BUILDING X GETS TOMATOED

Shielding the sun-rays that reflected brilliantly off the nearby waters of the man-made pond, Desmond surveyed Laura’s handiwork. “No squashes. Did they maybe not sprout yet?”

Laura shrugged, as she, alongside Desmond, stepped from the parking lot, across the grass, to the edge of the garden plot. Not less than a mile away, the rocky, imposing Boulder foothills provided a worthy backdrop to the beauty which lay before them. “Nope, no squashes. Tomatoes and flowers were all they had at that tag sale I’d visited those few months ago. So, that’s all that’s here. Seeds at the store are expensive.”

Desmond pointed. “What kind of tomato is that one there over by that small patch of weeds?”

Laura rolled her eyes. “They grow so fast, those weeds. I weeded that area just last week.” She craned her neck. “What, that bright-red one? That’s an Early Girl. A hybrid that’s highly recommended for Colorado summers. Then, over there with those little fences around them are the Big Beefs and Big Girls. I put those tomato fences in myself. Well, most of them. And, over here by the water hose are the—”

“Petunias,” Desmond said, beaming.

Laura gave Desmond a high five. “That’s right! Good for you, Des. And marigolds, and morning glories. The ones I like best, though, are the daisies. Look at how eye-popping those flowers are.”

“Flowers are in full bloom. Tomatoes are almost ripe.”

“Almost, being the keyword. Give it another week.”

Desmond shook his head. “You did all of this yourself?”

Laura extended her gaze in the direction of the pond just beyond the garden and the cluster of buildings just beyond that. She explained, “Sam and Lauren in Building R across Lake Michigan there volunteered to seed, rototill and fertilize for me. Others helped, too, here and there. I just weed and water, mostly. My P.O.T.S won’t let me do much else.” Laura placed her hands on her hips. “I was the one who initiated and managed this whole operation, though. It feels good to use my body and mind for something useful, after so long. My son was right about this whole gardening thing.”

“Your son obviously knows what’s up,” a voice said from behind them. Laura and Desmond turned to look. A middle-aged man, sitting on the iron-framed garden bench that Sam from Building R had bought at Home Depot as a garden accessory, smiled at them. “It’s a really nice garden,” he said, leaning back and taking a drag from his cigarette. “Sometimes, after long, hard days of barking orders at my warehouse guys, I stop by this place to hang out and de-stress. It’s my oasis.” The man seemed to regard with curiosity Laura and Desmond’s wide-eyed expressions at their furtive garden visitor. “My name is Victor Ortega, by the way; and my bark is far worse than my bite. I live in Building M. Right now, I’m only here because the maintenance guy is in my apartment replacing my oven. The heating component burned out.”

Desmond studied, and seemed to envy, the man’s purple-and-black dress shirt with FedEx imprint on the bust. “Maintenance?” he said. “We don’t get much of that over in Building X. Complaints get made, but never work orders. What’s your secret?”

Victor smiled as he took another drag of his cigarette. “I think my secret is that I don’t live in Building X.” Squashing his cigarette in the grass, he rose. “Anyway, I’ve gotta head back to check up on things. They’re probably done now.” He turned on his heel. Again, great job with the garden. Ten long rows of tomatoes—that’s enough to feed the entire complex.”

Laura explained to Desmond, “That was our original plan. Someone must have told him. See, originally, what we thought we’d do was...” Laura was interrupted by the ringing of her cell phone.

She dug into her pocket. Eyeing the screen, she exclaimed, “What do you know, it’s Nate.” She held the phone to her ear. “Hey, champ.” She paused. “Yes, I’m fine. We’re out here at the garden.” She listened. “Oh, just me and a friend and some guy named Victor.” She brightened. “Why, sure, I can buy you a new baseball mitt. I’d love to do that for you.” She listened. “No, I’m not too sick to drive. It’s just on certain, rare occasions I’ll have that problem where I—” Listening, Laura’s eyes narrowed. “No, I am not making excuses for myself again. I just told you I can drive. I won’t pass out at the wheel, I promise.” Laura groaned. “Yes, I really did pass out that day. Champ, you know I would never, ever have missed that hearing intentionally.” She waited. “Yes, really.” She rolled her eyes. “Well, I don’t care what your father says. He doesn’t know. He was at the courthouse at the time, not my apartment. Look, we can travel to the store together so you can pick out a new baseball glove, OK? Only, not this coming weekend, because we’re having an event.” Her shoulders slumped. “Oh, you’ve picked one out already and you want me to order it online?” Laura swallowed. “Yes, I guess I can do that for you. Well, anyway, tell your father I said hi.” Listening, she leveled her brow. “Ok, don’t tell your father I say hi. Bye.” Laura hung up then rammed the phone into her pocket.

Desmond said, weakly, “It must be nice having a family. I used to have one. Back when I was twelve.”

Laura cursed under her breath. “That son is the only family I got, Des. Him, and maybe that guy over there...” Laura waved in the direction of the pond. “Hi, Sam!” she hollered.

On the other side of the pond, hanging out a window on the third floor of the building next to the basketball court, an old man waved back. “Hi, Laura! Isn’t she coming along nicely?”

Laura hollered back, “The tomatoes, especially!”

