Banana Man (a Novella)

by Christian Blake

  Unlike the neighbor’s houses which appeared warm and inviting with their porch lights on and cars in their driveways, his house looked empty and cold in the dreary rain; almost lifeless, and a little spooky. But Danny didn’t get scared easily. He was always brave. It took a lot to scare him.

  Some of the neighbors had fires going inside their homes. He could see dancing firelight through their windows. Smoke billowed out the tops of their chimneys. A nice, warm fire sounded cozy. He planned on making one when he finally got back to his house, but since his dad wasn’t home from work yet, Danny couldn’t borrow the dollar, and that meant no comic book. There was no reason to go home, at least not yet.

  Danny didn’t slow down when he got near his house. He kept right on pedaling.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Cleary’s Market

  At Elm Street he turned and headed toward Cleary’s Market. Although he didn’t have the money to buy the comic, he wanted to make sure it was on the rack. And maybe he could ask Mr. Cleary to hold a copy for him in the off chance the other boys beat him there.

  The small neighborhood store was an old one-bedroom house with a pitched roof that Mr. Cleary gutted and transformed into a small market. On the outside, it still looked like an old blue house, one with badly chipping paint. Three steps led up to a wood porch. A hand carved sign hung by two chains directly above a wide front door. The sign read: CLEARY’S MARKET.

  On the inside, at first glance one might think the shelves were empty. They weren’t. The goods were sparse by design. Mr. Cleary liked space between the products, and he never kept more than three of anything on the shelf. He stocked mostly basic household necessities and some food, and always maintained a strict rule of never having more than three of the same item: three cans of beans, three rolls of paper towels, three bars of soap, and so forth. Mr. Cleary kept an accurate count of his limited merchandise. Whenever someone bought something, he would mark an inventory sheet he kept on a clipboard hanging by the register.

  For the kids, there were a couple racks of candy and two video arcade machines – Asteroids and Missile Command, and a giant floor-to-ceiling refrigerator filled with ice cold soda. A spinning magazine rack was jammed between the arcade games, perfectly positioned to showcase the comics to kids.

  Other than the comics, Danny loved the tall refrigerator full of soda pop. Whenever he had extra change, he would buy a new flavor just to try it out.

  Danny and his friends always stopped by the market on their way home from school. While most kids sunk quarters into the arcade games or bought packs of gum or maybe a candy bar, Danny and his pals stopped to see if any new comics were on the rack. Each of them had their favorites, and sometimes those favorites overlapped. That wasn’t always a good thing, but the boys usually worked it out by trading older issues. Other than the big shipment that arrived on the first of the month, sometimes Mr. Cleary received other comics at random times. That didn’t happen often. Still, it was always a good idea to stop by after school in case a new comic book came in.

  In the evening, when it started to get dark, Mr. Cleary would turn on the neon sign hanging in the window. He would yank the little chain, and the old glass tubes would flicker a few times before they finally glowed OPEN. Even after they warmed up, the tubes flickered every now and then, threatening to burn out. But they never did, and the kids kept visiting the store even though it was battered and run down. The neighborhood kids loved the place. They didn’t care what the store looked like. As long as the sodas were cold and the comic books got delivered on time, they would continue stopping by on their way home from school.

  Danny’s bike skidded to a halt in front of the porch. He hopped off, carried it up the steps, and leaned it against the wall near the front door under a big window. Mr. Cleary’s weathered face stared out the window at Danny. He was inside, sitting on a stool, and reading the paper. He waved.

  Danny ran inside the store. Just like he imagined, the latest issue of Banana Man was on the white rack. He stared in awe at the gruesome cover. Even the title was amazing: Banana Man versus Buster the Bull. The cover depicted a muscular Banana Man standing boldly in the center of a two-lane highway. He stood protectively between fleeing townsfolk and a crazed bull charging down the road. Buster the Bull was big as a house, and flames spewed from his nostrils. A dead farmer, wearing overalls and a straw hat, was impaled on one of Buster’s bloody horns.

