Peter Cherches

Apple Blossom Time

 

 

I was spearheading a steering committee when I could no longer hold my breath. Much to my embarrassment, I exhaled. The shocked subliminal committee members in mandatory attendance began to sing, in four-part harmony, "(I'll Be with You) In Apple Blossom Time," which was probably the worst thing that has ever happened to me. Shamed beyond recognition, I relinquished my chair and stood the test of time, which I failed miserably.

 

I left the committee room—but not without first sequestering the still-harmonizing breath-shocked members, a chain and padlock proving more effective by far than any adolescent baby sitter—and set forth to seek my fortune.

 

I hit the road, Jack, hoping to come back more than I was before.

 

My first stop was the 18th century, but I didn't fit in, so I carried on, back to the dark ages. Boy were they dark. This time is not for me, I thought, and presently I returned to the present, only to find myself sitting on Santa's lap at Gimbel's (all right, the near present). This Santa was pretty low rent. He was emaciated, which only drew attention to the oil-soaked rags he used for padding. His breath stank of cheap whiskey and Bermuda onions and he had enormous red bags under his eyes. "And what would you like for Christmas, young man?" Santa asked.

 

"I'd like to live in a world where people respected each other or, barring that, at the very least respected each other's personal space," I replied.

 

"Can't help you with that," Santa replied. "How about a candy cane or a magic wand with bonus attachments?"

 

Clearly, Santa could not give me what I was looking for, so I went looking elsewhere.

 

On the corner of Thirty-Third and Third I tripped over a wise man. "Watch where you're going, wise guy," said the wise man. "I'm wise to you."

 

Fortune was smiling on me. A wise man surely had some wisdom to offer.

 

"Can you offer me any wisdom?" I asked the wise man.

 

"Sure can," he replied. "How much you got?"

 

"How much what?" I asked.

 

He became convulsed with laughter and started foaming at the mouth. "How much what, the wise guy asks! Money, cash, moolah, filthy lucre," he spat, foam flying in all directions.

 

"I've got three tenners," I told him.

 

"Thirty bucks? I don't even flash my foreskin for thirty bucks," he replied with a sneer.

 

"How about thirty bucks and a song?" I offered.

 

"What song?"

 

"I can do passable versions of 'Praise the Lord and Pass the Ammunition' and 'A Hot Time in the Old Town," I suggested.

 

"No good," the wise man replied. "A couple of tourists from Bulgaria just did a medley of those two tuneful ditties. Do you know '(I'll Be with You) In Apple Blossom Time'?"

 

Clearly fate was on my side. I had never heard that song before the committee members had shamed me with it. Now I knew the tune like the back of my hand! "Deal," I said, and began to sing.

 

"I'll be with you in apple blossom time,
I'll be with you to change your name to mine.

One day in May
I'll come and say:
'Happy the bride that the sun shines on today!'

What a wonderful wedding there will be,
What a wonderful day for you and me
Church bells will chime
You will be mine
In apple blossom time."

 

"Bravo," the wise man shouted, though he spared me the standing ovation and remained prone. "Here's your wisdom: A rolling stone gathers no moss, so get the fuck out of here." I reluctantly surrendered my thirty bucks and moved on once again.

 

Clearly, fate was toying with me. Where next? I wondered. Who knows where or when? I sang, softly, to no one in particular.

 

Perhaps gainful employment is the ticket, I considered.

 

I started walking uptown. At the corner of Forty-Second and Third I noticed an employment agency. What the hey, I figured, I've got nothing to lose but my dignity.

 

The receptionist was a knockout. Literally, I learned, a former national women's kick boxing featherweight champ. "Have a seat and a counselor will be out shortly," she cooed in a sultry voice that made me yearn for a kick or two.

 

While I waited I picked up a magazine, a rather risqué magazine for a business of this sort, I must say, featuring gauzy photos of middle managers of both sexes in various states of dishabille. I did, thankfully, find the featured interview quite engaging.

 

After a while a man in a gray flannel suit emerged from an office. "Who's next in pecking order?" he asked the room. As I was the only one waiting I replied, "Must be me."

 

He introduced himself as Greg and shuttled me into his office. "So, what are you looking for?" he asked.

 

"I'd like to get back on my feet again," I replied. "Almost anything will do for starters."

 

"Well," he said, "right now we have two openings that might fit the bill. One is for an oyster shucker at a senior center in Moscow, Idaho, and the other is for CEO of a major multinational holding company located just a few short blocks from here."

 

"The latter, please," I told Greg.

 

"Excellent," he replied. "And perfect timing. There's a board meeting starting in about ten minutes; you have just enough time to make it and lead the meeting."

 

He gave me a sheet of paper with the address and wished me good luck. I walked over to the address on the sheet of paper. The building looked eerily familiar. I asked the security guard, who looked decidedly familiar, where the meeting was being held. He told me and I took the elevator to the specified floor, where a receptionist, who looked indubitably familiar, escorted me to an uncannily familiar-looking conference room. As I entered the room I heard familiar music, acapella, and saw a bunch of gnawingly familiar faces with mouths wide open.

 

"Church bells will chime
You will be mine
In apple blossom time."

 

 

 

Called "one of the innovators of the short short story" by Publisher's Weekly, Peter Cherches has published in scores of journals, anthologies and websites over the past four decades. His recent books include Lift Your Right Arm, Autobiography Without Words, and a historical study, Star Course: Nineteenth-Century Lecture Tours and the Consolidation of Modern Celebrity. His next collection, Whistler's Mother's Son, will be published by Pelekinesis in 2020.