The Exchange

“Hey Brad?” Jules yells. “Can you come to the bedroom?” When Brad arrives in the doorway, he sees his wife lying down; the TV remote balanced on her gigantic belly. It’s Thursday night, around 8:30 PM. She’s watching And Just Like That. “What’s up?” Brad asks. Jules pauses the show. “I need you to go to Jamba Juice.” Brad moves closer, unsure if he heard her correctly. “Sorry, did you just say Jamba Juice?” “I did.” Brad runs his hand across the back of his neck. “I mean, it’s kind of late. I don’t know if they’re op—""Just go?” Jules pleads. “For us?” she clasps both hands around her stomach. She is so round. So earnest. Brad gives in. “Okay, I’ll go. What do you want?” Jules hits play on the remote. “I’ll have a large Peanut Butter Moo’d.”

The Peanut Butter Moo’d is a smoothie made of fat-free vanilla frozen yogurt, vanilla soymilk, 2% milk, bananas, peanut butter, and a chocolate moo'd dairy base. A large contains 940 calories and, from the looks of it, very little nutritional value. But to Jules’ pregnant palette, it’s sheer perfection, so Brad runs out of their apartment, hoping he can make it in time.

Brad arrives at the Jamba Juice on 8th Avenue—about ten blocks north of their place in Chelsea—breathy and covered in sweat. Inside, he can see the cashier stacking stools. It’s 8:57 PM. Reaching for the door, he discovers it’s locked. He bangs on the glass. “Hello? I know this is somewhat irrational, but my pregnant wife sent me here and if you could just open up for one last order, it would mean the world to us. And it would save me a whole lot of trouble.” The cashier shrugs her shoulders, pointing to the sign that says, “Closed.” “Please,” Brad begs. “I’ll do anything.”

At these words, the cashier tilts her head and moves towards the door. Reaching down, she unlocks it. Brad walks through.“Oh man, thank you so much. You really are a lifesaver.” They head towards the counter. The woman punches a few things into the computer and looks up, expectantly, at him. “Can I please get a large Peanut Butter Moo’d?” The woman nods. “This is for your wife?” she asks. “Yes,” Brad replies. “Who is pregnant?” “Yes. Very pregnant,” he replies. The woman smiles to herself. Brad gets out his credit card to tap against the machine, but she pulls it away. “Actually, our tap is broken. I’ll need you to sign instead.” She disappears into the back and Brad waits. He’s struck by her age; she seems to be in her sixties. Her long, grey hair is twisted into a braid that hangs neatly out the back of her orange cap. When the woman returns, she presents Brad with a piece of paper and he signs on the dotted line. “Do you want a copy of your receipt?” “Sure,” Brad says. “Be right back.” He watches her long braid swish back and forth as she disappears, once again, behind the swinging metal doors. When she returns, she hands Brad another piece of paper, which he stuffs into the pocket of his jeans.

As Brad waits for the Peanut Butter Moo’d, he thinks about deadlines; how his book is supposed to come before the baby. How the baby is coming before his book. The distractions have been winning, lately. Anytime he sits down to write, his mind discovers a tiny trap door that allows him to escape the task at hand. One moment Brad’s typing, the next, he’s Googling farms in upstate New York. “Have you heard of Inness?” he asks Jules, toting the laptop in front of her. “No,” she says, turning him away. “Keep going.” Brad isn’t sure where this avoidance is coming from, but avoiding the avoidance is his only plan so far. “Sir,” the woman interjects—“Your Peanut Butter Moo’d is ready.”

On the walk home, Brad is thankful for the cool, evening breeze. When he arrives, he presents the Peanut Butter Moo’d to Jules. Her face lights up. “Ugh, thank you. It’s so freaking good.” She takes a long sip. “Maybe we should name the baby Bessie—you know, in honour of this marvelous creation right here.” Brad laughs. “Daisy could work too.” “Or Pea,” Jules chimes in. “Short for Peanut Butter Moo’d.” Jules takes another sip and closes her eyes. “Mhmm. I think this could induce me. I’m glad you made it in time, by the way.” “Yeah, barely,” Brad says. “The woman had already closed it down, but she decided to let me in.” “That’s sweet,” Jules notes. “Did you get her name?” “Her name? Why would I do that?” Brad asks. “Well, I don’t know—she did you a nice favor. Sometimes name exchanges happen in those moments.” Brad feels like a bit of a dick. “You know, I never asked.” He then remembers the receipt in his pocket. Figuring her name might be at the top, he pulls it out.

