"It's a bomb!"

Earlier this evening, I was alone in the living room.  Night had fallen several hours before, and the housemates were off in other parts of the house. A few “bleeps” drifted down the hall from someone watching a late night talk show.  The whole house fan whirred in the distance.  I was reviewing a few questions from a recent exam.  Nothing to disturb me but my own academic, existential, and self-doubt.

That, and a few noises from the outside.  The neighbors wheeled their trash outside.  A car door slammed shut.  A few birds rustled in the bushes.  But all in all, nothing too distracting.  I settled into a concentrated study.

Then an animal rustled outside, a bit louder than my inner dialogue.  A few seconds later, another rustle.  It seemed to be coming from outside the patio screen door, opened to let the cool air inside.  Then again, another rustle, this one lasting about four seconds.  I looked up from my screen, and peered out the door.  Nothing.

Returning to my laptop, I scrolled the page down and settled back into study mode.  But a half minute later, there came a few more rustles, this time from the dining room window.  “Two animals must be fighting,” I thought.  And then more raspy sounds.  “They’re fighting over the compost!” We keep our compost near the dining room window, and Jack told me that if we put the wrong scraps in, we’d get all kinds of critters.  Of course that’s what was happening.  Two critters must have gotten into the pile and started fighting over all the glorious tidbits of rotten melon, egg shells, human hair, and at least one old pair of Hanes.  Then one low snarl from the same direction.  More internal dialogue – “uhoh, should I go shut the door?”

Standing up from the chair, I set the laptop aside, and moved towards the window.  Silence.  Then a scuffle from outside the kitchen window.  Wait… no.  Not the kitchen window.  From the pizza box on the kitchen counter.

I stopped dead in my tracks.  Was there a sound really coming from the pizza box?  I waited ten seconds, and another ruffling sound came from the box.  “Oh my god, my roommates brought back cockroaches in their takeout pizza!”  Then another sound, but this time from the watermelon in front of the pizza box.  Then a shadow moved behind the watermelon – or was my mind just playing tricks on me?  Another raspy sound, this one like from an animal that’s been cornered.  My eyes grew wide.  My heart sped up a few paces.  Whatever it was, it sounded bloodthirsty, and I was next on the list.

Quickly, I moved to the other side of the kitchen, looking for the critter, keeping off my heels should I need to escape.  I threw glances at the pizza box and the watermelon.  No creature.  Fifteen seconds.  No sound. 

I moved the pizza box, and it rasped.  My heart skipped a beat.  But the sound didn’t come from the box.  It came from the other side of the counter.  Then a sizzling sound like from a shorted electric outlet.  “Oh my god, the house is going to burn down.”  I leapt to the other side of the counter, fully expecting blue arcing sparks, white flame, and a whole lot of explaining to do, but there was nothing.  Then the sound again.  From the watermelon.

My eyes widened in disbelief.  Was I going crazy?  We had drawn a face on the watermelon a few days before, put a fedora on it, and named it “Lawrence.” It had a peculiar roaring 20s gangster feel about it.  “Lawrence is speaking to me?” At that moment, I was sure anthropomorphizing the watermelon was the wrong thing to have done, I knew I would never do it again, and the joke had gone too far.  No, too much studying and not enough sleep.  Lawrence couldn’t be communicating; it was a watermelon.

The raspy sound again.  It was the watermelon.  Thoughts filled my head, “it’s a bomb!” being among the loudest.

Then I noticed the watermelon was sitting in a pool of liquid. Lawrence had sprung a leak on his right chin.  More noises.  A small, but high-pressure stream of juice came squirting out of the watermelon, making noises along with it.  “Wow!  That’s what’s making the noise.” Then putrid juice started taking over the counter.

I ran to get Brenda.  “Uuh, Brenda, your watermelon’s exploding.”  By the time we got back, the juice had taken over much of the counter and was spilling onto the floor.  And this was no trickle; it was a constant stream, as if the watermelon were the source of some extraterrestrial spring.  I laughed.  Brenda grabbed paper towels and heaved Lawrence into the sink.  Removing the fedora, she quickly stabbed Lawrence behind the right ear with a kitchen knife, and a “whoooooosh” of gas rushed out.  And stench.

Upon further dissection, the inner 2/3rds of Lawrence’s head was found to be gone to mush, juice, and space.  Not only was he a melon-head, he was an airhead too.

Jack diagnosed Lawrence as having a kind of watermelon encephalitis – bacteria must have gotten into the melon in the field and later fermented the sugars into carbon dioxide.  When the pressure had built up high enough, the gas took the path of least resistance out.  I happened to be in the right place at the right time to observe this gas escape happening.  I thought it was an animal out to get me - nope, it was just a watermelon passing gas.

We gave Lawrence a quick, unceremonious burial in the dumpster, and we eagerly await the stinkbomb’s rapid departure from our house.  We’re spooked.  At least I am.

And whatever I do, I can’t get this image out of my head.  It’s too close (to reality) for comfort.