big Daddy. Tell me all about it tomorrow.”
I hoist Big Daddy—the first heavyweight contender disguised as a watermelon—onto my right shoulder, switch to my left, then back to my right. When we reached the 125th Street Subway Station, I curl my arms to cradle Big Daddy and take the steps gently. Pocket fishing for a token, I rest Big Daddy on the turnstile. He loses his balance, then slips. With visions of Big Daddy face-planting on the concrete, I bend my legs and catch him against the turnstile, then return him to the safety of my cradling arms. A six-inch crack has formed, lengthwise. The train comes promptly and we make ourselves comfy. Big Daddy rests securely on my lap.
Two girls around ten years old walk over and sit beside us.
“I’ve never seen such a big watermelon before,” says one, patting Big Daddy.
“Did it crack because it got big?” the second asks
“Naw,” I say, “he cracked ‘cause he slipped. You ever seen a man juggle watermelons?”
“You got more watermelons?” asks the first.
A woman yells to the girls, “What did I tell you? Get back over here this instant.”
I soon realize the crack has widened and something cool is dripping down my leg. The drip eventually turns into a steady stream. I think about crossing my legs but conclude that would make no difference. I look down and see a puddle about 12 inches wide on the floor beneath my seat. I think about switching seats. Then I notice anybody near us is already switching. And anybody who boards our train and inadvertently moves in our direction quickly has second thoughts and redirects.
“It’s not me,” I say to the homeless man sitting across the aisle from us.
“That’s what I always tell ‘em,” he intones, “Don’t let public opinion get you down.”
As we approach our stop, I pull out my handkerchief and do my best to clean Big Daddy up. He is still sticky wet so I wrap his underside with The Daily News. By the time the train stops at 14th Street, Big Daddy and I had planned how we’d make our break. I cradle him again in my curled arms. No token is required to depart, but the rapidly-turning, one-directional exit gates make no provision for extra-large watermelons. I contemplate asking to use the handicapped gate. I envision security demanding papers proving Big Daddy is handicapped, as if that weren’t blatantly obvious. Instead, I slow the exit gate’s crushing whirl, escape injury-free, and begin ascending the steps. People coming down—having no notion of the mortification we’d suffered—smile and rudely ask if I wanted to share. With only a block left between us and our destination, I feel stronger now—lighter, as if a weight lifted. It dawns on me, people are looking at my pants, especially between my legs, because standing up I lose all ambiguity.
A homeless woman lurches at me, asks for a quarter, then retreats saying, “No, it’s okay. Not today, thanks.”
I reach my destination and nudge the blue outer door open with my left knee. I climb four steps gingerly. My arms feel ready to fall off. I asked someone who is leaving to press the button for Apartment 1D. He hesitates.
“Oh, that. Been running. Sweating,” I say, smiling as naturally as possible.
With a look of complete certainty he is doing the wrong thing, he presses the button.
Eileen answers, I identify myself, and she rings me in. I lean into the next door and beeline to my right.
“What’d you bring me, Jimmy?” Eileen asks, opening the door, mouth open wide and arms held aloft to show surprise.
“That’s Big Daddy. We’ve had a long trip. Can we sit?” I ask.
“Make yourself comfortable. Anywhere!” Eileen says.
I position Big Daddy on the kitchen table.
“And you brought me the Daily News! How’d you know I didn’t buy one today?” Eileen asks.
“It was Big Daddy’s idea,” I say.
“Thank you, Big Daddy,” says Eileen, caressing Big Daddy. “Can I get you two anything?”
“A scale, for the weigh-in,” I say.
“You want to weigh yourself?” she asks.
“No, Big Daddy,” I say.
Big Daddy weighs in at 42 pounds.
“Hey, what happenna you?” Eileen asks, “You wanna take those off?”
“Ask Big Daddy. Yeah,” I say as I drop my sticky wet pants and hand them over.
Eileen lifts Big Daddy and holds him close. They dance to Santana’s Black Magic Woman as he juices down her shirt and into her pants.
“You crack me up,” Eileen says, as they fall together onto her waterbed, where I join them. “They’re gonna say we turned this neighborhood seedy.”
