Cotton Candy Grapes™
by edisonm
Grapes. It was all because of the grapes. Cotton Candy Grapes™ by BetterGenics. From: South Africa. Expiry date: NEVER.
One of your five a day, so – standing in fridge-light starky bollocks, at, microwave time was 03:45 which means actual time 01:13am – you ate about fifteen at once. They’re cold and crunchy. You’d left them in the back of the fridge, a trick your nan taught you, so they’re almost-but-not-quite-frozen. Crispy-cold cotton candy juice sloshing in your mouth with the heavenly texture of a soft fleshy popsicle. Then
pain in your left molar like you’ve been
tased in the mouth.
The pleasure of the grape is over. You wince and swallow, like you do with everything.
You imagine the hole in your molar, tooth 18, distal decay – you’d been there through early-stage caries, watch and monitor, and distal caries, shallow lesion, plaque is the consistency of double cream for twenty-four hours, until finally, decay and rupture, you need a filling. You’d known and done nothing, but
you wonder how its possible for collective human intelligence to figure out how to land a man on Mars, sow computer chips onto spinal chords and find the cure for cancer, but not come close to solving the need for us to brush our teeth? Isn’t there some non-corrosive chemical formulation reactive to plaque they could make into a mouthwash? Not mouthwash itself, no, that's toothcare DLC, pay-to-plaque-remove, I'm talking about a serious futuristic concoction – gurgle and spit, that’s it! Maybe there’s some sort of thick paste you could wipe on and rinse out in seconds? Something fizzy maybe? If your great-great-great grandfather could see how life was lived now he wouldn’t recognise a single god-damned thing except the fact that two hundred years later, we’re still standing in the mirror every morning and night wasting two beautiful minutes schmuking our mouths up and down with some bristles on the end of a stick. You hate brushing your teeth. You hate engaging with scams, it’s why you’re philosophically against printers, but let’s not get started on Big Dental and all that red white and blue nonsense. Why? Because it started with the grapes. Beautiful green pearls, edible emeralds, so juicy, so sweet. But, you wonder how a fruit can be trademarked? SEEDLESS. You wonder about that too, okay, so, first gay frogs now a-sexual grapes. Actually, which one is ‘a-sexual’? You’re not sure. How do they grow them without seeds? Maybe you could say infertile grapes but that sounds too human. Anyway, they’re delicious. They taste exactly like cotton candy grapes. That’s what scares you, at first, and then you think again about, EXPIRY DATE: NEVER. TRADEMARKED. SEEDLESS. BetterGenics. You asked Alexa what BetterGenics was and you found out BetterGenics (Better Genetics) is the world’s largest multinational corporation specialising in grape cultivation and distribution. You learn Cotton Candy Grapes™, seedless, were invented three years ago. Invented? Alexa explained, some scientist discovered the gene involved in the synthesis of fructose and was then able to ‘copy and paste’ the gene into a host grape from which was cloned the remarkably sweet Cotton Candy Grape™.
You hold a single grape up to your eyes. The fridge beeps -doors open- but it’s the only light in the dark so you let it beep and beep while you skinned the grape with your fingers. You press it between your thumb and index, slowly, like some giant naked torturer squeezing for information tell me your lies, grape! and the sweet juice bleeds down your fingers and smells terrifyingly accurate and amazing.
Oven time is 18:56, so, actual time 1:20am.
You close the fridge and fumbled for the hood-light switch behind the stove.
Nothing is real. Not time, nor grapes. Toothpaste is what causes cavities, apparently. That’s what they’re saying now. You’ve got your own theory about how the filters in cigarettes are what give you cancer, not the tobacco. You shouldn't say anything, but one day, you will. On your page, you post a picture of Cotton Candy Grapes with the caption:
Did you know Cotton Candy Grapes aren’t even real grapes? They’re made in a lab! #BOYCOTTGRAPES. #MAKEGRAPESGRAPESAGAIN
KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK
You stop, freeze like a grape – you don’t move, you don’t even shift weight on these creaky old floors.
KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK
The blur stirs behind the security glass.
“H-hello?” you creak.
“Hi there, Mr. Schott? Number 24?”
Your stomach drops again.
You think about dropping to the floor and waiting until the stranger disappears. Instead you think about next door, and you realise there is hope, so you say “Are you my new neighbour?” Yes, this is normal. It’s just your new neighbour, knocking on the door at 1:30am to introduce themselves. Your old neighbour moved out this morning, after all, you saw it after waking up – more like, after being woken up – at 08:28 by beeps but unlike the fridge, these beeps were loud and outside. A truck reversing. You’d wanted a lie-in but no, you’re ruled by beeps and boops. You are just another package from delivery line, scanned and stamped, soggy on the doorstep of life.