Laura said to Desmond, “That’s Sam, from Building R. He reminds me of Colonel Sanders. Don’t tell him I said that, though; he’s a vegetarian.” Placing her hands on her hips, she turned around. Her sights were met with a young man trundling across the parking lot with a sack of trash in his hand. “C’mon,” she said, nudging Desmond, “let’s do something crazy like go make friends with some of our neighbors.”

Desmond put in, “That’s crazy, alright.”

Laura said, “But not half as crazy as I will be if I keep standing here thinking about ex-husbands and sons who don’t ever want to see me.”

Limping along, Desmond followed, reluctantly, Laura’s steps in the direction of the young man with the trash.

“Oh!” Laura exclaimed. “I forgot about your bad hip.”

Desmond grimaced. “And my bad back, and bad knee. No worries. Just another day in paradise.” He called over, as they pursued the young man, “What it do?”

Laura smiled. “I didn’t know you’s from the hood, Des.” She eyed the man at the dumpster as he tossed his sack in. “I don’t think he heard you. Let’s wait right here. We’ll intercept him on his way back.”

Halting alongside her, Desmond said, “I’s from the hood, Laur. Worked my way outta that hood and got that associates ‘til I had that construction accident. To fools who make like they all ghetto, like this boy here, I talk ghetto. He think he be a regular OG, this one do. Gotta talk they language, then, you know?” Desmond placed his hands on his hips. “It’s called sarcasm.”

Laura patted Desmond on the shoulder. “I like it when you talk ghetto, Des. It gives you sort of, well, an edge. You’re such a teddy bear otherwise, didn’t you know?”

Desmond narrowed his eyes. “Here he comes. May I introduce…Slayer, lives up my way in 3A. He’s a real treat, an honest-to-goodness...well, you’ll find out for yourself in just a sec.”

Laura called, “Hey, Slayer!”

Slayer answered, as he approached, “Hey, what?”

Laura smiled. “Oh, hello there, neighbor. Well, we were just wondering if you might have any plans for next weekend?”

The young man nodded at them. “Why do you and that brotha there wanna know whether I got plans for next weekend?” Running a finger through his scraggily, long brown hair, he said, “You homies in with the Bloods? You recruiting, cuz?” He cracked a smile. “Sorry, but the Sureños asked last week and I said nah, and the Crips begged me the week before that.” Slayer yawned. “Yeah, all the Denver-area gangs all want me. They know how good Slayer’d be at taking out rival gang members, running—sprinting, more like—across the border, that sorta stuff. All of that would get kinda boring, though, I’m thinking, and so instead I just—”

“Hide in your crib and play video games?” Desmond offered.

Slayer blinked. “And listen to my jams, too, sure.”

Desmond narrowed his eyes at the young man. “A stray cat like this wouldn’t know that the Sureños don’t recruit white bread,” he told Laura.

Slayer cried, “Hey, I heard that. Yeah, they do…I’m pretty sure!”

Desmond raised his voice, “You be nice to Laura now, you hear? You just answer her question and stop it with all of this gangster wannabee and compulsive lying crap.”

Laura patted Desmond’s arm to calm him. “I ask because I’m organizing a shin-dig for next weekend for the tenants of Building X, and we wanted to know if you would like to come.”

Slayer kicked the pavement with his sneaker. “Vegetable viewing party?” He made a face like a child forced to eat his vegetables. “Hells, nah. Also, next weekend’s when I go visit my homies at the Boulder County Jail. Gonna use my street-smarts to help them break out of their jail cells, ya feel me? Then, we all be, like, on the run and stuff, ha ha.” Laura noticed Slayer’s face darken in response to the look of disapproval on her own face. Slayer cleared his throat. “What I mean to say is, er, I got to go help some friends on Saturday rescue some stray cats—I mean, cows; I mean…” he thought about it “…cows, that’s right—who broke out of their jail cells, or like, their pens, or whatever those things are called.” Slayer made some kind of gang sign. “You feel me?”

Desmond dismissed Slayer with a flick of his wrist. “Listen to this cowboy. C’mon, Laura, let’s go.”

Laura touched Desmond’s arm to stay him. “Wait, how did you know about the, er, vegetable viewing party? Jose’s the only one we told so far.”

Slayer raised an eyebrow. “Jose?”

Laura nodded. “The nervous little Hispanic fellow in 1D.”

Desmond put in, “The nervous little Hispanic homie who’s clearly from the streets but who wants to get off the streets by getting his GED. Smart. You’d be smart, too, if you poked your nose in something like a book instead of hovering it over whatever it is you be sniffing.”

Slayer narrowed his eyes. “Oh, yeah, that fool. Well, he was the one who told me. Went around knocking on doors saying that Laura-someone-or-other was nice to him and that whoever doesn’t come to this deal on Saturday is gonna get a tomato thrown at them.” Slayer ran his palm overtop his fist. “Let me tell you sumptin. He tosses at me, it’s not a tomato I’m gonna throw back at him, but him I’m gonna throw at the tomatoes. You feel me?”

Slayer inserted his earbuds. Dipping his shoulders like a regular gangster and bopping his head to music that sounded nothing at all like Lionel Ritchie, he swaggered off.

Laura noted, “At least he’s got the walk down.” Shrugging, she added, “At least he spoke to us.” She pursed her lips. “Speaking of, I’ve got an idea. C’mon, follow me…” Laura guided their steps in the direction of Building X. “We need a better promoter than poor Jose. He means well, but it doesn’t sound like he’s very diplomatic.”

