Jonathan C. Lewis
Author and Artist
The Perfect Pie
A fictional travelogue; four minutes to read.
I’m sitting by myself in a diner booth, waiting for my banana cream pie order. Red vinyl seats stick to the backs of my thighs. Wearing shorts was a mistake. Today, nothing is going my way.
A bunch of bananas is called a hand. A single banana is called a finger. Banana cream pie—a late 19th century American invention—is best made with three bananas. In my opinion—not that anyone ever wants my opinion—if a banana cream pie is made with just one, solitary banana, that’s akin to giving me the finger.
In the morning my bathroom scale screamed at me. Eighteen pounds overweight, veering upwards. My recurring resolution to get in shape remains an unrealized good idea.
My teen daughter left the house slamming doors. I have no idea why. When I get home, I suppose I’ll get an earful.
After the final school bell, I was notified by the school principal that I was passed over for head of the history department at the new charter high school. After two decades of teaching, I was perfect for that job. God knows, I need the salary increase.
The lapsed thirteen minutes it took her to give me the bad news is now irredeemably part of me, another page in a dossier of disappointments. Fuck her for patronizing me, for saying in her gravelly, grating voice, “Grieving over a job loss is natural. You’ll bounce back. The district values you in the classroom.”
Escorted by a sturdy black plastic fork, my banana cream pie arrives on a brown tray, quivering like a fashion model in Milan or Paris. Lustrous. Luscious.
Her round, tawny shoulders are the color of fine leather. Her blonde bananas sparkle. Her custardy wetness glistens. Her aroma is sugary clean. Her artificial whipped cream is as white and fluffy as artificial whipped cream.
I linger over each mouthful. Like an understanding friend, banana cream pie is quiet when quiet is called for and comforting when comfort is needed. She sticks with me through the hard times, hugging my waistline.
Like a tart in a dive bar, her curvy bananas-are-healthy flirting puts off returning home, writing tomorrow’s lesson plan, facing my unpaid bills. She’s tasty therapy for the dejected thickness in my throat.
From the first bite, the world recedes. Fifties rock music blaring from hidden speakers drowns out passing traffic. Bright fluorescent lights blur my vision. I’m delirious—maybe I mean oblivious--in my sugar high.
Banana cream pie sugarcoats my life.
Other pies in the pie case have come on to me. Apple, lemon meringue, berry and cherry are the most seductive, but none get so much as a forkful of attention. None are as lovely as my banana cream pie.
At Nation’s, just off the freeway exit to Vacaville, California, a single serving is a voluptuous full quarter of a three-banana banana cream pie. Dieting by portion control is out of my control. I’m fighting off the impulse to order a second slice.
I scrape the last bit of pie from the white paper plate. Until next time—there’s always a next time, I won’t be needing her.
