When Tomatoes Come to Call
by Donnie Denome
Lina is perfectly happy sitting around all day watching TV in her pajamas. That is, until the doorbell rings. She answers it, expecting the postman or a solicitor. Instead, a tomato the size of an exercise ball with a ridiculously large smile holding a battle ax floats about three feet off the ground. “Hello,” it says. “Who are you?”
She swallows her scream, shuts the door, and rubs her eyes. Several deep breaths later, armed with a phone and a plastic butter knife, she reopens the door. The tomato is still there. “I wish you’d tell me your name. I’m Randall the Killer Tomato!” His voice is all too friendly.
“Lina,” she gasps. “Uh… do you want to come inside?”
“I hope you’re not planning to dissect me,” Randall murmurs. “There’s no need for the knife, you know. I’m harmless.” He floats inside, looking at the various posters tacked up to cover the rotting walls.
“You just said you were a killer tomato!” Unable to think of what else to do, she makes tea; two cups, just in case.
“It’s just a job title. Is that tea? I love tea!” He deposits his battle ax by the door, making sure that it doesn’t touch anything too precious. “Do you have any food?”
“Well, what do you want?” She pulls some oranges out of a cupboard to cut up, then remembers that tomatoes might be a fruit. “Oranges okay?”
“Sure!” He floats over to the table in the middle of the living room. “Lovely place you got here.”
“Thanks.” She cuts up the oranges as she waits for the water to boil, then pours it over sachets of jasmine leaves. “So… er… where are you from?”
“Well, I lived in Oregon for a while. I live in Massachusetts now.”
“What are you doing here?” She brings out the food and drinks. They dig in. Randall just swallows the slices whole, not caring about the rimes.
“Trying to find an old friend.” He polishes off the oranges, downs the tea in one gulp, and watches her. “We’re meeting up soon.”
“What is she,” Lina laughs, “a peach?”
“Yes.” He doesn’t seem to be laughing, so she tries not to. “We’ve been friends for years.”
“Can I ask you something?”
“You already have, but go ahead and ask me something else.” His eyes follow her as she goes back in the kitchen for more tea, bread, and carrots. “You’re going to ask me if all my friends are foods.”
“How’d you know?”
“I just do. The answer is no.”
“Are there a lot of… anthropomorphic foods out there?” She brings out the rest of the grub.
“Yes.” He chews on the bread, but turns his nose up at the carrots. “Carrots are such snobs.”
The conversations drifts from his friends to her job to the weather. She becomes immune to how ridiculous the situation is and just lets words flow. The tomato seems not to notice that he is the thing out of place, the apparition, the nonsense, the lunacy in a sea of normal. By the time noon rolls around, neither of them has any qualms about pouring out embarrassing stories and secrets like tea from the kettle.
It’s only around two, after almost five hours of swapping stories and eating practically everything in the house that she remembers that she’s got a drama rehearsal in half-an-hour. She admits this to Randall, who seems to be fine with it. Well, of course he would. He’s a killer tomato! He’s practically a cannibalistic killer tomato, what with his tendency to eat oranges and celery and bell peppers! “I’m sorry,” she mutters, “you can’t come. I don’t even… well, for all I know, you could just be the result of too many sleepless night. That’s discounting the fact that all thespians are just the tiniest bit crazy.”
“Everyone I’ve talked to could see me.”
“Well, maybe people don’t like to talk to things they can’t see.”
“You’re right.” He sort of bobs up and down, giving the illusion that he’s nodding. “I once heard of a sentient tomato—a little one, not a huge one—who hid in someone’s toaster and truly freaked the guy out. I feel bad for that guy.”
“Yeah.” She stretches out on the floor. “I’m gonna take a nap for a few minutes. Will you wake me up around two-thirty?” The carpet feels all too soft—but
she has met a talking tomato today. Maybe her carpet being so plush is a sign of how crazy she really is.
“Sure.” He reaches for the plate with the fruit salad on it, but hits his hand on the coffee table corner. Tomato juice splatters on her face, making her bolt up in a panic. “’S fine. Happens all the time. Sometimes I wish I was a grapefruit. They’ve got nice thick skins. Nothing bothers them, really.”
She falls asleep, a lump on the floor feeling oddly like a pillow, her jacket suspiciously like a blanket. “Lina—” Randall says, but she’s too far asleep to hear him properly. Maybe, she thinks, I’ll fall asleep and dream of a nice, normal day. A day without food invading my house or eating every morsel I own. A day where all I have to do is practice my lines and do run-throughs at the theatre. “Lina,” Randall hisses.
“Yeah?” She opens her eyes.
“Lina, we have to go! The bus just arrived at the auditorium.” Kallie, one of the crew members, bends over her. “That must have been one wild dream. You were mumbling about tomatoes.”
“Yeah.” She gets up, shoves her travel pillow and blanket into her back, looks at her pajamas, and ambles off the bus. “It was a weird dream.”