Clutching the small of his back and dragging his left foot along as they coursed the paved lot, Desmond said, “Why don’t you promote?”

“I will. I am. But we need others. It’ll take a community effort to bring this community together. And so, who better to get the ball rolling than the in-house megaphone herself?”

Desmond halted. “Oh, no.” He grimaced. “Not crazy Rain. She catcalls everyone passing by that window of hers. Scares the kids; even her own dog don’t seem to like her. She’s got no off-switch. No shut-off valve with that Missus. Rain is non-stop, day and night, do you hear me? You get to talking with her and…”

Laura smiled as they resumed their course.

Shaking his head, Desmond said, “That you grinnin’ over there, Laura? That P.O.T.S. must be affecting you more than you think.” Desmond allowed his sight to wander. “Say, if we’re gonna have a community get-together, why not have it with some of the folks in these other buildings? Young professionals, students, retired bus drivers, FedEx workers like that guy we just met, what’s his name—Victor. Anything other than loony Section 8 peoples.”

“But these are our people, Des.”

Desmond sidestepped a pothole. “Is that so? I ain’t mentally impaired. I ain’t no psycho.”

Laura pointed at a form standing inside the ground-floor window of the boxy brick building. “Look, there she is.”

Desmond sighed. “As always. Sitting behind that window screen, framed by that window frame. Just like a portrait.” He eyed the figure. “Portraits never leave their paintings, can they? She can. But she don’t.”

Rain didn’t need an invitation to begin conversing. “Hey, neighbors,” she said. “Wanna see a picture I drew?” She pressed it up against the window screen. “It’s a headless giraffe. Isn’t that kinda funny? I didn’t feel like…so I just left it.”

Laura and Desmond drew near. “That’s very nice, Rain,” Laura said.

Rain squished her nose against the window screen. “People think I’m on meth because I’m up day and night and switch out my window displays, like, every day, and my wigs, like, every hour, but that’s just my little bit of schizo acting up, is all.”

Desmond said, “Her little bit of schizo?”

Laura nudged him. “That’s a very nice red-headed wig you got on today, Rain.”

Rain rocked her body back and forth behind the screen. “Guess what? When I get back on my meds I’m gonna call the cops on all those people who keep calling the cops on me. I have a right to speak my mind. It’s a free country. They can’t stop me from being friendly.” Rain swerved her head. “Hey!” she called to the young woman passing on the sidewalk. “You’re tall. Taller than I am. Hey, where you going? Hey, I like your car. It’s a really nice color.” Rain looked at Laura. “Guess what? I’m gonna get surgery on my leg next week after that fall I took two days ago. The doctor says I can even wear my wig while they perform the—”

“Rain, we have something we’d like to ask you.”

Cringing, Rain said, “You’re not gonna call the cops on me, are you?”

“No, of course not. You see, next weekend we’re having a—”

Rain brightened. “Community get-together, I heard.” She fluffed up her hair—her wig. “Look, I’m all about peoples gettin’ together. Yes, I’ll be there. And I, too, will throw a tomato at anyone who does not show.”

Laura surprised herself by saying, “I don’t doubt it.” She cleared her throat. “Do you think you could spread the word? It’d be a huge help.”

“’Course. Hey, guess what?” Rain said, as Laura and Desmond made for the stairs that led to Laura’s second-floor apartment.

Laura waved. “Thanks, Rain. Bye, Rain.”

Rain kept talking. Even as they ascended the steps, Laura and Desmond could hear Rain ramble on about her surgery, past surgeries, her newest window display, her next-to-newest wig…

Desmond swiped his brow. “Whew.”

Laura inserted the key to her door. She withdrew it. She turned around, eyeing the doorway across the hall. “You know, although I don’t plan on going door to door to announce the garden party, I would like to find an excuse to knock on that one. I’ve seen Mackenzie only two or three times since I’ve been here. I wonder if she’d answer.”

Desmond studied the neighbor’s door with its Halloween decorations even though it was mid-summer. “Depends on what, you know, alter she’s got going. One alter might answer. If it’s the other, you can knock all day and she won’t answer. Miss Mackenzie’s dissociative.”

“I know that. Don’t you think I know that? Every time I walk down this hall, I have to hear her talk to herself. Different voices, all arguing with one another. But I never see her. I want to.” Laura’s shoulders dropped. “Though, maybe not now.” She turned to face her door. “One day of being Mister Rogers is probably enough.” Suddenly, she heard the door at the far end of the hallway click open. “Ok,” Laura said, regaining her glow and pocketing her key. “Mister Rogers is back.”

Laura and Desmond watched as a middle-aged woman who was not Mackenzie but might have passed for only older, thinner, soft-pedaled version of her, stepped with all the grace of a robot to the door of 2C. The woman was dressed in a black shirt, black pants, black ballcap lowered as far down as it could go, dark sunglasses, and held a leash in her hand attached to a black dog.

“Hello, neighbor,” Laura said, with a fantastic smile.

Alert and curious, the dog cocked its head. Its owner kept her head wrenched down with sunglasses aimed in the direction of lock and key.

Laura said, louder, “We’ve never officially met, have we? I’m Laura, and this here is Desmond.”

The woman looked up, slowly. Her sunglasses glared at them without the slightest shade of expression on the face behind them. Then, in an instant, the woman spun around and pattered into her room, the door clicking shut behind her.

