Autumn Fruit Fall Guy

Or: Pere alla Shane MacGowan

The Accused

I was tricked into thinking I was allergic to pears by my own mother.

Perhaps “tricked” is too strong a word, because it suggests a certain level of deviousness or premeditation and she was far too busy for such cunning what with all the last minute packing she had to do. Really, I think she simply needed someone or something convenient to blame— a patsy. So when I wandered into her room one evening covered head-to-toe in hives, her first and only question for me was, “Just how much punch did you drink?” Her emphasis on the word “drink” confused me and I was left wondering how I might have put the punch to better use.

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I’d worked myself into a do-si-do-ing frenzy earlier in the day at our 3rd grade end-of-school jamboree, which was very thirsty work indeed. “Three…?” I answered cautiously, unsure if my mother was upset with me or just my hives.

“I knew it!” she muttered with no small amount of annoyance and lifted her face heavenward, as if she could see through the popcorn ceiling of her bedroom, out past the exosphere, and straight into the eyes of a God she was convinced was testing her yet again.

She’d been there at the school, chaperoning. She knew what was what. “There was pear juice in that punch,” she said accusingly, “That’s what’s caused…” she looked me up and down, searching for the right word'“…this.”

She didn’t find it.

And that was that. With a wave of her menthol cigarette and a puff of smoke, she made an inoffensive fall fruit her fall guy.