Holy Banana Peel!

by Jane Brown

“Would you like underpants on the outside?” Celeste asked as she flicked her blonde curls out of her eyes and adjusted the tape measure.

The man’s body tensed. His green eyes darted around her shop, digesting the array of superhero outfits.

Celeste placed a hand on his shoulder. “Jim — was it? — I know it’s overwhelming. But you need to trust me. I’ll make you the perfect suit. I’m exceptionally good at my job.” She winked.

He looked into her eyes and laughed. “All right. I trust you. But no outside underpants, please.”

Celeste smiled. “It’s a bit old fashioned but you’d be surprised how many still request it.” She wrote down his arm measurements and began the inner leg. Underneath his baggy jeans and t-shirt his body was in good shape. Really good shape. Lean and muscular. With his thick black hair and light stubble, he was undeniably attractive and for a second her mind wandered before she shook herself back to reality.

“So . . . Jim, have you had your powers long?”

“A few months.”

“Radioactive spider bite? Magical ring? Experiment gone wrong?”

“I have no idea how it happened. I saw a lady getting mugged in an alleyway and before I knew it, her attackers were on the ground and I’d rescued her.”

“Ahh, genetic mutation. Born with powers but needed a traumatic experience to release them. Same as my dad. He could freeze objects. That’s how he met my mom, actually. Saved her from a falling piano. After they married, she started making superhero costumes. Said it was more fun than sewing wedding dresses. I inherited the shop from her.”

“You’ve obviously inherited your mom’s talent too! These suits are amazing. You’re very gifted.”

Celeste blushed. She wasn’t used to compliments. Most superheroes were so narcissistic she wondered if they performed good deeds purely for the adoration. Jim seemed different. He hadn’t even mentioned his superpower yet — usually the first thing her clients bragged about.

“Jim, I tailor make every outfit to suit the owner’s superpowers. What are yours? Super speed? Strength? Elasticity?”

He gazed at the floor. “I generate and shoot weapons from my wrists. Kinda like Spiderman with his webs.”

“Ooh, how cool! What kind of weapons?”

He hesitated, then mumbled something.

Celeste looked up. “Sorry?”

“Banana peels. I shoot banana peels.”

Celeste giggled but immediately stopped when she saw the hurt in his eyes.

“Wow. How . . . unique! I think you’re the first superhero I know to have a food-related power.”

“It’s a rubbish superpower. If I’d had super strength instead maybe I could have stopped the truck that ploughed down my parents.”

“I’m so sorry, Jim. What an awful tragedy. But I think you are incredibly lucky to be blessed with the gift of a superpower. I wish I had one. You’ve already saved one person. Who knows how many more you’ll save? Let’s brainstorm kickass ways to defeat baddies with fruit skins.”

Two days later, Jim cautiously crouched in front of the mirror, then spun into a roundhouse kick. “It’s perfect.” He grinned as he stroked the shiny yellow material. “There’s something missing, though. Can you add a pocket on the side?”

Celeste raised her eyebrows but smiled. “Sure, come back tomorrow.”

The next day, he requested a lightning bolt on the left arm.

The day after, a black cape. That time, he came bearing coffee and carrot cake.

A few weeks later, Jim’s suit had more customisations than all of Celeste’s other creations put together. His visits to her shop had become routine, always timed to perfection with morning tea so they could sit and chat. Celeste never booked another appointment for that timeslot.

One day, he entered the shop to find Celeste, head in her hands, sobbing.

He rushed over and put his arm around her. “What happened?”

“My sewing machine broke and I’ve got three suits that need to be finished by tomorrow!”

“Let me help. I’m good with my hands.”

She looked up at him, eyes shining with gratitude.

He took her head in his hands and guided their faces together for a kiss.

Celeste shuddered, succumbing to her passion before violently pulling back. “I can’t. I’m sorry.”

Jim blinked, confused. “Celeste?”

She turned away. “All through my childhood, I watched my mom toss and turn every night, anticipating the call to say my dad wouldn’t be coming home. And one night, the phone rang. She died of a broken heart shortly afterwards. So now I have a rule. No dating superheroes.”

“But . . .”

“I’m sorry, Jim. I like you . . . but a rule’s a rule. I think it’s best you don’t come back here. Good luck with your suit. Take care and goodbye.” She ushered him out and locked the door.

Jim sat alone on a park bench for hours before coming to his decision. He wouldn’t give up that easily.

He was a few feet from Celeste’s shop when he heard gunshots. Heart racing, he burst through the door, slinging banana peels at the two robbers who had guns pointed at a trembling Celeste.