Desmond said, “You know better than to try to talk to 2C. No one even knows her name. You know why? She don’t talk to people!”

Laura shrugged. “It was worth a try.” She sang as she opened the door, “Would you be mine, could you be mine, won’t you be…my neighbor!”

Desmond stood with wide eyes at the threshold of Laura’s apartment.

Laura eased a smile. “C’mon in, neighbor. I’ll brew us up some coffee.”

That night, peace and quiet was driven from Laura’s apartment by the Building X Midnight Symphony. The sounds, in unison, of Mackenzie across the hall talking in a variety of voices, Rain downstairs sermonizing to cars out in the parking lot, the guy upstairs stomping on the floor and banging on the walls, made Laura get out of bed and trod bleary-eyed into the living room. There, she was forced to partake in the secondhand smoke seeping in through the vents from the apartment next door. Stressed out by all the racket, Laura made her cushioned rocking-chair squeak as she lunged it back and forth. She lowered the Self-Help Guide to Gardening book she had retrieved off the coffee table then sank deep into thought.

At length, she whispered, “The natives are restless tonight. No—” she stopped rocking “—not restless. These are cries for help.” Leaning forward, Laura set the book back on the coffee table.

Images flashed before Laura’s mind of Building X’s own Laura Swanson out in the garden helping her neighbors—leading them out there, explaining to them all about the tomatoes and flowers, handing out baskets, everyone looking to her for instruction just like they did back in the old days when she was a regional manager, and a mom; back before the P.O.T.S.. “Self Help…Gardening...” Laura recited the words on the book cover.

She leaned back in her chair. “I have to walk the line, though. I can’t rightly help my neighbors to help themselves if I’m pushing help on them. This garden party is for me and them, not just me.”

She closed her eyes. Seconds before drifting off to sleep, Laura decided that if only three or four people showed up for her garden party, she would be okay with that.

____________________

Actually, it was five people who showed. Laura, Desmond, Jose, Rain, and the old man from 1B who wore his cycling helmet supposedly even to bed and forever wandered around aimlessly muttering “Mo-ther,” but on this particular day wandered around aimlessly muttering, “To-matoes.”

With the exception of the old man who padded in slow circles around the bench, the others sat down on it to stare, blankly, at the garden. Chatty at first, Rain in her blonde wig quieted, then removed herself to sit Indian-style in the grass to grumble silently when she observed the responses to her commentary were only grunts and sallow faces.

Folding his hands, unfolding them, fidgeting, sighing, Desmond kept saying, “I told you no one would come;” Laura kept assuring him, “Party of five will work;” the old man kept circling and muttering, “To-matoes;” all the while Jose kept his eyes on Building X. Things stayed that way until Jose, rising, smirking, said, “Gotta go pee.”

Five minutes later, Laura heard the fire alarm sound. She watched as tenants and their dogs filed out of the building as fire sirens wailed in the distance.

Jose returned with swag in his step and a smirk. “Problem solved,” he said. “Now, all we gotta do is herd them over.”

While they set out to greet the herd, Jose asked Laura if he had “done good.”

Laura replied, “Well, here they come, willingly, of their own accord, to register their attendance at the garden party. Things could be worse, I guess.”

Desmond just shook his head.

Joining the throng of striding tenants, many of whom were pajama-bottomed and all of whom looked to be present and accounted for, Laura fell alongside the wiry old woman in 1A who had been there longer even than she had but whom Laura had seen only once. “Hey, there. You’re from upstairs, aren’t you? What’s your name?”

Slowing, the woman glared at Laura, warily. “Dorothy Marie Evans. What the hell else you wanna know, my damned social security number?” Resuming her stride, Dorothy scoffed, “Wants to know my name. Bet she’s a lesbian.”

Laura cut a glance in Desmond’s direction. “I’m definitely not a lesbian.”

Dorothy followed Laura’s gaze. “Does he know that, dear?” she said, curving a smile.

From behind, a voice sang, “Ah, love is in the air. Nature welcomes us. The sun is shining. The garden calls.” The voice paused. “My wedding gift to you will be a matching set of doobies set in a case with a big heart on it like that one I keep seeing at the dispensary.”

Laura turned to face the thin, long-haired stoner whom she knew only too well.

The stoner returned her gaze. “Or would you prefer dabs?”

Laura slowed to match steps with him. “You’re my next-door neighbor, aren’t you? The one in 2A? May I ask you something?” She looked into the stoner’s watery eyes. “Do you really have to smoke those doobies or whatever all the dang time? I can smell it through the walls.”

The stoner guffawed. “I don’t have to. I just want to. It helps with my, er, anxiety.”

A clean-cut, well-dressed man of thirty with a never-ending smile who was walking beside the stoner and whom Laura recognized as her neighbor upstairs, put in, “I get stressed out too, man. I’ve found that floors and walls help. The walls are reinforced plaster, so they don’t complain when they get hit. You should try it.”

The stoner looked at the other man’s scarred knuckles and crooked fingers. “Thanks. Think I’ll just stick with the bud.”

“Rufus helps, too.” The clean-cut guy reached down to scratch his terrier behind the ear. “Without my little buddy here, it wouldn’t be just hands and feet that I’d be burying into walls, but my head, probably” He snorted.

