Apple Dance by Ryan O'Connor

When I was a child my father would take me to the local market to buy delicious red apples. He'd say, "Son, do you know how to test the caliber of an apple?"as he'd cloud the glossy red surface with a breathy haze, polishing it frenetically with the underside of his thin white T-shirt until it glinted glamorously like a Vargas girl sitting luridly on the tips of his fingers, waiting for the wickedness of that first inevitable bite. "You have to knock," he'd strike the apple with his knuckles, "and hope that she will hear you knocking!" If the knock on the apple sounded good, that is, if it sounded like a knock on wood, my father would host a little celebration, right there in the middle of the store, singing, "Aha, she's good! This little apple made of wood!" as he'd gambol across the aisle, tapping the tips and heels of his threadbare shoes against the linoleum tiles. But if the knock sounded soft and mute, he'd knock (not-so-softly) on my head and say, "See? This one's like you, a complete and utter schlub. Just like your mother."

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