1 x PEANUT BUTTER MOO’D - LARGE SUBTOTAL: $8.99 TAXES AND FEES: $1.09 TOTAL: $10.08

Below, there’s a handwritten note:

CREDIT CARD NOT AUTHORIZED PAYMENT WILL BE MADE IN THE FORM OF THE RECIPIENT'S FIRST-BORN CHILD DUE IMMEDIATELY UPON BIRTH TO CATHERINE WILKE NO REFUNDS

Brad walks over to Jules. “Hey, this is strange. Look at the receipt.” Jules takes it from him. She reads the handwritten part out loud, like an announcement. “How did she know I was pregnant?” “Well,” Brad says, “I told her you were when I was banging on the door, begging her to let me in. I made it a bit of an emergency; a 911 pregnancy craving.” Jules laughs. “Did the woman seem creepy?” “No,” Brad says. “She was older—quiet.” Jules hands him back the paper. “Well, that makes me feel better about it. Add it to the list of weird things that have happened to us since we moved here.”

The next morning, Brad sits down at his desk with a coffee and opens the draft of his manuscript. He lifts his fingers to the keys, then lowers them back down into his lap. This happens a few times. His mind is wrapped up in the receipt. I just don’t get the joke—and it has to be a joke—but like, why? None of this makes sense to Brad and he can’t deal with the uncertainty. He needs to know. So, instead of buckling down to write, he closes his laptop and heads to Jamba Juice.

When he arrives, the woman is there. He walks straight up to the counter. “Hello,” she says, smiling. “Can we talk?” Brad asks, gesturing towards the seating area. “Sure,” she says, “In a few minutes.” “Okay, great.” Brad turns to leave, but swivels back around. “Actually, can I also get a large Peanut Butter Moo’d?”

Brad sits on one of the counter stools near the window. A few minutes later, the woman arrives, placing the smoothie in front of him. He takes a sip. “Jesus, that’s good.” She nods. “So, what did you want to talk about?” “Is it Catherine?” Brad asks. “Cathy is fine,” she replies. “Cathy, great. So what was that note you wrote about?” Cathy laughs. “Do you know the story of Rapunzel?” she asks. “Yeah, I mean I know that there’s this little girl and she’s locked in a tower and she has really long hair,” Brad offers. “Yes, but do you know how she gets there?” “No,” Brad admits. “Well,” she says, “It starts with a pregnancy craving. In the story, the wife tells her husband she wants some rapunzel, which is a type of lettuce. So he sets off to this sorcesses’ garden to get it for her, and when he gets caught, he’s so desperate to fulfill his wife’s orders that he makes this horrible trade: unborn baby for rapunzel.” She continues, “Growing up, I was fascinated with the story. It never made sense to me. Even as a kid, the whole concept seemed unimaginable: a couple gives up their only child for a vegetable. It made me wonder what my parents would have traded me in for. Anyways, the night I saw you banging on the glass, shouting about your pregnant wife, I had no intention of opening the store, but then you said, “I’ll do anything” and it was like a light bulb went off. I was living the fairytale. So I opened up the door, mainly to see what would happen next, and you ordered a Peanut Butter Moo’d, which I thought was kind of hilarious. It was then that I got this idea to draw up a contract; to create an exchange of some sort.” Brad nods, slowly. “Okay, so you’re not coming for my baby?” Cathy smiles, “No, I will not lay claim to your first-born child—even though, technically, you did sign them away to me.” Brad relaxes into the stool. He takes another sip of his smoothie. “I get that the scenario reminded you of the story, but why go to the effort of writing on the receipt?” Cathy pauses before responding, “Because I wanted to play.” “What do you mean?” Brad asks. “Well, we’re just characters in a story–all of us. We get to shape the script whenever we want. Last night felt like one of those moments where I was acutely aware of the narrative quality of being alive. And here was this plot line that felt familiar, and so I chose to play into it—and look where it led me. Sometimes, it’s just fun to try something on; to see what you can create with your reality as the medium.” Brad wasn’t expecting this. “Anyways, I do have to get back to work,” Cathy says, “But I’m glad your curiosity led you back here. You moved the plot forward.” She places her hand on his shoulder before walking back to the cashier.

On his way home, Brad replays this conversation over and over in his mind. When he gets back to the apartment, he sits down to write. He raises his hands and says, to no one in particular, “I want to play.” With this declaration, his hands relax onto the keys. He lets out a big sigh and, after many weeks, finally starts typing.

The next morning, Jules is standing in front of their closet deciding what to wear when her water breaks. “Brad!” she yells, “My water just broke. She’s coming now! Get the keys. Get the bag.” Brad runs upstairs. “Oh my god. Okay.” He stands there for a moment, arms outstretched—frozen. “We gotta move,” Jules says. He wraps his arms around Jules and leads her, slowly, down the stairs and out to the car. He plugs NYU Langone into the GPS and they drive to the hospital.

Thirty-six hours later, the three of them arrive back at their apartment: Brad, Jules, and their new baby girl. They’re lying in bed, exhausted and mesmerized, when Jules looks up at Brad. “I think we should name her Pea.”

The End