“Hey, everybody,” Rain shouted. “We’re here. The garden. This is the place I’ve been telling you guys about!”

Laura squinted the sun out of her eyes as she ventured a look. The flowers were in full bloom, she observed with satisfaction. The green stalks with their yellow, purple, and pink flowers rose to heights of two and three feet. The tomatoes hung off their vines like shiny red water balloons. Clear of any cloud or haze, the mountains in the distance, capped with snow as if they had little hats on, suggested to Laura that the stoner was right—that Nature had gotten dressed up and wanted in on the party, too. The pond just beyond the garden glistened in the afternoon sunlight.

Some of the tenants folded their legs and sat down on the grassy area between garden and parking lot; others stood with their hands in their pajama pockets. Laura exclaimed, “Better sitting in this nice grassy area than over in that parking lot, isn’t it?” Laura squinted. “Oh, look, Des—who’s still in the parking lot.”

Desmond shaded his eyes with his hand. “That’s Mackenzie. The one you so curious about.”

Laura observed the barrel-chested, curly-haired young woman who was standing beside one of the fire trucks. “That’s her, all right.”

From off to the side, Rain offered, “Want me to go get her?”

Laura’s eyes stayed fixed on the figure in the parking lot. “No, I got this.” As if in a daze, Laura said, “Have you ever seen a gray fox, Des?”

Desmond batted an eye. “A gray fox? No, I don’t think so.”

Laura kept her eyes on Mackenzie. “They’re around these parts, but you never see them because they’re shy around humans. Hold the fort; I’ll be back.”

She walked with measured paces, gravel crunching underneath her, to Mackenzie and the fire engine she stood contemplating.

And talking to.

Mackenzie said in a throaty, bellowing voice that Laura recognized as one of Mackenzie’s “other” voices. “Don’t touch the fire trucks. My only goal here is to keep you from touching the fire trucks.”

Slowly, hesitantly, Mackenzie reached to touch the fire truck. Her hand shot back. She reached again. Her fingertip grazed the metal red siding of the truck.

“Oh, now you’ve done it,” the voice declared. “I will not have this. I will not! This is my domain. Mine!”

The young woman answered in the soft, trembling voice of a child, “No, it’s not, Ruth Ann. I’ll touch the fire engines if I want to—” she swallowed “—you bitch! Just you watch as I touch this wheel…”

Mackenzie’s face warped, stretched, and twisted into a face that was not Mackenzie’s. She reared back then released a shriek that was equal parts pain and hilarity. Laura couldn’t decide if it was a crow’s caw she heard or a witch’s cackle, or both. This was followed by a succession of trills, giggles, and groans—sounds that Laura had heard time and again in her treks down the hallway, but to hear it in person was more along the lines of frightening than fascinating. It sent chills down her spine.

Mackenzie lowered her head, and was silent.

Laura wanted to step over and place a soft, consoling hand on Mackenzie’s shoulder, but she feared touching her. The firefighters in their trench coats and helmets had just exited the building. Absorbed in their conversation, they failed to notice the young woman with her fingers all over city property.

Mackenzie followed the path of Laura’s scraping steps toward her with drowsy eyelids that made her look drugged. The Back to the Future t-shirt Mackenzie wore only added to the overall sense of a woman who looked very much out of place in her surroundings.

Laura darted a glance at the firefighters. “Mackenzie, the garden. Everyone is over there except for you.” She widened her eyes in appeal. “We’re all wondering where our favorite neighbor is. C’mon, let’s go to the garden party.”

Mackenzie’s drowsy eyelids twitched. She stared at Laura. She said, in her childlike voice, “Ok,” then followed along. The way Mackenzie dragged her feet along after her reminded Laura so much of her son back when she would tell him things like, “C’mon, Nate; it’s late. No more playing with your friends. Get your butt inside;” back in those days when she would talk and people would listen, and care; back when she still cared.

A firefighter hollered, “Hey, you two get back over here!”

Laura’s heart skipped a beat. They retraced their steps back to the fire truck and the firefighter who was standing in front of it.

“You forgot this,” the man said, bending to scoop a teddy bear off the pavement then handing it to Mackenzie.

While Mackenzie and her teddy bear got lost in the mix of tenants, Laura sat on the bench beside Desmond.

Desmond studied her up and down as she settled in. “You all right?”

Laura looked up. “What kind of question is that?” she said. “Everyone’s here; the sun is shining; nature is smiling; the daisies are eye-popping…”

“Your illness,” Desmond said. “You’ve been on your feet for a hot minute.”

Laura scoffed, “Yeah right, like a little thing like a debilitating illness is gonna slow down a former regional manager at a time like this.” She added, under her breath, “Just a wee bit of chest pain and nausea, nothing too bad.”

Desmond looked over sharply. “What?”

Laura looked straight ahead, saying nothing.

Surveying the premises, Desmond cleared his throat. “Tomatoes, we got. But no lettuce, onions, mayo, buns, or burgers. How we supposed to have an outing without any food, Miss Regional Manager? No soda pop, nothin’. Just these lousy wicker baskets you had me buy at the Dollar General.”

With a twinkle in her eye, Laura beheld Desmond. Standing, she announced, “Hey, does anyone have a cough drop or a tic-tack to hold Desmond over? His tummy is hungry.”

Desmond sighed.

Laura sat down. “Sorry. Sometimes people have itches they gotta scratch, and that one was just too good to let pass.”

