Candiotti

My doctor has urged me to stop eating markers. He says it's the most likely explanation for some of my recent digestive distress. A key clue, he says, is my description of my recent evacuations as "rainbow-colored," which he says is unusual, almost unheard of among his patients who don't eat markers. Well, maybe he's right. But there is still something to be said for it as a quality-of-life issue, as a boost to my psychological well-being. As a kind of relief for someone who lacks the strength to face the long years ahead markerless. I'm not afraid to admit I lack this strength. I can admit my vulnerability. Death seems preferable to markerlessness. Death, at least, is an event, it happens and it's over, whereas markerlessness is a condition, which much be endured until death.

The doctor suggested I "munch" on carrots instead. I sneered back at him. He clearly had no idea what he was talking about. He thought that eating markers was some sort of nervous or obsessive habit, not a visceral pleasure in its own right. He has no clue what to make of the snap of the plastic case, giving way to the rich, spongy innards, soaking my tongue in thin, soupy ink. With the stiff, but yielding, tip saved for last. He simply had no idea!

I did get some carrots. I decided to give the doctor that chance. But the carrots were cold and rigid. They snapped off without any give, and of course, there was no sweet core inside, the texture was the same throughout. There was no air pocket through which my teeth would burst in search of ink, which would run down my throat. A poor imitation; not even an imitation.

Plus, the carrots were covered in filth, because I'd taken them directly out of the soil of a local farm. They were smeared with dirt and smelled of waste. I could have eaten cleaner markers directly out of the trash. Disgusted, I left the carrots to rot on my table.

Four days after I found the carrots, a farmer came to my door. He told me some produce had been recently removed from his farm and he'd received a tip that I might know something about it. My remaining carrots sat plainly on the table behind me, still dusted with black soil. He said he'd also lost some livestock and wondered if I might know anything about that (I had also, I confess, taken a chicken, but it had hopped out of my car at a red light when I'd had to roll down my window to catcall a hot babe). I denied everything, of course. I felt sweat soaking through the skin of my palms.

"Mind if I step inside?" he asked, and instead of waiting for an answer, he simply pivoted around me and stepped into my home. Soil fell from his filthy clothes, soil the same color and consistency, I couldn't help but notice, as the soil on the carrots. The farmer's name was Candiotti. His eyes fell onto the table and found their way to the carrots; my stomach dropped.

"Whence the carrots?" he asked. I squinted as if I hadn't understood the question. "Whither the carrots?" he demanded. I shook my head. "I haven't the slightest idea what objects you might be referring to," I said.

He grabbed a carrot from the table and waggled it at me, profanely. "From where did you obtain these carrots, son?" "Aah!" I said, brightening as if I'd finally understood. "The carrots? I purchased those at the carrot store." Candiotti looked skeptical. "Which carrot store?" he asked. In the days and sleepless nights since I'd taken the carrots and imagined this very conversation, I'd failed to anticipate a follow-up question. "The carrot store was called -- let me think -- " I stalled for time. "The carrot store was called, I believe, Stern's." Candiotti's expression was unreadable. "Yes, it was Stern's, I believe, although I could be wrong, but I believe it was Stern's, though I could be wrong, but I believe it was Stern's. The proprietor was an elderly Jewess." Candiotti's eyebrows shot up. Success! After all, who could doubt a story with such an expertly-chosen detail?!

"I don't believe I've ever sold my carrots to a Stern's," he said.

"Well, then it would appear that these are not your carrots!" I crowed. "In which case, your business here is settled, and you can make your way out." He frowned. "These are Candiotti Carrots," he said. "I'm the only one who breeds them this way." He shoved the carrot underneath my eyes and pointed to something with his grimy fingernails. Sure enough, inscribed on the shaft of the carrot in tiny orange letters was the word CANDIOTTI. I felt sweat prickling my hair follicles.

