BILLY “THE BARD”

The crisp night air did little to quell the inferno of passion burning within my chest. Tonight was the night. I clutched my tattered copy of “The Raven” to my chest, the words practically worn smooth from countless breathless rehearsals. Tonight, Brenda, the object of my affection, would finally understand the profound depths of my soul. Brenda resided in the second-floor apartment across the narrow alleyway. And there I was, Billy “The Bard,” standing on the soggy patch of lawn outside Brenda’s second-story window, bellowing romantic poetry into the void. Not just any poetry, mind you. I’d specially crafted this particular sonnet, a masterpiece if I did say so myself, that rhymed “Brenda” with “Splenda.”

“Oh, Brenda, my love, my sweet succulent treat, Your beauty’s a vision, can’t be beat! Like a packet of Splenda, you brighten my day, Please, oh please, come out, what do you say?”

I paused for dramatic effect, glancing up at her dark window. Nothing. Not a peep. But I wasn’t discouraged. Brenda, the object of my affection, was notoriously hard to woo. She worked at the local library sorting books, a job that, in my humble opinion, made her a goddess of knowledge and paper cuts. I figured a dramatic display of my passion was just what she needed to realize we were meant to be.

I took a bracing breath, ready to launch into stanza two, when the first projectile landed with a thwack next to my foot. It was a scuffed, size-ten sneaker. I looked around, startled. A muffled curse came from the window above mine, belonging to old Mr. Weasel, the guy with the perpetually grumpy face.

“Keep it down, you young hooligan!” he yelled, retreating into the darkness.

I shook my head, undeterred. Love, as they say, is a battlefield. And I, Billy “The Bard,” was ready for war armed with nothing but my wit and a slightly off-key rendition of “Sonnet 18.”

I went back to my performance, my voice even louder now, trying to compensate for the previous interruption. I was getting to the really good part, the stanza where I compared her laughter to the sound of a thousand tiny unicorns tap-dancing when something else came hurtling through the air. This time, it was half a watermelon. A ripe, juicy watermelon, which, thankfully, landed a foot to my left, splattering the already-soaked lawn with pink goop. A chorus of annoyed groans erupted from various windows around the complex. Things were escalating.

“Okay, people, chill! It’s just artistic expression!” I yelled up at the dark windows, trying to sound more confident than I felt. I figured if I stood my ground, they’d give up. I didn’t know much about love, but I did know that persistence was key.

I took another deep breath, preparing to finish my epic poem. But before I could utter another word, I was hit with something decidedly smaller. A pickle, a whole, briny, dill pickle landed directly on my chest, leaving a damp, vinegar-y stain on my already-soaked shirt. I sputtered, genuinely surprised.

A particularly frustrated voice, laced with a throaty smoker’s rasp cut through the night. “Shut it, Romeo!” it screeched.

I looked up. My gaze locked with a woman, maybe in her late fifties, who was leaning out of a window on the other side of Brenda’s. She had wild, salt-and-pepper hair escaping a loose bun and a face that suggested she’d had enough of everyone’s nonsense that day, especially mine. This was Mrs. Petrovic, the woman who, rumor had it, had once wrestled a raccoon for a bag of chips.

“But… but I’m reciting poetry,” I stammered.

“And I’m about to recite the terms of a restraining order!” she yelled.

She grabbed something else from the window ledge and with the flick of her wrist, sent it flying in my direction. It was a cucumber. A rather large cucumber. It bounced off my shoulder with a satisfying thump.

“Seriously? Are we doing a salad now?” I yelled out, my voice dripping with sarcasm. I was starting to lose patience, even for the sake of love.

I had barely finished the thought when something else came barreling towards me and I did not have time to brace myself. It was bigger, heavier, and felt distinctly…unnatural. It hit me squarely in the face, knocking me back a step. I stumbled, my vision blurring as the world spun around me. I could vaguely feel something warm and slick on my cheek.

I reached up a shaky hand and pulled it away to stare at it in horror. It wasn’t a tomato, or a turnip, or even an eggplant. It was an enormous, veined, and frankly disturbing dildo. It was bright purple and…well, it was a dildo.

I didn’t know what to do. I stood there, dumbfounded, my face throbbing, a pickling stain on my chest, a cucumber bruise on my shoulder, and a bright purple dildo clutched in my hand. The silence was brief. It was followed by the sound of the entire apartment complex erupting in laughter, including, I was pretty sure, Brenda, who had finally opened her window to see what all the fuss was about.

I looked up at her, my heart thudding in my chest. She was leaning against the windowsill, a ghost of a smile playing on her lips, her eyes sparkling with amusement.

“Billy,” she said, her voice surprisingly calm, “You know, there are these things called text messages. Or phone calls. Or, and hear me out, just knocking on my door? “

I stared up at her, still holding the offending object. My grand romantic gesture had not gone as planned.

“And the dildo?” I managed.

She burst out laughing, her head thrown back, a sound that was, I had to admit, more charming than unicorns tap-dancing.

“That was Mrs. Petrovic’s. She keeps it on the windowsill to…deter squirrels. I think,” she said, wiping tears from her eyes. “You did put on quite the show though, Billy.”

I sighed, the weight of the situation finally hitting me. I’d tried to be a romantic hero and ended up getting pelted with produce and a sex toy.

“Maybe next time,” I yelled up to Brenda, “I’ll try bringing you a bouquet of, uh… something less dangerous.”

Another missile, this time a half-eaten burrito, whizzed past my head. I ducked.

“Okay, okay! I get it!” I yelled, still clutching the dildo. “I’m leaving! I’m leaving!”

I backed away slowly, my romantic heart wilting like a neglected sunflower. The barrage of projectiles intensified. I dodged a tennis ball, two stale bananas, and, inexplicably, a rubber chicken. The rubber chicken bounced off my shoulder with a satisfying bonk. I retreated a defeated poet amidst a chaotic scene of flying household goods. The next morning, the street was suspiciously quiet. I peeked through my window, my argyle socks feeling strangely heavy. The only evidence of the previous night’s epic failure was a few lingering watermelon seeds clinging to the sidewalk and a very forlorn-looking rubber chicken abandoned by the curb.

Then, there was a knock at the door. It was Mrs. Petrovic, from the night before, holding a small plate covered with a tea towel.

“I… uh… I might have been a little… overzealous last night,” she mumbled, not meeting my eye.

I swallowed my pride and smiled. “It was a rather… enthusiastic reaction.”

She hesitated, then thrust the plate at me. “I made some muffins. Blueberry. I thought I should…you know…apologize. And maybe the muffins will make it, I mean you were reciting poetry.”

I took the plate, the warmth seeping through my fingers. “Blueberry is my favorite.”

She gave a small, hesitant smile. “Also, can I have my dildo back?”