Adjusting her sunglasses, lowering her ballcap, the woman in 2C approached the park bench. Hesitating, exchanging glances with Desmond, she sat down beside him. “Hi,” she said, framing what Laura wondered might be her first smile ever.

Laura’s own smile faltered when she noticed how close the woman was sitting to Desmond, and that Desmond had not scooted over. Maybe he’s mad at me for the cough drop thing, she thought. She had an idea.

Standing, she declared, “Everyone, listen up. Each of you is allowed to pick three tomatoes. No more. This is a community garden, and folks from the other buildings will want some, too. Desmond,” she said, turning to him, “you get off that bench now, you hear, and hand out these baskets to the peoples. C’mon, move it or lose it.”

Desmond remained seated. “I’m a grown-ass man,” he scowled. “A proud black man, at that. I think I know how to hand out baskets; and I’m not too big on taking orders, neither.” He lifted the stack of baskets up off the grass.

Laura’s shoulders slumped. “Of course,” she said, weakly. “I should ask you, not tell you. Would you please hand out the baskets, Des?”

Dorothy Marie Evans grinned. “Ah, how sweet. Their first fight.”

Desmond took a break from handing out baskets to peer at her. “We ain’t fighting. This ain’t a fight.”

Through pursed lips, Laura reprimanded herself, “Walk the line. You’re doing this for you and them, not just you.”

Baskets in hand, the tenants weaved their way into the garden to pick their tomatoes. But it was all done so silently, Laura thought, so sullenly. Their task complete, the tenants stood either staring at the mountains or analyzing the fruits of their labor.

Laura waved her arms. “C’mon, everyone, mingle, mingle. This is supposed to be a social-type shindig.” Wrinkling her nose, she looked over. “Oh, is it the building you’re all worried about? See, it’s not burned down. The fire trucks are all leaving. False alarm.”

Desmond padded the grass towards her. “We got one basket left over,” he said, dropping it at her feet.

Laura placed her hands on her hips. She said, loudly, “Someone’s missing. Who is it?”

“Who do you think?” the voice of Slayer said. Everyone turned to look. Taking a drag from his cigarette, Slayer leaned his shoulder up against the white Mazda that someone had made the fateful error of parking way too close to a shindig teeming with Building Xers.

Diminutive in stature, not in manner, Rain hollered, “You get over here and join the party or you’re gonna get tomatoed!”

Laura said, “It’s all right. He doesn’t have to come if he doesn’t want to.”

“No, I don’t want to. Besides…” Slayer took a drag of his cigarette, “I’ve got things to do. I plan to hop the bus, go downtown, then hustle me up a quarter sack of H.”

Desmond explained to Laura, “That means he’s gonna steal from his drug dealer. That’s the first thing that boy’s said that I actually believe.”

With loud, mocking laughter, Slayer turned his back on the party-goers.

Laura saw the tomato fly then splatter across the very center of that back.

“Bullseye!” Jose cried. “Got him!”

“Yay!” Rain cheered.

Slayer turned, slowly. He clawed at the back of his t-shirt then studied the red, pulpy evidence on his hand. “All right, whoever did that is gonna die.”

Desmond turned to Laura. “Things just got worse.”

Slayer stomped across the parking lot. Nearing the wide-eyed tenants, he demanded, “Who did it?” He said, louder, “Who!”

No less than a dozen tenants pointed at Jose.

Slayer’s toothy grin suggested that this pleased him. “Well, then,” he said, eyes all over Jose. He approached Dorothy Marie Evans. “Here—have this make-believe IOU.” He extended his hand at her. “I’ll get you back—not!” He collected the tomatoes out of her basket.

“Thief!” Dorothy shouted at Slayer as he headed off in the direction of Jose. “Ass-hole! Tomato taker!”

Laura nudged Desmond. “Do something.”

Desmond thought about it. “Ok.” He eyed Laura’s basket. “Give me one of those.”

Slayer’s first throw missed Jose entirely.

Jose taunted. “Ha, ha!”

Slayer’s second throw tagged Jose in the pantleg.

Jose weaved his torso and wind-milled his arms in demonstration of his dodging ability. “Keep missing like that, fool, and you’ll be, like, in the Guinness Book of World Records! You’ve got one tomato left.”

Slayer reared back to throw his last tomato—just as one sailed over his head then splattered the hind leg of the terrier who lay flapping its tongue in the grass just beyond him. Yelping, the terrier hopped in surprise.

From his spot in the garden, wholly out-of-step with the ongoing drama while searching for the perfect tomato and his efforts at preserving his never-ending smile, the clean-cut guy from 3D jerked his head up. “Rufus!” he cried, rushing to quell his dog’s barking and whimpering. He wheeled his sights around. “Who was it that just hit my dog?” He noticed Slayer’s raised arm and proximity to the victim.

“You son of a bitch, you hit Rufus!”

Slayer exclaimed, “It wasn’t me. It was the old lady!” He pointed at her.

The clean-cut guy lost his never-ending smile. His eyes grew dark. “C’mon, bro. You expect me to believe that sweet little old lady over there chucked a tomato at my dog? I mean, look at her…”

Everyone looked at Dorothy Marie Evans as she sat whistling and gazing innocently up at the mountains.

“She’s just minding her own business over there.” Shaking his head, the clean-cut guy gathered his arsenal from nearby tomato plants. “You’re goin’ down, bro.”