Candiotti had cornered me, and I had no choice but to quickly change strategy. "Why -- that means -- " I said, as if putting it all together. "Someone must have stolen your carrots, and brought them to Stern's...yes...and sold them to her, and then she...yes, of course...she, unaware they'd been stolen, sold them to me, even though...aah, but could it be? yes, it must!...and then I, most innocent at all, bought them from her!" I feigned a look of shock. "You poor man! I am so sorry for you to have suffered this outrage!" Candiotti scowled. "And your chicken," I continued, "must have jumped out the burglar's car window on the way there!" A sprinkle of truth, to help the lies go down!

"But I didn't say anything about a chicken," he said, "I'd only mentioned livestock, nonspecifically."

"Of course it was a chicken," I replied, "because a cow never would have fit into my car."

Well, old Candiotti cut right to the chase. "I think you know more about the carrots than you're letting on," he said. More? I'd already provided him a surfeit of detail, each elaborate element piling precariously on top of the last to build a perfectly impervious tower of deceit! The sweat poured off me. I pulled a marker out of my pocket and bit into it, a blue crayola. Yes, the different colors do have different tastes, incidentally, though the differences are subtle, and the flavors don't necessarily correspond to a same-color real-world food item. So blue crayola isn't, for example, blueberry, but a something in the way of a summery grass, sun-dappled and dew-spattered. Refreshing and pure.

"You, sir, are eating a marker," Candiotti said. Well, I'm used to the scorn and the mockery you get when you snap into a delicious marker on the city bus or at church. It unfortunately comes with the territory. The mockers and the spitters will make sport of your pleasure. Your friends will misplace their trust in your character and judgment, and they will stop returning your calls. Your doctor will insist that there's something deeply aberrant with your behavior. I'm sure there are thousands of marker-eaters who have simply given up on the one thing that brought them joy, despondent in the face of the public pressure; and thousands more who shamefully indulge at home, in private, hiding their true selves from even their family. In this regard, I am simply made of stronger stuff, and have learned to block it out, and live my life the only way I can bear to live it.

But I saw something else in Candiotti's face. Confusion, yes, but no judgment or scorn. Only...curiosity. And wonder, perhaps, that a person could live so freely.

And so, I offered him a taste.

Candiotti searched my face for a sign -- that I was trying to put one over on him; that he was being made a fool of. I calibrated my expression to communicate gentleness. He tentatively took the marker. He moved it towards his open mouth, then searched my face again for a sign that it was all a trick. I smiled serenely. He took a bite.

He seemed surprise by the crunch of the plastic. His mouth puckered around it, as if exploring some crashed alien life. I heard the sponge of the marker's insides on his tongue. His eyes bulged in surprise. He chewed and swallowed. He looked into what remained of the marker and knocked the ink sponge into his palm. He held it to his lips and took a deep, long pull (rude to do without asking, like scraping the frosting off a birthday cake with your fingers, but it was his first time and he didn't know better). His eyes got wider still. "That's incredible," he said.

I pulled out a pack from a drawer; his jaw dropped. He picked out a yellow (savory, salty, almost like a pork in the distance). He began to unscrew it to get right to the ink. "Ah ah ah," I stopped him. "You must enjoy the fullness of the marker. You must be grateful for everything it has to offer you." He was still wary of the plastic, but he trusted me, then smiled broadly when he'd done it and seen that I was right. We laughed and talked all night long, working our way through the pack, ink-drunk and brimming with newfound love for each other, for having found a linked soul.

Candiotti pulled up all his vegetables after that, and in their place, planted thousands of markers, standing in long rows of gradiented colors all the way to the horizon. I never told him the truth about the carrots, and I never will. I've told him things I've never told another living soul, but I will never tell him about the carrots. All friendships must be built on lies, because the truth, in the end, is unsurvivable. Bring the lies to the light and the whole thing dissolves like a sugar cube in hot water, and you are no longer friends, just two men, who don't trust each other, and chew markers.