The neighbour was moving out. No sign in the yard or nothing. You twitched at the curtain. The old madam next door shuffled on her zimmer frame down her crazy-paving driveway. She then turned around and looked back, right up at you. You’d resisted the instinct to duck behind the curtain and disappear from sight and you met eyes with Mrs. Number 22 and she smiled, so you raised your hand kind of pathetically, but sincerely, and you kind of smiled back; no teeth, you smiled with your eyes and your lips and your cheeks. She saw this and waved back to you. For some reason that smile got you. Her little old lady smile, thrown over her shoulder, as she was getting helped into the back of her grandson’s car, seemed to reassure you about your own life, and how you might be living it. All your screaming and crying into the early hours of the morning. Your arguing with Them, the police on your welcome mat. All your cigarettes on the flat roof. Slamming doors, blaring music to drown out the sound of throwing up. All of that was normal, the smile seemed to say, it was okay, she had heard everything, obviously, every sound, and still, after knowing who you were, the real you behind closed doors, she still turned her back and smiled a smile that said it was all going to be okay.
You think about Mrs. Number 22 now and the calming reassurance she gave with just a look. You are okay, you say, with all other senses screaming otherwise.
Goodbye Mrs. Number 22.
KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK
You walk to the door. You apologise to your nan in the sky as you wrap her hand-crocheted blanket around your lower body, twice wrapped, because the weave is exposingly loose and for a second you realise actually, the blanket is quite shit, the weave far too loose and easily pulled apart, and it upsets you to think that your nan was also a real person who was bad at things and got embarrassed and most likely lied to you about inventing frozen grapsicles, but your hand is on the door handle now and the cold brass brings you back to the room.
You check the monitor and you see on the live feed the woman with a ponytail face-lift in a pants suit wiping her pumps on the welcome mat.
OPEN UP PLEASE.
You open the door. You’re suddenly hyper-aware of your nipples and their browness and their girth.
The woman is smiling. Her skin is taut against the bone and shiny at the forehead where it reflects the porch lights. She holds her clipboard close to her chest.
“Hello–”
“Are you new my new neighbour?”
“New neighbour? Oh well, not quite–”
“You the new landlord there then? All my neighbours here, I don’t know what’s wrong with them, they’re recluses or something. Mrs. Number 22 was the last of the good ones.”
“Not exactly, I just–
“You going to turn it into an air bnb or something?”
Air BnB, that’s their game.
You’re being priced out. Never, no, not you.
You've always preferred hotels. You didn’t trust air bnbs – even though everyone else is over it, since the Airbnbutcher of ’49 you’ll never stay in one again. You don’t miss them. You didn’t like how airbnbs made you feel.
Even though you always made sure the place perfectly embodied your character, that it spatially represented your beliefs; where the interior design suggested a learned life of creative contemplation; a bookshelf, a cheese plant, pastel coloured sofas and carpets and curtains. Framed movie posters from the last century. Something whacky like a traffic mirror or a stuffed squirrel. You deluded yourself, staying at these places, blinded by the voyeuristic pleasure of sleeping in someone else’s bed, cumming in someone else’s shower. But although the flats were invariably dressed up to look like the apartment of some architect maybe, you could imagine a writer living there, scribbling away in the morning sun, or a painter, peering out the sash windows; the decor, the arrangement, the feng shui, it all inspired something, it all buzzed with potential; you’d think if only you lived there, then you could write that book and you’d watch those old movies you always said you would, and you’d eat properly and exercise often. You’d make use of the open plan kitchen-dining-room and you’d invite people over and cook that curry your nan taught you.
But in reality, you’d arrive, drop your bags and then be out until the evening. You’d return late, more than likely drunk, which meant no chance were you waking up early, so, no chance were you using the picturesque kitchen to make a healthy breakfast – like you promised you would when you spunked twenty quid at the shell garage on the way there (a carton of eggs, feta cheese, and spinach, never made It out the carrier bag, just sweating away on the floor at the foot of the bed.) You remember feeling dirty after checking out, having stripped the bed and cleaned up. after yourself even though you’ve paid a cleaning fee almost the same price as the room. There was something prostitue-y about it.