A tomato splattered the side of Slayer’s head.

Slayer whirled around. “Who did that?” he cried, hysterically. “Who the hell just threw that?”

Desmond giggled, as he sat back down on the bench.

Never one to remain excluded from neighborhood affairs, in a full, schizophrenic frenzy Rain scurried into the garden and began harvesting tomatoes. “Look, I’m making it rain!” she cried, heaving them into the air. The long, slow arc of the tomatoes into the Colorado sky invariably landed on everything from grass, pavement, parked cars, to the occasional head or shoulder.

The old man with the cycling helmet removed his cycling helmet. Wiping the splatter off, he returned it to his head. “To-matoes,” he seethed, reaching into his basket to grip one.

Soon, everyone joined in on the fray—except for Laura. Sitting calmly on the bench, hands folded, Laura watched as tomatoes sailed in front of her, behind her, and over her head. She watched as Desmond stood and returned fire at Slayer’s foray in the direction of the bench. She watched as dogs tore through her daisies with complete abandon in pursuit of airborne tomatoes and in their general excitement, white petals and green leaves flying everywhere. She watched as her nameless neighbor dressed all in black stared through her sunglasses, seemingly oblivious to the smear of tomato on her shoulder and the pandemonium surrounding her. She watched as the stoner lay himself down in the begonias, arms splayed, eyes to the sky, exclaiming, “I love you, world!”

Speechless, Laura sat frozen to the park bench. Still, despite the ongoing destruction of her garden, and against her better interests, Laura set her sights on Mackenzie. She was curious how she would respond to all of this.

She watched as Mackenzie tiptoed to the edge of the garden then stared down earnestly at one of the tomato plants.

Mackenzie’s voice said, “I forbid you to touch these tomatoes. You were allowed to pick only three. My only goal here is to keep you from touching the tomatoes.”

“I’ll pick the damned tomatoes!” Mackenzie shouted at herself. “Everyone else is!”

Mackenzie picked one of the tomatoes. “There,” she said, cradling it in her hand and admiring it as if it were made of gold.

Mackenzie made a quick survey of her surroundings. A devilish gleam in her eye, she raised her arm then hurled her prize at the nearest someone—who turned out to be Dorothy Marie Evans.

Wiping the gooey, red pulp off of her shirt-sleeve, Dorothy leveled her brow. She spotted Mackenzie. Casually, she walked over. Mackenzie drew back, until she noticed the old woman’s grandmotherly smile. “It’s okay, dear,” Dorothy said, patting the young woman’s brawny shoulder. Gritting her teeth, Dorothy palmed the tomato she held behind her back then squashed it against Mackenzie’s forehead.

Mackenzie shrieked. Tomato juice running down her nose, she hurriedly stooped to wrench tomatoes off of their vines then hurl them at the retreating Dorothy and anyone else within range.

Folding his arms, Desmond leaned back and smirked. “Now this is a fight.”

The light in Laura’s eyes as quickly returned. She had an idea. Standing—then ducking to avoid another projectile flung their way, she declared in the manner of beseeching, “Everyone, please, stop! I have something to say. You’re ruining my beautiful garden. Oh…”

Turning to Desmond, she said, “They didn’t hear a single word I just said.”

Desmond unfolded his arms. “Oh, they heard, all right. They’re just not listening.” He stood. Placing two fingers on his lips, Desmond belted out a whistle so loud that dogs stopped barking, tenants stilled, even the couple pushing their stroller on the other side of the pond stopped and looked over.

Laura patted Desmond’s arm. “Thanks a bunch.” She tugged at her shirt collar, the same nervous glitch that so often plagued her whenever she rose to address colleagues at sales conference meetings. This sudden remembrance of her old self instilled confidence in Laura. “Listen, this tomato fight of yours is officially over now, ‘kay? If you keep throwing tomatoes, we won’t have enough left over for our little contest.”

The stoner arose from his meditation spot in the begonias. “Contest?” he said, ambling over.

Desmond raised an eyebrow. “Contest?”

Laura swallowed. “Yes, a contest. You all will pick tomatoes—and flowers, if you’d like—until you fill your baskets. Three tomatoes was the pre-contest limit. Now, the sky’s the limit. The one with the most tomatoes collected in the end will win a prize.” Laura turned, then cupped her hand and whispered in Desmond’s ear, “Better they pick what’s left in the garden than destroy what’s left in it, you know what I mean?”

Desmond blinked. He whispered, “What about those tenants in the other buildings? Won’t they want some nice tomatoes to pick, too?”

Laura shrugged. “They’re not here. They’re no-shows. Oh, well.”

Desmond exclaimed, “They weren’t even invited!” He slapped his hand over his mouth. Lowering his voice, he said, “You’re gonna let them pick all the flowers, too?”

Laura whispered in Desmond’s ear, “To help people, Des, sometimes you have to be willing to give a little bit of yourself.”

Desmond answered, “Or an extra-large, super-sized bit, sure. You’ve invested so much time and effort into this garden, Laura. Just like that—it’ll all be gone.”

Laura whispered, “Yes, but something has to be done. See them?” she said, rotating Desmond’s head to direct his eyes in their direction. “See, too, all of them tomaters they still got in their hands? This whole thing could explode all over again at any second.”

