Bananapants: A Bonkers Romantic Comedy

“I’d rather be hated for who I am than loved for who I am not.”

— Kurt Cobain, Attributed

On my way to Ava’s family barbecue, and while under extreme duress due to her extortion of the Henri situation, I ended up wasting thirty minutes in the grocery store, unable to decide between New York-style or Southern-style potato salad. In the end, I’d bought both.

As I stepped off the neighborhood bus near Ava’s parents’ house, my earbuds announced a call from my handler. “Hello?”

“I figured out who that Ava lady is.” Sue’s voice had never been so cryptic.

Tripping on nothing, I held still to maintain my balance. “Oh?” Doing my best to mimic her tone, I forced my feet to move and shook off the irrational spike of panic. Sue knows nothing. How could she?

“Yessss,” she said. With meaning.

The little red man flashed on the walk sign and the countdown dwindled from twenty to eight as I crossed the street. Then I walked another block, the noise of Sue wordlessly munching on potato chips filling my ear.

Taking a deep breath to ease some of the tightness in my chest, I lifted my free hand, my finger hovering over the End Call button. “Well, if that’s all, I’m hanging up.”

“YOU CARRY HER PICTURE IN YOUR WALLET! SHE’S THE⁠—”

Wincing, I ripped out the earbuds, scowling at the residual ringing in my ears and cursing under my breath.

I could just make out, “Raz? Raz? Are you there? Raz? Have I lost you?”

Holding an earbud to my mouth, I growled, “Don’t shout!” then put just one back in place.

“I’m sorry. Sorry. I can’t believe I finally met the woman in the picture. An actual, physical picture. No one carries pictures in their wallet anymore, only you, Gramps. And only of her. It’s a momentous occasion.”

It didn’t matter if Sue had realized Ava was the woman in the photo because I had an explanation all lined up. “Sue⁠—”

“Why her?”

“You already know why I carry the photo. I don’t always have the same phone, and getting rid of digital images is more difficult than physical pictures.” A woman walking a dog passed me, giving me a small smile. I returned it, attention snagging on a fenced-in area behind her and to my left. The community garden.

Ava’s parents lived in a neighborhood in South Chicago that had staved off gentrification with moderate success. Most houses were original. The parks did have community gardens but they were managed by locals and stocked the neighborhood food bank. Ava’s father volunteered at both the garden and the food bank. According to my mom, it’s where she’d done her community service hours for high school.

I’d never done community service hours for the purposes of high school as I’d never actually attended a high school, but—before things had gone to hell when I was thirteen—I used to garden with Ava and her dad. Once the dog walker passed, I paused at the edge of the fence and studied the garden.

“Yeah, I get why you don’t have me load photos on your burners, and I understand why you carry around a photo of a beautiful woman in your wallet.” Sue sounded impatient. “It’s come in handy more than once. But—Raz—why this woman?”

Overall, the garden was still in good shape. A few beds needed weeding. “Why are you suddenly so interested in everything?” I deflected. No reason to answer the question. “Where’s that apron of apathy I bought you for Christmas? How about the insoles of indifference for your birthday, huh? What’s with this cardigan of curiosity? Take it off, it’s not your color.” I spotted the wooden bench swing in the far corner of the fenced-in area. I’d built that bench and welded the metal frame with Ava and her dad. I’d been ten or eleven.

“I’m not suddenly interested in everything.” I heard Sue sniff, like me accusing her of curiosity about my life was insulting. “I’ve been chronically curious about this one thing ever since I first saw the picture. You know I don’t give a rat’s creepy pink ass about your personal life. Or lack thereof.”

“Good.” Turning from the garden and the bench and the memories, I continued on my way.

“But, my dude, it’s always been that woman. A different photo whenever the old one wears out or looks out-of-date. But always her. And now I know who she is. It’s like the ending of The Usual Suspects. I don’t know what it means, but I know it means something.”

I grunted, scanning the street. I’d taken the bus down here to discern whether or not I’d been followed. It’s easy to follow a bus. It’s also easy to spot a car following a bus. I hadn’t been followed, but I still cataloged the cars and pedestrians. Occupational hazard.

“Who is she really, Gramps? Why Ms. Ava Archer?” Sue vacillated between calling me Raz—short for my call sign, Raziel—and Gramps. Gramps was reserved for times I was being grumpy, stubborn, boring, out of touch with current pop culture, or what she considered old-fashioned. This was ironic since Sue was in her sixties and spoke more like someone my age than I did.

So 50 percent of the time she called me Raz and 50 percent it was Gramps.

I surrendered. Might as well get this out of the way. “Fine. She’s someone Desmond Sullivan actually knows. When I say she’s my fiancée, even if people check her out, they’ll see we grew up together. Her mother works for my dad’s company. We lived in the same building for a time. There’s photos of us together out there. And her record is spotless. She’s legit on paper.”

