The Monstermelon

Most of the things that go wrong around here are my fault. The fruit flies that infested my kitchen for October and half of November were thanks to the nectarines I left on the countertop at the end of September. The broken toilet seat, that was from me standing on the lid to change a lightbulb. The big spider I squashed yesterday morning came in the window, which I left open so's the birds could have fresh air, and the birds came in via my soft heart. However, when it comes to the Day-Glo yellow watermelon goo, the blame lies squarely with Mr. Eyebrows.

Mr. Eyebrows is an actor. I don't know his name, but he's got the biggest caterpillar brows you ever did see. I watch him Saturday nights on Cantonese Cinema, hypnotising various leading ladies with his forehead. He's really an ugly guy: not only are his brows enormous, but he's got eyebags you could fit a change of clothes in, and ratty hair, besides. I don't know how he gets into so many movies, but I see him nearly every week. I'm a little disappointed when I don't. Perhaps I've been hypnotised, as well.

At any rate, one week in September, I saw Mr. Eyebrows playing an impoverished servant. He had to eat a lot of unpleasant things in the interests of saving money, but then there came this bright, shining moment when he got a slice of watermelon. His eyes shone, his lips smacked, and his eyebrows practically molested each other across the bridge of his nose. And I, being highly suggestible, decided I wanted some of what he was having.

Thus was a melon added to my shopping list, and promptly purchased and delivered. I realised my mistake the minute I saw the thing. Watermelons are much bigger than I'd imagined. I mean, I'd eaten watermelon before, but generally in a fruit salad sort of context, or a slice at a picnic. Furthermore, the melon I got--well, I'm hardly one to judge these things, but it seemed like a particularly strapping specimen. I'd expected something about the size of my head, but this thing didn't even fit in the fridge till I took out the middle shelf. It was enormous. It was gargantuan. It was the Goliath of watermelons. It was--it was--oh, about the size of a Springer spaniel, give or take a few pounds. I couldn't even lift it onto the chopping board. I had to hack away at it right there on the bottom of the fridge.

A week went by, and I ate about a tenth of the monstermelon. After that, it went all frozen round the edges, and I didn't feel like eating it any more. But I couldn't get rid of it, either. It was heavy and awkward and slippery. When I tried to pick it up, it juiced all over my shirt. So I covered it with a binliner, and forgot all about it. I figured it would evaporate, sooner or later, and I'd just have to carry out the rind. Mother used to say fruit was nothing but water, after all. Shouldn't that go double for something with "water" right in its name?

Well, not quite. Apparently, a watermelon left to degrade to its constituent parts doesn't evaporate, as such. It does liquefy, but the resultant liquid shares only one characteristic with water: when disturbed, it spills absolutely everywhere. One day in late October, I must've nudged this thing, and--oh, dear God. Next time I opened my fridge, it looked like an accident at a highlighter factory, and smelled like a compost heap. I did the only thing I could think of: I stopped buying perishables, and refused to open the fridge. A week later, I was on the telephone:

"Oh! You won't believe what I've got in my fridge."

"Do I want to know?"

"Doubtful. Nonetheless, it's a pool of watermelon goo. It's yellow. I'm afraid to eat anything that's been near it."

"Well...shouldn't you clean it out?"

"I can't! The main watermelon part is too heavy to lift. And what if it's squashy? What if I drop it? It could leak over everything. Christ! There's probably a litre of goo spilled out already. What if there's more in the rind? How much do they hold?"

"So you're going to...?"

"Leave it there! Given enough time, it'll dry up and atrophy."

"No, it won't."

"Augh. Maybe I'll buy a new fridge."

"You can't afford a new fridge."

"What a pain!"

Halfway through November, I could bear it no longer. I put on my rubber gloves, gritted my teeth against the stench, and scraped the melon off the bottom of the fridge. It was no longer recognisable as a fruit. As I had feared, the rind came a cropper when I dragged it out. Yellow slime splurted over my floor, my shirt, and my head. (Why, whenever I'm cleaning some unholy mess, does something unpleasant always get on my head?) Inside the fridge, the goo had solidified--no, congealed--into a substance whose texture might be described as a cross between treacle and vaginal fluid. It was viscous, but at the same time, drippy. It stretched into rancid strings between the fridge and my Brillo Pad. It was dreadful. It was shameful. It took all afternoon to clear out.

The rind, I dragged downstairs. It weighed at least as much as a human torso. My strength failed me in the middle of the courtyard, so, having ascertained no-one was watching, I left it there. I am a filthy, filthy pig. Mr. Eyebrows can make as many orgasm faces as he likes--I'll have no more watermelons in my fridge!