She gets to the dressing room. Looking in the mirror, she’s initially convinced she’s got a nasty case of hives. Closer inspection reveals it’s tomato juice, complete with seeds and flesh.
by Donnie Denome
Lina is perfectly happy sitting around all day watching TV in her pajamas. That is, until the doorbell rings. She answers it, expecting the postman or a solicitor. Instead, a tomato the size of an exercise ball with a ridiculously large smile holding a battle ax floats about three feet off the ground. “Hello,” it says. “Who are you?”
She swallows her scream, shuts the door, and rubs her eyes. Several deep breaths later, armed with a phone and a plastic butter knife, she reopens the door. The tomato is still there. “I wish you’d tell me your name. I’m Randall the Killer Tomato!” His voice is all too friendly.
“Lina,” she gasps. “Uh… do you want to come inside?”
“I hope you’re not planning to dissect me,” Randall murmurs. “There’s no need for the knife, you know. I’m harmless.” He floats inside, looking at the various posters tacked up to cover the rotting walls.
“You just said you were a killer tomato!” Unable to think of what else to do, she makes tea; two cups, just in case.
“It’s just a job title. Is that tea? I love tea!” He deposits his battle ax by the door, making sure that it doesn’t touch anything too precious. “Do you have any food?”
“Well, what do you want?” She pulls some oranges out of a cupboard to cut up, then remembers that tomatoes might be a fruit. “Oranges okay?”
“Sure!” He floats over to the table in the middle of the living room. “Lovely place you got here.”
“Thanks.” She cuts up the oranges as she waits for the water to boil, then pours it over sachets of jasmine leaves. “So… er… where are you from?”
“Well, I lived in Oregon for a while. I live in Massachusetts now.”
“What are you doing here?” She brings out the food and drinks. They dig in. Randall just swallows the slices whole, not caring about the rimes.
“Trying to find an old friend.” He polishes off the oranges, downs the tea in one gulp, and watches her. “We’re meeting up soon.”
“What is she,” Lina laughs, “a peach?”
“Yes.” He doesn’t seem to be laughing, so she tries not to. “We’ve been friends for years.”
“Can I ask you something?”
“You already have, but go ahead and ask me something else.” His eyes follow her as she goes back in the kitchen for more tea, bread, and carrots. “You’re going to ask me if all my friends are foods.”
“How’d you know?”
“I just do. The answer is no.”
“Are there a lot of… anthropomorphic foods out there?” She brings out the rest of the grub.
“Yes.” He chews on the bread, but turns his nose up at the carrots. “Carrots are such snobs.”
The conversations drifts from his friends to her job to the weather. She becomes immune to how ridiculous the situation is and just lets words flow. The tomato seems not to notice that he is the thing out of place, the apparition, the nonsense, the lunacy in a sea of normal. By the time noon rolls around, neither of them has any qualms about pouring out embarrassing stories and secrets like tea from the kettle.
It’s only around two, after almost five hours of swapping stories and eating practically everything in the house that she remembers that she’s got a drama rehearsal in half-an-hour. She admits this to Randall, who seems to be fine with it. Well, of course he would. He’s a killer tomato! He’s practically a cannibalistic killer tomato, what with his tendency to eat oranges and celery and bell peppers! “I’m sorry,” she mutters, “you can’t come. I don’t even… well, for all I know, you could just be the result of too many sleepless night. That’s discounting the fact that all thespians are just the tiniest bit crazy.”
“Everyone I’ve talked to could see me.”
“Well, maybe people don’t like to talk to things they can’t see.”
“You’re right.” He sort of bobs up and down, giving the illusion that he’s nodding. “I once heard of a sentient tomato—a little one, not a huge one—who hid in someone’s toaster and truly freaked the guy out. I feel bad for that guy.”
“Yeah.” She stretches out on the floor. “I’m gonna take a nap for a few minutes. Will you wake me up around two-thirty?” The carpet feels all too soft—but
she has met a talking tomato today. Maybe her carpet being so plush is a sign of how crazy she really is.
“Sure.” He reaches for the plate with the fruit salad on it, but hits his hand on the coffee table corner. Tomato juice splatters on her face, making her bolt up in a panic. “’S fine. Happens all the time. Sometimes I wish I was a grapefruit. They’ve got nice thick skins. Nothing bothers them, really.”
She falls asleep, a lump on the floor feeling oddly like a pillow, her jacket suspiciously like a blanket. “Lina—” Randall says, but she’s too far asleep to hear him properly. Maybe, she thinks, I’ll fall asleep and dream of a nice, normal day. A day without food invading my house or eating every morsel I own. A day where all I have to do is practice my lines and do run-throughs at the theatre. “Lina,” Randall hisses.
“Yeah?” She opens her eyes.
“Lina, we have to go! The bus just arrived at the auditorium.” Kallie, one of the crew members, bends over her. “That must have been one wild dream. You were mumbling about tomatoes.”
“Yeah.” She gets up, shoves her travel pillow and blanket into her back, looks at her pajamas, and ambles off the bus. “It was a weird dream.”
She gets to the dressing room. Looking in the mirror, she’s initially convinced she’s got a nasty case of hives. Closer inspection reveals it’s tomato juice, complete with seeds and flesh.