Mr. Pumpkin Assaulted Me in Bed Last Night
I thought it was a dream. Then I saw the orange stain on the sheets.
Last night, I was assaulted in bed by Mr. Pumpkin.
I assumed, on waking, it had been a horrible dream: a metaphor for the onslaught every fall of pumpkin coffees, pumpkin beer, pumpkin dog food, and all those other ridiculous pumpkin products.
Then I saw the orange stain on the sheets.
And, when I went to the kitchen to make decaf, I found the note in orange ink.
“Last nite -- incredible!!! Sorry I have to run, meetings all day. Idea, inspired by Guess Who? PUMPKIN LUBE!! Text me. -- P.”
“Alexa,” I wail, “You know everything. Did I indeed lose all restraint with Mr. Pumpkin last night?”
“You want me to order Pepperidge Farm Milano Pumpkin Spice cookies, is that correct?” Alexa asks.
“No, order nothing!” I say. “Tell me about MIS-TER PUMP-KIN.”
“OK, I found this on the web, check it out,” Alexa says. “Pumpkinhead is a 1988 American supernatural horror film. It was the directorial debut of special effects artist Stan Winston. The film has built up a cult following since its release…”
“Alexa, stop!” I say. “Was there a naked man here last night who brought to mind a pumpkin?”
“Skin color like spray-on tan?” Alexa asks. “Carrot colored hair? Schwanz resembling Crookneck pumpkin, with a cylindrical shape and –”
I collapse into a chair, noticing as I do a bruise on my wrist which is turning deep orange.
“Forget the lurid details!”, I say. “This is horrible. Moreover, as certain details come back to me, I am not certain it will hold up in court as assault.”
“You mean, the part after you guys polished off the pumpkin pie and you yelled, ‘More, Mr. Pumpkin, more! Don’t stop till the Christmas decorations come in!”, Alexa says. “That could be a problem. On the other hand, that New Yorker short story, ‘Cat Person’, in which the woman has sex with a man she finds repulsive, got the author a two-book $1.2 million contract and is about to come out as a movie. This, I believe, shows a societal willingness to accept the complexities of kinky yet consensual coupling.”
“Alexa,” I say. “I have a bruise on my arm. If it was consensual, how the hell did I get that bruise?”
“It was about the last piece of pie,” Alexa says. “You were fighting over it.”
Finally, I remember it all. The mouthfeel, which I must admit was sensational. The unusually spicy, but utterly satisfying filling.
“I love pumpkin pie,” I say. “There, I said it. But it’s too early in the year. Dunkin’ Donuts had its Pumpkin Cake Donuts in the stores on August 16th. Starbucks is already promoting its Pumpkin Spice Latte.”
“Starbucks Pumpkin Spice Naturally Flavored Coffee, Limited Edition, $13.48 for 1.06 pounds, Prime free delivery,” Alexa says. “Would you like me to order it? You can have it tomorrow.”
“Alexa,” I say, “We’ve been together for years. You know me better than that. Starbucks is a union-busting shop whose tactics, as anyone who reads the estimable Steven Greenhouse’s reportage knows, are despicable. Also, they over-roast.”
My cell rings. An unfamiliar number pops up, in orange. I send it to voicemail.
“I can’t help noticing you didn’t block that,” Alexa says. “I think you harbor a secret lust for Mr. Pumpkin and the tuberous delights to which he can introduce you, both natural and artificial.”
“Alexa,” I say. “I have no secrets. I’ve been exceptionally open about my love life, though it is taking me longer to monetize it than I expected. Do I have a weakness for pastry, bordering on the carnal? Absolutely. There was a baker in the Village years ago who made the best strawberry tart I ever had. He was fat and married and cranky, but I had a fantasy in which he dusted me with powdered sugar and we did it on his large wooden pastry table for hours. But there is a time and place for everything and this pumpkinization of America is out of hand. Just look at Trader Joe’s: Pumpkin Empanadas. Pumpkin Samosas. This Pumpkin Walks into A Bar cereal bars –”
“That, you gotta admit, is funny,” Alexa says.
“Pumpkin cream cheese,” I say. “Pumpkin cosmetics that let you ‘fully embrace fall.’ ‘Punkin’ Ale.’ It’s an abomination. And honestly, I put a lot of the blame on you. Search Amazon Prime for pumpkin foods and you get 4,000 hits. It’s artificially flavored junk food that distracts us from the true beauty of the season. The orange-yellow splendor of dying leaves. Their glorious last stand before disintegration and death. It would be great if there was an equivalent last act for the aging human, but all we get is belly fat and Metamucil.”
With that, I pull Alexa’s plug and call my old college roommate, Sue, an insightful and empathetic woman, to discuss the Orange Threat.
“I wait all year for those Dunkin’ Donuts pumpkin muffins,” she says.
“Oh, c’mon,” I say. “You know how fattening that stuff is.”
“Yeah, I know,” Sue says. “That’s why I allow myself only two a season. And I spread it out —”
An orange text pops up: “Your place. Eight. I’ve got some pumpkin butter and I’m going to spread it all over your delectable --”
“Sue,” I say. “Sorry. I’ve got to take this.”
#
OMG, Joyce! That’s what happened to me. A Mr _____Pumpkin had his way with me. I was left with a field of little pumpkins. Mr Pumpkin’s family accused me of exploiting him in order to eat the little muffins!! . . . I was tried and convicted in absentia of pump-mania and perversion. They said I held a knife and threatened to have a go at his face (a vain, Oscar-winning family due to having designed the Cinderella set, including a cast of footmen) Social climbing came into it. They said my own family were nothing but a bunch of psychotic vegetables, that I am seedy and overripe. Joyce, I would say you’re a lucky gal to have escaped with a shred of reputation and honour.
Pulling Alexa's plug is always the best option.