The pulpy, red mess that was Slayer beckoned, “Hey, what are you guys mumbling about over there? It’s about me, isn’t it? You Exorcisted his head like that to make him look at me, didn’t you?”

Jose grinned. “Whoever hits Slayer with the most tomatoes—wins the prize.”

Rain raised her hand. “I have a question.”

Laura straightened. “What is it, Rain?”

“What’s the prize for the winner?”

Laura addressed all of the tenants. “The prize will be…” she twisted her lip, furrowed her brow; then brightened “…a collection of DVDS that some wonderful someone who will remain anonymous has chosen to donate to the cause. These are hit movies, guys. The newest Avengers movies, Spider Man…”

Jose exclaimed, “I love the Avengers!”

“Me, too,” Slayer said, smiling at Jose. “I mean, who doesn’t, right?”

“A-vengers,” the old man in the cycling helmet said.

Desmond glared at Laura. Reaching for her hand, he pulled her off to the side. “I ain’t got no Avengers. No Peter Parker, neither. You know what I got? Clearance items from the Dollar General like Abbot and Costello Meet the Mummy and It’s a Very Merry Halle Berry Christmas Special. I got some black-and-white sitcoms from the 60s with Patty Duke. That’s it!”

Laura looked longingly, appealingly, into Desmond’s eyes.

Jose said, evidently to Slayer, “They’re plotting against you again, bro; planning an assault on your ass!” He slapped his hands. “Let’s bring on the tomato stoning, c’mon!”

Laura could see in Desmond’s eyes that he had heard what was said.

Desmond gulped. “All right. Even if I have to take the bus out to Walmart to buy those high-dollar, new-release DVDs myself, I’ll do it.”

Laura smiled. “I’ll give you a ride over, of course, if you want.”

Laura’s tomato-collecting contest was a hit, she concluded a minute into it, and not simply because no one had over its course gotten hit. Ironically, it was Dorothy’s remark that broke the ice. Cupping the pair of cherry tomatoes dangling side-by-side on the vine, Dorothy noted how long it had been since she’d “gotten my hands on a set of balls this size.” Everyone giggled at that—even Mackenzie’s alter. Laura did not appreciate the raunchiness of the remark, but did appreciate the way it defused the tension. So, she giggled, too. Slayer collected tomatoes alongside the others. What at first were crude remarks spewed in his direction turned gradually into remarks made in jest until everyone, including Slayer, was able to laugh at the dripping, tomatoey mess that was all over him.

The tomato plants stripped clean, the baskets were lined up in front of the bench. Not five minutes later, Desmond and Jose announced that the counting was finished and they had a winner.

Desmond placed the winning basket on the bench for all to see. “And the winner is…” he looked at the winner “…the, er, sunglass lady from 2C!”

Everyone clapped and cheered loudly.

Trembling, her lips quivering as she tried to hold a smile, the sunglass-lady stepped forward to the chorus of congratulation. Securing her sunglasses with the press of a finger, lowering her ballcap, she said, weakly, “Ellen.”

Desmond shook her hand. “Everyone give Ellen another big round of applause.”

The clapping grew louder.

The clean-cut guy shouted, “Great job, Ellen!”

“Good goin’, Ellen!” someone else said.

Laura studied her neighbor. “So, that’s your name,” she said, softly to herself, noticing the path of a tear trickling from underneath Ellen’s sunglasses down her cheek.

Suddenly, Laura wanted to cry, too. She was so happy.

And in pain, she thought, pressing a hand to her chest.

On their march back to Building X, regaining some of the color in her cheeks and fighting back the fatigue, Laura looked up. “At least the building survived the onslaught,” she said, just as a tomato splattered the wood panels between the first and second floors. She heard the sound of giggles in back of her just as she saw Rain pat Slayer on the back then say, “You’re not such a bad guy, after all. You’re really good at taking tomatoes to the head, too. I like that in a man. You are a mess, though. Guess what? Maybe I can help you get cleaned up.”

Desmond pointed at the splatter on the facade. “Your friends Alejandra and Ben at the front office are going be thrilled when they hear about this on Monday.”

“Smile, Des.” Laura bumped him with her hip. “Look, everyone else is. Even though I feel like throwing up, passing out, maybe even passing on—I’m smiling, too.”

Desmond frowned. “The P.O.T.S.?” He reached to support her.

“Yeah, symptoms just started up these past few minutes. Here, help me up these steps—but not so the others will notice. I don’t want them to feel sorry for me. It might ruin their good time.”

“Ah, you’re a saint, Laur. One day you’ll be singing with the angels.”

Her vision beginning to blur, Laura studied her hands. They were as bright red as Early Girls and swollen like the oven mitts she used to burn everything from lasagna to those peach cobblers she couldn’t stop buying at Safeway. Now, she was about to get burned. She could feel it coming.

At the head of the pack, Dorothy Marie Evans said, as she opened the door, “Just you all wait ‘til you taste my homemade pasta sauce. It ain’t like that Ragu crap you buy at the store.”

Laura collapsed at her feet.

Gasping, Dorothy stared down. “Are you all right, dear?”

Desmond said, “No, she’s not all right. Look at her, all lying on the ground like that. Somebody call an ambulance!”Sighing, he gazed down at the collapsed form. “See, you should have just focused on helping yourself instead of trying to save the planet.”

Those were the last words Laura heard before the world dissolved into blackness.