  The cover artwork was better than anything Danny could imagine. He couldn’t wait to buy the issue and take it home and frame it on his wall. Danny was so fixated on the comic he forgot to say hello to Mr. Cleary sitting behind the register.

  The cranky store owner said, “Hello Danny!”

  Mr. Cleary sat on an old, wooden bar stool that creaked every time he spoke. He never got off that stool. Not completely. If he needed something done around the store he would tell one of the kids to do it so he could keep reading. He was always reading. Today it was a newspaper. He held it a good distance away from his face and a good distance away from those reading glasses at the end of his nose. When the old man got excited and animated, which was often, his glasses would rock back and forth. Danny always thought they would slip off his face and break, but they never did.

  “Hi Mr. Cleary.”

  The old man frowned and smacked the countertop. “I told you to call me Farmer Cleary! I’ve been a farmer my whole life.” He sat up straight and hooked his thumbs into the straps of his weathered overalls and tugged outward. “Don’t I look like a farmer?”

  “Yes, sir,” Danny said.

  “You here to buy Captain Crunch? Got three new boxes on the shelf.”

  Last week Danny’s dad sent him to the store to pick up a box of Cap’n Crunch. Danny liked the cereal but sometimes it scratched the roof of his mouth. “I’m not here for cereal. I’m here for Banana Man.” He flashed a courteous smile at the store owner and quickly returned his eyes to the comic. He reached out to grab it but hesitated; his hands were wet and splattered with mud from the ride over in the rain. “Farmer Cleary, can I wash my hands?”

  “Go ahead. Basin’s in the back.”

  Danny rushed through the adjoining doorway and found the sink in the small storage room. He scrubbed his hands under the cold water and then thoroughly dried them on an old towel. He was back to the comic book in less than a minute.

  He carefully picked up the issue and gently traced his fingertips over the smooth, glossy artwork. The weight of the comic felt wonderful in his hands, and the pages smelled fresh and new. As beautiful as it was, Danny quickly realized a glaring problem: he was holding the only copy. There were supposed to be three, not one. He turned and asked, “Why is there only one?”

  Farmer Cleary stood up and leaned over the counter, staring down at Danny’s feet where water began to pool. The old man liked to keep his concrete floor clean and dry, which was hard to do when it was almost always raining. “You’re dripping on my floor. Get that broom and sweep out the water.” He pointed a bony finger at a broom leaned against the far corner.

  “Yes, sir,” Danny said. He carefully returned the comic to the rack and then snatched the broom and began sweeping water toward the open doorway. There was more water on the floor than what Danny brought in; someone else had recently been in the store and dripped on the concrete. Even with the extra water, it didn’t take long for him to sweep it out. “How come there’s only one issue of Banana Man?”

  “The twins’ mom bought two copies a few minutes ago. Billy and Tommy’s mom. You just missed her.” Mr. Cleary didn’t always talk much, and apparently he had reached his limit for one customer. He suddenly snapped open his paper and started reading again. From behind The Valley Tribune, he said, “Put the broom back when you’re done.”

  The twins were collecting Banana Man too. That was news to Danny, and it was bad news. By his count there were four kids collecting the comic, possibly more. Now there was only one copy left, and his friend Chris would be heading straight
to the store to buy it after he got out of detention.

  He could have easily guessed what Farmer Cleary’s answer would be to his next question – a big fat No! -- but he still asked: “Can I take it and pay you later? My dad’s coming home from work soon and I’ll get money from him.”

  “Absolutely not,” Farmer Cleary said. “You want the comic book, you have to pay for it.”

  Danny’s dad always told him: you can’t get what you don’t ask for, and so Danny learned not to be afraid when asking for what he wanted. “Can you hold it for me until I get the dollar from my dad?” It was a long shot that Farmer Cleary would hold onto that last copy for Danny, but it didn’t hurt to ask.

