It was late. Not so late that the streets were emp­ty, but emp­ty enough for a lone roast­ed banana-cart sales­man. From out­side my front win­dow, I heard a scream­ing whis­tle that impelled me to the front win­dow to inves­ti­gate. Look­ing down to the street I imme­di­ate­ly rec­og­nized the source, but it was still a strange sight for my street. Mine is a street of taco and corn carts, not roast­ed bananas. Nov­el­ty has its advan­tages though. The sales­man was imme­di­ate­ly fac­ing his first cus­tomer and began his prepa­ra­tions. The cus­tomer was dis­tract­ing, and him­self mes­mer­ized by the cart, fool­ish­ly try­ing to touch the near-glow­ing­ly hot stovepipe. How­ev­er, these are the bur­dens that must be born by the roast­ed banana-cart sales­man. He con­tin­ued res­olute­ly, and all the while I spied upon this scene hop­ing the sound from the pass­ing cars would cov­er the click­ing of my shut­ter. Bananas dressed and sug­ared, hand­ed to the cus­tomer, and busi­ness trans­act­ed, the roast­ed banana-cart sales­man con­tin­ued on into the night. We part­ed ways, nev­er hav­ing met, but with the sweet pos­si­bil­i­ty for the future should the roast­ed banana-cart sales­man ever decide to wan­der this way again.