Vegetable projectiles
Halfway to work, I ducked into the covered shuk to take shelter from the rain and the splashing buses. Walking up a shuk alleyway, the sound of a woman screaming hysterically met my ears. I continued on my way, not knowing what crazy Jerusalem drama was unfolding, but that I would come upon it momentarily.
I turned the corner.
***The scene before me***
An older woman, enraged, was yelling at a shuk vendor, the source of her fury.
The vegetable vendor, equally incensed, was responding in kind.
Numerous other vendors, shuk workers and random passersby were observing the scene speechlessly, still as statues.
An older woman, enraged, was yelling at a shuk vendor, the source of her fury.
The vegetable vendor, equally incensed, was responding in kind.
Numerous other vendors, shuk workers and random passersby were observing the scene speechlessly, still as statues.
I had to get to work. I walked carefully towards the furious woman yelling at the vendor. She was so virulently angry, I couldn't make out her words. What I could make out, however, was the sweet potato in her hand, which she launched at the vendor. The missile fell short of its target (way short), and rolled down towards my feet.
I continued walking, passing the vendor on my left. Seemingly irate ("seemingly", because I sensed that under the surface, he was enjoying himself), he cursed the woman loudly and vulgarly, picked up an onion and lobbed it at the woman.
This vegetable, too, missed its mark.
This vegetable, too, missed its mark.
....
With enough distance between us, my heartbeat regular again, I reflected upon the spectacle I had just witnessed. And I snickered.
A screaming woman, infuriated, threw a sweet potato at a vendor.
A vendor, bellowing obscenities back, retaliated with an onion.
Neither projectile came even remotely close to hitting its target.
A vendor, bellowing obscenities back, retaliated with an onion.
Neither projectile came even remotely close to hitting its target.
....
It's kind of funny, if you think about it.
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