  Mr. Cleary almost said no, but hesitated. He absently stroked his white mustache for what seemed like an eternity while he gave serious thought to the boy’s request. Danny patiently waited. Eventually Mr. Cleary shrugged and said, “Oh, I suppose it can’t hurt. Give it here and I’ll keep it behind the counter.”

  “Thanks!” The boy carefully removed the comic from the rack using both hands, and then gently handed it to the old man. Mr. Cleary placed the copy on a shelf under the counter. Danny watched to make sure he didn’t bend the corners.

  Mr. Cleary noticed Danny’s concern over the well being of the comic and reassured the boy with a wink. “It will be right here when you get back.”

  With the comic safely tucked and hidden behind the counter, Danny felt secure knowing it wouldn’t matter if his dad got home late from work. He would get the issue no matter what.

  “Thanks Farmer Cleary! I’ll be back with a dollar!” Danny left the store and jumped on his bike and rode home in the unrelenting rain.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Danny Makes a Fire

  When Danny arrived at home, he was disappointed to see the empty driveway. His dad hadn’t got home yet. He picked up today’s issue of The Valley Tribune from the front lawn, slipped his bike inside the garage, and entered the house through the kitchen.

  The house was dark and quiet, but the dark didn’t scare Danny. He was brave and strong, or so he told himself. He turned on the kitchen light and sidestepped his way around an overflowing trash can, and then ran passed a sink full of dishes. He tossed his wet backpack and the newspaper onto the kitchen table and headed straight to the living room where he tore off his rain-soaked jacket and flipped off his wet shoes.

  Danny knelt in front of the fireplace and got busy making a fire. He had only recently been making them all on his own. His dad liked to walk into the house after a hard day of work and smell burning wood, so he taught Danny how to build a fire and told him to make one every day after school. Of course, that was against his mother’s wishes. In her eyes Danny was too young. Like any overprotective mother, she was worried he’d hurt himself (and possibly burn the house down). Despite her protest, Danny made one every time he got home from school.

  Beside the fireplace was a messy pile of old newspapers, and a short stack of wood and some kindling. He opened up a section of newspaper, separated the pages, and twisted the individual sheets. He cranked them nice and tight, and then unwound them a little. His dad told him they couldn’t be too tight or the fire wouldn’t be able to breathe. The flames needed oxygen.

  His father explained to him on more than one occasion how to build a proper fire:

  Layers Danny. A good fire starts with layers from the bottom up: first newspaper, then a pile of kindling. Then a fast burning wood, like pine. After the pine is burning hot, add a piece of oak. Make sure it’s dry though; can’t be wet or green otherwise it’ll just smoke. The oak will take a while to catch, but once it does it will burn through the night.

  After creating several layers of newspaper, he piled on some kindling. On top of that Danny strategically placed several pine logs. Finally, he squirted a heavy dose of lighter fluid over everything and let it soak. Danny laughed. He remembered his dad telling him about the lighter fluid: use it but don’t tell your mother; she’ll have a heart attack and think you’ll catch the house on fire. Keep it in the pantry so she won’t see it.

  Danny sprayed another shot of lighter fluid over everything. Then he set down the can and went to his bedroom.

  He stripped off the rest of his wet clothes and threw them on a pile of laundry in the corner. He put on fresh everything: underwear and jeans, a sweatshirt, and socks. The dry clothes felt good against his skin. He would feel even better once he got the fire started.

  Hanging on the wall in his bedroom was the first issue of Banana Man, the one his mother bought him for his birthday. A thin sheet of glass protected the first edition, and the comic was center-framed inside a wooden box. The issue was titled Banana Man: Rise of a Super Hero. The cover depicted Banana Man pinning down a pile of rough looking men with one foot while he smiled and flexed a bicep to photographers and fans.