“And she’s beautiful.”

I rubbed my chest. “Yeah.” And because she was so beautiful, whenever I showed off her picture and said she was my fiancée, women would stop hitting on me, men would let me weasel out of strip clubs, and people would stop trying to set me up with their daughter or niece or friend.

I’d never shown her photo to Henri even though having an excuse to escape his sleezier tendencies would’ve been nice more than once. Going along with his habits fit the character I was playing. But also, I hadn’t wanted him to see her picture. Ever.

I halted at the next crosswalk, waited for the signal to change like a law-abiding citizen, and glared at everything. “Since we’re talking about her anyway, why was she at the Haewthorn Society? Did you confirm her story?”

“Ms. Archer’s story checked out,” Sue said, back in business mode. “She was there helping a senior partner in her law firm, Chelsea Albrecht-Walton of the languishing Albrecht department stores and retail empire.”

“Mmm.”

A pause, then, “Hey. You should ask her to help us with Henri.”

“What?” The question arrived sharper than I’d intended.

“She’s trustworthy, right?”

“I’m not using Ava for this.” I knew I sounded belligerent, but I wasn’t going to use Ava at all. Today would be the last time I saw her. Maybe forever. A phantom pain in my sternum had me tensing my jaw, but nothing could be done. Rekindling our former friendship wasn’t an option. I didn’t want to be friends with her.

The only people I regularly interacted with under the identity of Desmond Sullivan were my mom, my sister, my paternal grandparents, and my grandpa Eugene. Most of the time, Desmond was one of the identities I used, albeit more rarely than any of the others and only when absolutely necessary. Adding Ava to this list of regular contacts would be like paving a road to nowhere, needlessly complicating my life and adding risk to hers.

That was assuming she even wanted to know me now, which she likely didn’t. Besides, I’d be in Chicago for another six weeks at most, then it was back to the underground. A job waiting for me in Brussels, then Sao Paolo, then Moscow. Sue didn’t like some of the jobs I’d taken this last year, she said they were “Robin Hood BS,” including the one I was working now.

I swung the shopping bag full of potato salad and a bouquet of yellow roses—Ava’s favorite—to my back. “You can forget about using her.”

“Why?” Sue said between intermittent crunching sounds. “She seems smart. You two got a relationship history. She seems to trust you.”

An image of Henri whispering in Ava’s ear floated into my vision. I tried to suppress my scowl. I failed.

“Des?”

“She’s irritating,” I finally said. It was true. I didn’t like how I’d been replaying our five-minute interaction in my head on repeat for the last several days. Her soft look. Her angry look. Her surprised look. Every sentence. Every word. Today, I’d put a stop to it. No way could I let those abstract ideas about Ava that used to keep me awake at night as a teenager make a comeback now that we were both adults.

“Seems like a dumb reason to ignore a potential resource when this job is unpaid. You won’t use your dad’s resources—which, fine, I understand why—but this job is taking forever.”

“And she’s bad at lying,” I added. Even though the walk sign was illuminated, I looked both ways before crossing.

“Well, she didn’t seem irritating to me. Naive, sure. Goofy as hell, absolutely. Irritating, no. Other than Thursday, when’s the last time you saw her?”

“I don’t remember,” I lied.

I remembered exactly the last time I saw her prior to Thursday at the Haewthorn Society. She hadn’t known I was leaving Chicago for good because I didn’t tell her. I’d planned to tell her but didn’t.

I’d stopped by her parents’ house unannounced. Her boyfriend at the time had been over. They were having pizza and playing Mario Kart and being normal. He’d given me the side-eye. She’d invited me to stay. I’d declined. That night, I’d boarded the plane to Boston with my grandma.

“You grew up together, so you’ve known her your whole life?” Sue’s question brought me back to the present.

“Right.” Surveying the sleepy street, the Archer house up ahead, I mentally logged each car, the sidewalk currently free of pedestrians. These old houses in South Chicago were built close to the street, no room for kids to play in the front, but they all had backyards.

“So, she’s like a sister?” Sue kept on pushing.

“No. Not a sister.” I’d never thought of Ava as a sister. Not once.

“Childhood sweethearts, then?”

“Just a, you know, kid I used to know. Did you get the information we needed on Henri’s house in the Caymans? What about the office in Chicago?” It was time for a subject change.

“I got the info on both. It was easy since he’s looking for a new firm to run security. Guess he didn’t like that visit you paid him last month. And that’s no kid. That’s a sexy lady.”

“She’s just Ava.” I wasn’t having this conversation with Sue. Or anyone.

“If you say so.” Sue must’ve finished with the bag of chips because I heard a crumpling sound. “Anyway, still, think about bringing Ava Archer in the loop. Don’t say no, think about it.”

