I saw her before she saw me. The Coconut Lady. Walking down the beach in giant sunglasses, holding a clipboard like she was doing an environmental impact assessment on the palm trees. Chin up. Swagger full blast. Like the coconuts hired her personally.
We all remember when she used to sneak into people’s yards before she got famous—before the commercials. Back then, she was flinging coconuts into a wheelbarrow shouting, “It’s for the children!” like a tropical raccoon with a machete and a cause.
I asked her what she was doing now. She smiled like she was about to launch a TED Talk and said, “I’m a Coconut Consultant. I curate high-vibration coconuts for luxury experiences.” I said, “So… you still stealing them?” She looked at me like I was the thief. “No, mija. I invoice now.”
Then she handed me a coconut and told me to whisper my dreams into it. I don’t know what possessed me—I did it. When I opened my eyes, she was gone. So was my pen. And taped to the coconut was a ripped notebook page that read:
Factura – $45
Servicio: Coconut Alignment + Dream Activation
Deposítalo: Coconut Lady, Belize Bank #123456789
No refunds. Blessings.
Just then Debbie walks by, clutching a coconut like a grenade. She stops, looks at mine, sighs, and goes, “She got you too, huh?”
The events and characters depicted in Wolfe’s Woofer by Melody S. Wolfe are entirely fictional. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental. The column is intended for satire and entertainment purposes only.