KAPOW! Ten rapid-fire banana peels pounded one of the robbers.

BAM! Another banana peel hit the other robber who stumbled backwards, slipped on a different banana peel and knocked his head on the sewing machine.

Relieved, Jim took a step towards Celeste.

BANG!

He turned and saw a third robber and a bullet which was somehow frozen in mid-air, inches from Jim’s heart.

Then he noticed Celeste’s face contorted in concentration.

Jim rotated the bullet and Celeste unfroze it, sending the bullet ricocheting back. The robber fell to the ground in agony.

Celeste ran to Jim and embraced him. “My life flashed before my eyes and all I could think about was you. I’m breaking my rule. No more living in fear.”

Jim kissed her passionately. “I believe acquiring superpowers makes your rule null and void anyway.”

“Let’s go save the world. Together. But first, how about a banana smoothie?”

Ferryman

by Joshua Jones Lofflin

So my uncle who works the ferry off Staten Island — not that one, but the other one, the one that runs beneath the city — well, he’s been working there for, like, forever, and he’s always working — only takes a night off once a month — so of course we’ve been trying to get him to take some real time off, ’cause you know he’s built up all this vacation time. But he just growls at us, says where would he go, huh? And we’re like, Go to Hawaii. Go to Cancun. Take a cruise! But he says, No boats.

And fair enough, I’d be sick of boats too if I’d been working the ferry all these years, day in and day out, with the absolute worst customers, entitled Karens on steroids, always asking how long the trip is going to take, what kind of ship doesn’t have a lounge, and just why can’t they get some seasickness pills anyhow? Usually his glare is enough to shut them up since, well, he can be pretty intimidating with the whole skull-thing peeking out from his ferry uniform. He says it was better back when he could wear his black robes, before OSHA regs made him wear a high visibility vest and a nametag with Charon in a friendly blue script. Now he just hisses at them to stop their complaining, that you can’t get seasickness pills because it’s a river ferry, and besides, the water is dead smooth. He always emphasizes the word dead, but they never get the point.

He tells us this over beers at Magoo’s on his nights off. He can really knock them back, but he never gets drunk, just quiet and mopey, as he sits in the corner booth browsing Instagram, always liking the photos of my sister’s kids. He never posts. He’s shy like that and says he doesn’t understand selfies.

Not even with celebrities? I ask. You must’ve met loads. He shrugs with his bony shoulders, says they don’t interest him, and besides, without their makeup, they have the same decayed look as everyone else. They mostly want to be left alone, he says.

My cousin and I finally convince him to take a picture with us, and we all lean in together and really cheese it. This, after we switch to tequila, so maybe he is getting shitfaced. I know we are. Then he says he has to hit the head. When we see his phone unlocked on the table before us, we can barely contain ourselves. My cousin keeps giggling as we crop ourselves out of the photo.

Hurry, hurry! my cousin keeps saying as I finish creating the account. By the time Charon gets back, his phone is facedown between us, and we’re trying to act all casual.

What? he says when he slides in beside us and sees our shit-eating grins. It’s not till after he orders another round that his phone begins chiming: once, twice, three times. He picks it up and scowls at us, or I’m pretty sure he’s scowling — his expressions are always hard to read.

Who’s the funny guy, he says as he studies the screen. Malevolent energy radiates off him, and now I know how his passengers must feel sitting behind him, waiting for him to deliver them to the other side. No wonder some of them feel like they’re about to throw up. But he only takes a drink, his shoulders softening, before he finally asks, Do I swipe left or right for a match?

Pot

by Chuck Rothman

There was no doubt. Green clothing? Check. Top Hat? Check. Red beard? Check. Smoking a pipe? Check.

It was a leprechaun.

Arnold couldn’t believe his change of luck. Things had been going badly for him lately. There were rumors of firings at Burger King and he knew that Mr. Lawson never liked him in the first place. Sally had broken up with him, hinting that she had grown tired of long walks on the beach and going to Burger King for a treat with a discount.

“I may not think money is the only thing,” she had said, “but I’d like to do something nice every once in a while.”

And now the leprechaun. He sat leaning against a tree, looking at the sunset and smoking on his pipe. He was about three feet tall, with all the accouterments of leprechaundom.

Including a pot of gold. It was small, about the size of a medium soft drink, but even half full, it’d leave Arnold sitting pretty. Gold was gold.

Arnold moved slowly and carefully until he was only a few yards from his prey. Then he charged.

It was easier than he imagined. In an instant, he had the little man in his arms.

“What the fuck?” the little man said. In a Texas drawl.

