Returning with two huge mangos, one filling each hand, Elvis joins me at the steps. He takes a seat still possessing both mangos. I watch him rip into the fruit he held tight in his left hand while the other mango (the NOT-for-Vi mango) sat nestled close to his right hip like an obedient child.

Dang…I guess mine is still in the tree. And that’s where it’s going to stay.



Hey, I’m not feeble. I could have done what he did and used the pole to fetch my own fruit. But knowing my luck I would disturb an unripe mango the size and hardness of a coconut that would come crashing down on my head knocking me out cold. The thought of possibly laying unconscious on the sands of a deserted island with a half naked man convinced me not to even try.