I stopped again. “You want me to tell Ava who I am? What I do?” There was no way that’s what Sue meant.

“What? No! Not that. Approach her as Desmond, tell her about what happened with your friend Hareem’s patent, specifically that Henri misled Hareem into signing away his exclusive manufacturing rights, never moved forward with manufacturing, and therefore made the patent worthless. That’s all true and has nothing to do with how you make bank. It’ll also make you look like a saint.”

“I’m no saint,” I grumbled. And the last thing I’d ever do to Ava is make myself out to be something I wasn’t, not even to help Hareem.

Sue was tired of this job, I knew that. It had dragged on. Endlessly. Her fee was being covered by me, but I wasn’t being paid. She got nervous for me when a steady flow of money wasn’t coming in even though I had plenty in the bank. Part of me was nervous she’d threaten to retire again if I didn’t wrap things up soon.

“I know,” Sue said happily. “And my bank account thanks you. Now, if you’d stop taking on Robin Hood jobs and get back to making serious money, you could thank yourself. Bring Ava on board and we can look for some real work.”

“Why would I tell Ava anything?” I started walking again. The Archer house was three lots away. As soon as I arrived, I planned to set the timer on my watch for two hours. I’d only promised two hours.

“Because you’ve already intercepted two gifts and one massive flower bouquet sent to her work from Henri. He’s interested in her, and he’s never expressed interest in anyone since you’ve been tracking him. Maybe you could leverage that, use Ava to⁠—”

Sue’s words had me turning away from Ava’s parents’ house and whispering harshly, “I don’t fucking want Ava anywhere near him. The last thing I would do is fucking leverage her.”

“Okay, your Boston is showing, Gramps. Calm down.” Under her breath she added, “And she’s just a kid you knew. Riiiight.” From the sound of it, Sue seemed to be sucking on her teeth. She had no sense of decorum, one of the reasons we got along so well. She also lacked sentimentality, which was usually an asset.

“Alls I’m saying is, you’ve been working on this guy for months and we’re so close. You won’t ask your father, you won’t ask your uncle Dan, and you won’t ask Alex Greene for help. Thank God I know how to locate and delete things. You shouldn’t take any more time off from real jobs or people will think you’re retired. See if Ava can figure out where all the copies of the contract are, see if she can get him to trust her.”

“I’m not⁠—”

“Fine. Fine. You won’t use one of the only solid leads you’ve had in four months. Okay. I get it. At the very least, if you actually tell her why Henri’s dangerous, then you won’t have to run interference. Maybe do that so you can stop stalking her.”

“I’m not stalking her.” I turned back toward the Archer house, but my steps were slow. I didn’t want to be overheard. Nor did I want anyone who might be looking out the window to think I was talking to myself.

“You followed her all day Friday and Saturday. I made a copy of her phone and you’re screening all her calls and texts. I’m reading her emails.” From Sue’s side of the call, I heard fast typing on a keyboard. Fast and agitated. “But, sure, that’s not stalking.”

“I need to make sure he doesn’t contact her,” I said reasonably. “If he does, I need to delete the messages before she sees them. Besides, it’s not like I’m the one reading her emails. And I don’t listen to her phone calls, just screen them to ensure it’s not Henri or one of his lackeys. See? Not stalking. Protecting. There’s a difference.”

According to our intel on Henri, he had a history of becoming somewhat obsessive with the women he pursued. At least in one case, his former girlfriend had obtained a restraining order against him after he held her against her will for several days. The woman also changed her name and moved out of the US. His family was able to make the criminal charges go away with frightening efficiency.

Maybe my apathy about respecting Ava’s privacy made me a bad guy. Maybe I didn’t really give a shit about being a bad guy if it kept her out of Henri’s orbit.

Thus far, he’d only sent things to Ava’s office: two wrapped boxes I’d buried in the mail room of her building under a pile of misdirected mail and a huge bouquet of roses I’d rerouted to a random admin office on the floor above Ava’s. If he looked into the missing items, their misdirection needed to appear plausible, even though I’d love nothing more than to toss everything into a fire. Maybe he’d figured out where she worked because she’d been impersonating a coworker who was on the invite list.

If I were lucky, he might’ve already forgotten her last name. All the cards on his gifts had been made out to “Ava” only. I hoped he would give up when she didn’t respond to his overtures. Henri’s attention span was short. Though I’d never seen him pursue a woman, I trusted our source of intel that his attention could be dangerous. Better to be safe than sorry.

Then again, maybe he’d eventually call me and ask for her details. I planned to string him along until he lost interest. Worst-case scenario, Henri might hire his own people and dig into her background. If he did that, I didn’t know what I’d do.

