Cherry: (n) a small, round stone fruit that is typically bright or dark red.
Rhonda wanted to impress me.
Traveling on the road, feeling young, my hair down to my shoulders, in a beat-up van, with a few songs I had written and dreams of
greatness, Rhonda had bought into my whole delusion and was along for the ride.
Our relationship was an interesting mingling of respect, lust, spirituality and availability.
One day Rhonda went to the store.
It was rather ironic that she was there because we didn’t really have any money. I had given her just two dollars–one to buy some bologna and one to buy some bread and mustard. (This was back when you could buy bread, mustard and bologna with two dollars.)
About forty minutes later she was back with the entrees, but also with a huge bag of cherries. It seems that she had arrived in the produce section just about the time that the manager was ready to throw away a whole bunch of cherries which he had over-ordered for the appetite of the community.
She saw him heading for the dumpster and she asked if she could have the sweet treats. I guess he must have looked at her bell-bottom jeans, hemp blouse and long, stringy hair and felt sorry for her.
He gave her the whole bag.
There were probably three hundred and twenty-eight cherries in there (not that I counted.)
We ate bologna sandwiches and cherries until we could eat no more. Some of the cherries were old and grumpy and others were soft and too mushy, but most of them were deliciously ripe and ready for consumption.
About an hour later, after eating all these cherries, a volcanic rumble began low in my belly, and crept its way up to my chest. Rhonda too.
We both were in horrific pain from a cherry juice hangover.
We needed to go to the bathroom, but there was no real indication that anything would happen.
So we rolled on our bellies all afternoon with a mixture of pain and gratitude over such a cherry experience.