Arnold dropped him immediately.  “Sorry,” he said. “I thought . . .” He wondered what he could say that wouldn’t make him look like an utter lunatic.

“You thought I was a leprechaun,” said the man.

“Well . . .”

“I’m sick of it,” he said. “A guy tries to mind his own business and some yahoo who saw Leprechaun suddenly takes his mind to attack me.”

“What’s Leprechaun?”

“The worst thing that happened since Darby O’Gill. Or haven ‘t you heard of that, either?”

Arnold shook his head.

The man gave a snort of disdain. “Now, if you’ll excuse me . . .”

But Arnold had replayed the conversation and had grown more than a little suspicious. “What’s in the pot?” he asked.

“What pot?”

Arnold noticed the drawl had started to drop away. And, on reflection, it seemed a little too broad, a little too obvious.

He grabbed the man by the arm again.

“Hey, you little hooligan. What the fuck do you think you’re doing?”

“I want your pot of gold.”

“I told you —”

“I know what you told me. But leprechauns are tricky. I want that gold.”

The little man struggled, but Arnold was too strong for him. He sighed. “All right,” he said. “You can have what is in the pot.”

“All of it?”

“All of it.”

“Is it gold?”

“Well,” said the little man. “It’s gold-ish.”

Without letting go of the leprechaun, Arnold reached for the lid.

The pot was empty.

“Where’s the gold?”

“I haven’t filled it yet,” the leprechaun said, his voice now taking on the lilt of Ireland.

“Damn,” said Arnold. “I need that gold. I need it now.” He pulled the leprechaun’s arm back into a hammer lock. “Get it for me.”

The old man yelped. “All right. I’ll fill it. But —”

“Now!” Arnold had never felt this strong.

“Ow! All right. Just let me go.”

“So you can run away? No.”

“But I can’t with you holding me like this.”

It was an impasse. Arnold couldn’t let go of the man or he’d run away. But the leprechaun needed to be free to fill his pot.

Arnold reached around and stole the leprechaun’s pipe.

“Hey,” the little man said. “I’ve had that for a century and it’s just broken in properly.”

“You’ll get it back when I get my gold,” said Arnold. He let go. “Now, fill the pot.”

The leprechaun sighed. “You drive a hard bargain, human.” He took the pot.  “Now, if you’ll look away for a moment. I need privacy.”

Arnold did as he was asked.

Behind him, he heard the leprechaun grunt, then the unmistakable sound of a fart.

A horrible thought came to Arnold.

“Here,” said the leprechaun. “Now, give me my pipe.”

Arnold looked in the pot. It was filled with gold that shone like the sunset. But the shape was disturbingly familiar . . .

Before he could react, the leprechaun took his pipe back. “Farewell, boyo. Our deal is complete.” He began to walk away.

“Do you want the pot back?” said Arnold.

The leprechaun shrugged. “Would you?”

Host Commentary

Jane sent us these notes on “Holy Banana Peel!”: This little Superhero Romance tale was born from an NYC Midnight writing competition where I had 48 hours to write a ‘Romance’ story set in a ‘tailor shop’ with a ‘banana peel’. After firstly freaking out about the bizarre prompt combination, I tried to think of the wackiest ways a banana peel could feature in a Romantic story. As soon as the banana-peel superhero idea popped into my head, the story basically poured out.

Thank you to Jane, Chuck and Joshua for those three tales. I feel like I’ve often been a bit serious and maudlin in these outros—it was a tough old year last year, as I mentioned a couple of episodes back—but I want to—no, need to—try and be a bit more positive going forward. Life is short, life is hard, but life is full of comedy and reasons to laugh, and that humour is often at its most piquant when it’s set against the tragedies and travails of life. One of the stand out memories for me of the period when my father-in-law was dying of cancer at home was all of us gathered round his bedside, sure this was the moment after he’d called us all in, half-delirious, and started speaking to people who he couldn’t have seen for seventy years before lapsing into a seemingly-final silence… only for that quiet to be disrupted by his snoring starting up, and all of us stood around at a bit of a loss for what to do now after that anti-climax, and pottering off to the kitchen to make a cup of tea, joking about him still wanting all the attention to the very last. It was at least another two days after that before he did die. Even the hardest moments in life are full of such absurdities and laughs, because what else can you do when faced with the immensity of existence and all that is arrayed against us? Comedy is essential to surviving life, to understanding ourselves and each other. It is the great leveller, the nail in the tyre of ego, the pebble in the shoe of the powerful. I hope we all have more reasons to laugh this year.