You feel bad for the airbnbs. You’re sorry for those flats, they once had dreams of being homes and studios. That’s why you prefer hotels. It feels more like going to a Parisian brothel, there’s something quaintly historic and charming about a hotel, and indulging in the services of Madame Corporate. Your bed is made for you everyday. Forgot your toothpaste, again? Housekeeping will bring you some. Free shampoo and conditioner you’ll use liberally and often. Whereas AirBnB, it's like the OnlyFans of accomodation. The photos are more than likely fake, you think you're speaking to someone real but you're just fluffing it with an AI assistant.
“Mr. Schott,” the woman said. “Excuse me, I know it's you, yes it's frustrating, but can you please confirm verbally, you are Edison M Schott?”
“Yes.”
“Username Schottish Lights?”
“Yes.”
“Did you post this?” She presents a phone showing your post about Cotton Candy Grapes™. You read comments underneath it:
@shrimpking2000 – bro idc if these were made in a lab or in a wizard’s cauldron they hit different 🔥🔥🔥
@frogsupremacy – we’re one step away from creating Skittles that grow on trees and honestly I’m ready for it 🌈🌳
@lettucehead69 – y’all mad at grapes when cereal mascots been trying to gaslight us for years
@mysticrat420 – bro these grapes got alchemy vibes I feel like I shouldn’t be eating them but I can’t stop
@voidsnack – if fruit starts getting DLC I’m gonna lose my mind
@chaoscheese – I would like to personally shake hands with the grape wizard responsible for this unholy creation
Everyone loves the fucking grapes. You feel embarrassed that no one agrees with you. A small part of you thought you’d go viral, that’d you’d wake up and see #MAKEGRAPESGRAPESAGAIN in the top five trending; you’d be known for exposing the greatest conspiracy of your era, the headlines would read Grapes Are Fake; everyone will then find your post and realise how smart and funny you actually are and how, yes, you did have something to say that everyone might want to hear; you’d get a journalist in your dm’s hey, I love what you said, would like to be interviewed tonight on BSTV? And you’d go on and be even more funny and erudite, and so cutting; you’d perfectly encapsulate the mood of the times, and then everyone will pay to hear your opinions and then you’d be rich, of course, but you’d be responsible with the money, of course, and give to charity and buy local and organic–
But no. Six likes and six comments by six people you don’t even know.
“Is there a problem?” you say.
“I don’t want to argue, okay?” she says, taping away on her clipboard. “I have to inform you, under the jurisdiction of Them™, it’s come to my attention there may have been a breach of contract." She rushes through the rehearsed speech. You've heard it before but there's nothing you can do about it, she has to say it, it's part of their job, it's what they do, it's like an unskippable ad before the video begins.
“What did I do–”
The clipboard prints a piece of paper that chk-chk-chks out from the bottom. She tears it with one hand like an expert in this. In giving out tickets. She reads it.
“Edison M Schott Username: Schottish_Lights. NEGATIVITY VIOLATION.”
“Oh, c’mon! For the grape thing?”
She reads it more. Her face drops, not her outside, work-face but her inside, human face.
“It has been decided by Them your sentence has increased by another year.”
She hands you the fine. Inkjet evidence of your face and name and username and recent search and comment history.
“I thought you’d learned, Mr. Schott. After the whole Big Dental incident. You know I hate giving bad news.”
“Don’t turn make this about you,” you say.
“It’s not so bad. You’ve not been banned from your phone again. At least you’re still allowed to use it.”
“I don’t care so much about that,” you say. “I’m just so bored and sick and tired of being alone. I have so many things to say, so many thoughts I’m thinking. Can’t you stay?”
“I can leave you with some advice–”
“–oh not your advice–”
“–yes, my advice. Sell-up. They’re only harassing you because you won’t leave.”
You hold your blanket tight. “My nan was born in this house. My mum was born there, in the kitchen. I was born in the bedroom, upstairs above the garage.”
“You’ve told me before.”
“I’ve seen a photograph of this road, some time in the late 19th century. It was of a street party of a mysterious origin, with criss-cross bunting and flowers in everyone’s garden. Tables with cakes and pies and bowls of boiled sweets. Tables with apples bobbing in buckets. The image is slightly blurry and I like to think it’s because the photographer giggled while taking it, laughing at the child in the foreground who looks like he’s in mid-trip, or at the horse cut off by the frame so you can only see his backside and the mess he had made…”
The front door blows
in the wind and hits the coat rack
and you just about see the woman ducking into a silver car with blacked out windows. Before the door even closes, hums off down the street.
You shut the front door. You read the ticket again and at the bottom in small, unassuming typeface, it reads: DAYS REMAINING: 24,567
Anyways, where were you? Yes, the photograph, the brown and grey one...