“Raz. You’ve found two of the original manufacturing contracts and destroyed them. I know it’s occurred to you that even if we destroy all hard copies and all digital backups we can find, there might be more saved and stored in places we can’t find. We’re lucky he had Hareem sign physical copies instead of executing it through an online service where there are infinite digital backups. But hell, there might be hard copies of the hard copies and backups of the backups. I’m good, but I’m not a wizard.”

“He’s not meticulous that way. He’s sloppy and overconfident. He thinks Hareem has no friends, no resources.” I lowered the bag carrying the roses and potato salad to my side. “I still have a month until Brussels. Maybe I can’t get to all of them, maybe I can. I have to try.”

Sue wasn’t finished. “At the very least, there’s an original hard copy in that fortress of his in the Caymans and, if our informant is correct, another digital copy on a USB drive at the Chicago office. In a safe. How are we getting inside that place? Not even you can get inside. You’ve attempted twice.”

“I have an idea about that. I need you to check the elevators of the Harding Building, see if they’re in service. I suspect they haven’t been installed yet. If that’s the case, I can use a holster and climber to get in and out.”

“Okay. I can do that.”

“Listen, I’m here. I have to go.” Eyeing Ava’s parents’ house, I gave my head a shake. Seeing this place was weird. Being back in Chicago was weird.

“Think about what I said. Maybe Henri likes Ava.” Sue kept on pushing. “Maybe he invites her down to the Caymans for a trip. Maybe you tag along as her old friend. Bang! That’s your invite, that’s how you get into the property there. Or in his office here. She gets inside his Chicago building for a lunch date or something. We have the safe combo, give it to her. She opens the safe where he keeps his USB backups, and⁠—”

“I can get them on my own. Love ya. Bye.”

“No, Raz. Listen, you’re right. Henri is overconfident and sloppy. We know his people haven’t opened or checked the dummy files we’ve left behind, so he’s not paying attention, even with your multiple break-in attempts. Maybe we have found and destroyed all the digital copies, in which case you need that last original in the Caymans and the USB here.”

“I said I have to go.” I lifted my fingers to my ear, ended the conversation, and placed the device in my pocket.

I was here. My dad might already be inside. And my heart was beating too fast.

I didn’t hate my dad. I didn’t dislike him either. Yet, I couldn’t be around him without feeling like a huge disappointment. Ever since my first arrest at nine, I’d been an epic failure. It only got worse when I’d been diagnosed.

And I already knew what would happen today during our fifteen minutes of forced proximity. We’d stand together. Silently. The quiet between us a reminder of stuff we couldn’t change about ourselves or each other.

Anxiety I’d been ignoring suddenly sat like a leaden weight in my chest and sounded like an out-of-tune orchestra in my brain. It had been steadily ballooning, growing louder since I’d promised Ava I would show up today. My pulse was thrumming erratically, as off-sync as the rest of the orchestra, playing its dizzying and exaggerated rendition of “You’re about to Have a Heart Attack.” I would need at least a minute to prepare.

You know what? That’s a lie.

Finally getting real with myself, the truth was I needed to decide whether or not to take olanzapine before heading in because it felt like I was about to have a panic attack. In my case, if I had a panic attack, especially this late in the day, it might lead to a psychotic episode. This wasn’t true for everyone with my disorder, but it was for me.

And olanzapine isn’t necessarily FDA approved as a rescue med for panic attacks, as far as I knew, but that’s one of the ways it worked in my case. Grumbling a curse, I turned my back to the house and fished out a dose of olanzapine. I dry swallowed it. I’d have to circle the block while it kicked in and be twenty minutes late. Better than not showing up at all or having a panic attack on the sidewalk.

Glancing over my shoulder at the Archer house, I waited a few minutes before attempting to leave, needing my heart to stop beating erratically, and prayed no one would show up while I was stuck outside the house. Ducking my head, I distracted myself by wondering if Uncle Dan and Aunt Kat were already inside. I also wondered if any of their kids were here. Last I heard, one of their twin daughters was off doing something with the peace corps and their youngest—DJ, aka Daniel Junior—had recently been accepted to some fancy high school out West that specialized in artificial intelligence and robotics engineering.

So, you know, high-performing kids. Good kids. Unproblematic kids. Kids on the right track. The kind of kids parents brag about.

The other twin girl, my cousin Rebekah, was a screwup like me. But not really. I wondered what she was up to. I hoped she’d be here today. Then we can be screwups together.

My heart rate had leveled enough for me to start walking and I was just about to begin my first circle around the block when I heard, “Desmond?”

My shoulders stiffened, automatically bunching toward my ears, and I turned to my left. Greg Archer looked dumbstruck. He stood on the second to last step leading up to their brownstone. He stared at me, eyes wide, like if he blinked I might disappear.

And if I’d possessed invisibility superpowers in that moment, I definitely would’ve.