Bad Almond: A Short Story
By Kevin T. Goddard
Published by Kevin T. Goddard at Smashwords
Copyright 2011 Kevin T. Goddard
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Bad Almond
My hand slips inside the clear plastic sandwich bag my wife had stretched herself to reach in the cabinets above the stove. The tops of my fingers brush against the lip of the bag. When I stop to think about it, I’m amazed at how deftly my middle finger clamps an almond against the fingernail on my index finger. How did evolution teach an amoeba to do that?
The elbow bends and my fingers release the almond as I snap it towards my mouth. I’m not really sure how far away my fingers are from my lips when I release the nut, but it lands true. My teeth catch the crusty almond and bite down. This is the moment: is the almond good or bad?
This batch has been particularly unreliable. When I first brought them home from Sam’s Club, I was quite proud of myself. Ten bucks for a three pound bag was quite a find. Even better was the fact that the nuts were salted. Each one crusty with sodium as if they’d been washed in the ocean and dried.
The first taste I get is the salt bite. I compare all saltiness to the ice-cream-bucket-standard. My aunt and uncle have made homemade ice cream every Fourth of July since I was a little kid. Uncle Dave and I take turns straddling the old-fashioned bucket cranking the metal handle spinning the cream as ice slush crackles and grinds between metal and wood. The other one drops chunks of ice on top of the cylinder then generously sprinkles rock salt on top to freeze at a low enough temperature to turn liquid into solid. I eat the salt straight from the bag sucking the pebbles until they are completely dissolved. The almonds aren’t that salty, but they are still heavenly. At least most of them are.
The meaty, earthy-sweet taste of the almond breaks through the salt flooding my mouth causing saliva to pool around my molars. I can taste the minerals pulled from the ground by the roots of the tree that grew these magnificent nuts. The sunshine warming the leaves of the tree swims across my tongue like magma swimming in the darkened bowels of the earth. Dante's heat without light. The memories of a millions microbes sparkle their single-celled thoughts on a black canvas in front of my eyes. For a brief moment, I'm not sitting at my desk in front of a spreadsheet. A monk flirting with nirvana, I'm in a warm, dark void of enlightenment.
Flavor fades and I slowly float back into my office chair. The spreadsheet returns to my focus. I reach for another almond.
This almond releases bitter rot into my mouth. Death, decay, and dried crumbly worms crawl over my taste buds infecting my mouth. The illusion of an almond has fooled me. It is a tiny coffin carrying a reminder that everything dies. Standing at my grandmother's grave, I wait for the memorial to end while staring at the headstone for a grandfather who died before I was born. Years later, I have a dream of being trapped in her tiny, clap-board house at night while her green-death ghost beckons me up stairs she never had.
My grandfather is in the other room. Dead. Lying under sheets. His hollow English eyes and floppy English ears surprised by a blast of white Mohawk contrasting against his Cherokee quarter-breed skin. He sips his coffee. Looking at me, he asks, "Does your coffee taste funny?"
His wife, my other grandma, toddles up. White hair and bare feet, she's scarcely tall enough to reach up and cook dinner on her old stove. She peers through her wire-rimmed glasses. Putting a surprised hand up to cover her mouth, she says, "Oops! That's my bleach cup." One day, she will pose for a photograph I am taking for a college class holding my electric guitar while sitting in a rocking chair. Perpetually shoeless, she won't let anyone take her picture unless she puts footwear on first.
Grandpa shrugs, "Well, it cured my headache."
These ghosts speak to me across two decades. Each taste of almond awakening new memories of life and death. Hope and fear. Anticipation and dread. Again, as the taste fades, I crawl out of the black, ancient earth dirt dissolving to nothing as I return to my chair and my spreadsheet.
I reach for another almond. There are plenty in the bag for now, but a lifetime of memories needs an infinite supply of almonds. Good or bad.
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About the Author
Kevin T. Goddard was born in Springfield, Missouri in 1975. He grew up watching shows and movies like Transformers, G.I. Joe, Star Wars, Star Trek, Dukes of Hazzard, A-Team, and much more action/adventure/science fiction. Kevin is currently a school administrator in Missouri. His family consists of a wife, 8 kids, and a chihuahua. Kevin earned a Doctorate of Education, Ed. D., in Educational Leadership in 2010. He started writing when he was a kid, but as he worked on his advanced degrees in the field of education, his writing turned academic.
About 9 years ago, Kevin wrote a short book entitled Adam Powerhouse: Birth of the Double Zero. After finishing it, he didn't know what to do, so Kevin saved it on his computer and forgot about it. When he reopened the file in 2010, Kevin found he could self-publish on the internet and let others enjoy his writing. Due to his demanding schedule, Kevin has many more ideas than he could ever write about. The short story allows him time to complete a story without it living in his computer for a decade. These stories may be short and unpolished…kamikaze attempts at best…but Kevin hopes you find them enjoyable and worth returning to.
Kevin plans on writing many more kamikaze short stories in the near future. Stay tuned…
Connect with Kevin T. Goddard online:
Facebook: http://www.facebook.com/home.php?sk=group_192520634101730
Email: adampowerhouse@gmail.com
Smashwords: https://www.smashwords.com/profile/view/kevintgoddard