  Once he got the latest edition, he would frame it inside another box and hang it next to that one. He wanted to line the walls with this particular comic. He collected a lot of comics but for some reason this one meant a lot to him. He flicked the light off, and the darkness swallowed up his room.

  Danny returned to the living room and sat down in front of the fireplace. Even with dry clothes on the chill air made him shiver, and he rubbed his arms to get warm. The cold rain had soaked him to the bone.

  The storm clouds choked off the afternoon sunlight, and dim light filtered in through the windows; the day was fading faster than it should.

  His dad still hadn’t come home yet but he would be there soon.

  Danny grabbed one of those long and thin matches, the kind meant for starting fires from a distance. He dragged the tip against the end of the box, and the match flared up. The flame burned bright and hot in front of Danny’s eyes. It immediately started to eat its way down the wood toward his fingers. He stared at it for a moment and watched it burn, and then he gently poked the flame into a corner of the twisted newspaper. The lighter fluid ignited at once and flashed across everything. A short blast of heat followed. Danny liked it. He tossed the match into the flames. Then he swung the protective grill shut and enjoyed the heat in the darkened house.

  He loved making a fire on a cold day. The warmth and the smell of burning wood made the house cozy.

  The kindling crackled and popped, and soon the pine logs burned at a steady pace.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  The photographs

  The firelight cast shadows about the darkened living room while the afternoon rain tapped at the windows. Danny dragged a heavy blanket off the back of the couch and wrapped it around himself, and then sat in front of the fire, trying to get warm.

  On the brick mantel stood three photo frames. One was empty. Danny didn’t think much of it and turned his attention to the other two.

  The first was a snapshot of Danny and his father after a morning of fishing. His dad knelt on one knee beside a creek, triumphantly holding up a bunch of trout on a string line. The fish were big, at least eighteen inches each. Danny stood next to his dad and struggled to help lift them.

  They had gone fishing to a local stream outside of town a few weeks after his last birthday to test the fishing pole his dad gave him as a present. Danny remembered that morning pretty well. In fact, he would never forget it.

  They got up before sunrise one Saturday and loaded his dad’s truck with fishing gear. Not his work truck, but his personal truck: an old four-wheel drive pick-up truck. It had plenty of dents, and one fender was painted in grey primer. His mom called it a gas guzzler. His dad called it reliable. Danny liked the big truck with its big tires. He thought climbing into the cab was fun. He loved the hum of the tires on the highway, and he liked being higher than all the other cars.

  While they loaded the truck in the early morning darkness, his dad whispered to him several times to keep quiet and not wake his mom. Danny and his dad asked her to go with them the night before – she had a pink fishing pole and a bright pink tackle box of her own – but she didn’t
want to go because of the storm coming into town. Fishing in the rain and getting wet didn’t sound like fun to her. Besides, she usually slept in on Saturdays, always waking up later than she planned, and his dad wanted to leave early.

  The storm that was coming in that morning wasn’t just any storm; it was a newsworthy one. Forecasters predicted it might flood one end of town, and the police closed a stretch of highway as a precaution. His mom became worried when she saw the news on television. She got worked up pretty good. She didn’t want her little boy and her husband going near a stream during a rainstorm. She asked them to stay home instead, but Danny’s dad insisted they would be all right in the truck. They would be safe even if it started pouring. She wasn’t happy about his answer. She thought it was dangerous. But she still promised to buy eggs and cheese and have breakfast ready when they got home. She always made scrambled eggs with melted cheese on top for Danny. He called them cheese eggs.

  On the way out of town, they stopped at Buttery Donuts. Danny picked out a glazed Old Fashioned from the display case, and the donut man plucked it with a pair of tongs and slipped it into a white bag. His dad bought a large coffee with cream and sugar. Danny got chocolate milk. Once they were back on the highway, his dad slid out the twin cup holders in the center console. He slipped his coffee into one and Danny set his milk in the other.